#Slams my head into the pavement
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Sobs I block at least 100 spam bots a DAY. When will it be over. When will I be free
#I get NONSTOP follows from empty blogs and I just. I JSUT#I can’t……..#It doesn’t end. It won’t STOP#PLEASE STAFF. DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS#Shima speaks#My current follow count is probably horribly inaccurate! I’m probably thousands of followers BELOW what my blog says I’m at#Bc they’re all. Spam accounts. Bots. Empty blogs.#Slams my head into the pavement
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Till's piece from the event is a very honest depiction, but I want to examine it in more detail since it looks so interesting.
For one, I find the headpiece confusing, I was hesitant on this point in the last post I made covering this I assumed the headpiece Till is wearing (separate from the headphones) was this device.
There isn't even a name for that device, but it's been theorized that it serves a similar function have the collars pet humans have, but affects the pet humans in some way.
I believe it's a behavioral management device since there is an emphasis on the brain when it's shown. And just based on the design itself. I think the purpose of it is similar to a shock collar.
Till in this environment looks familiar, he has that focused expression that he always has when he's writing music, like he's in a daze. Since this is a practice in a controlled environment I think he might actually be handling an instrument this time around (hence the headphones). Till has a natural passion for music, the environment of Anakt Garden also appears more calm than what he goes through with Urak so he looks very much in his element.
But despite how calm, and focused he looks outwardly, his collar shows orange.
Till is giving with his expressions even around the aliens, so if he was feeling bad (I would suspect as much seeing the fresh experiment patches..) I believe it would look more obvious, but the difference threw me off a bit. I could be reaching (definitely) But given how unruly his behavior can be, and how much effort the aliens are putting into finding ways to subdue him I think they used that device to mellow him out so that they could properly monitor him.
The collar being orange gives me the impression that he's not as calm as he looks but the headpiece is keeping him in a 'sedated' state(?)
Red - Condition in the negatives, energy depleted, feeling bad. overall horrible state.
Orange, yellow - to a lesser extent, more like if you're feeling skittish, nervous, (think of this mode as feeling under the weather)
Green - Good, calm, happy, normal and a healthy mode.
(Translation by kh47uo on Twitter)
This behavior could also show desensitization, as he had likely been conditioned to not be phased nor show weakness in front of the aliens even if he feels bad, a way of tolerating. But this is just me trying to make sense of whatever that head gear was... he could've also been sedated beforehand (banging my head against the concrete)
Also interesting to me that we weren't shown Till doing other things, like dancing, or singing. I think it's a testament to Anakt's (And Urak's) priorities as they have Till build on his music skills, his strongest skill. It's probably because that's all he has to offer is his music (His grades in every other subject are a mess.). So building that to its greatest potential before anything is important. But it's a reminder of the situation, he's not so intense about his craft because of his inclination to it. He doesn't make music simply because he likes it, he does it because it's what he has to do to survive. Despite doing what he is naturally driven to do, he looks like he has had his life drained out of him.
Urak (the bastard) knows that for sure. Appearances, and 'decent' skills can get you far but overwhelming passion and skill can put you farther above all the rest, it's exactly why Luka is the best in his league, and why Urak pushes Till to his limits to surpass that even with such destructive means.
#overanalyzing this under a microscope for science#yes this is a smelly brainvomit i really just want to yap because i love this piece#probably one of my favorites#im gonna kill urak im gonna kill urak im gonna kill#explodes#i think i went a little off track here but i found a lot to say about this piece#this whole event looked like what the aliens find flaws in their pet humans/ need to perfect#like Ivan. above all things he needed to get his appearance corrected for the stage#things like that#it's probably very mundane to the aliens#to me it looks like medieval torture#average day of kindergarten in alien stage:#im getting tears on my keyboard#alien stage#alnst#alien stage till#alnst till#i think they probably zooted him out like usual if the head piece is there for nothing in specific#i know its something to do with experiments though the wires are tell tale#whyre the aliens taking so much fucking blood#ill become a doctor to solve this mystery#something something heperu and urak are going to drive their pets ballistic the more they treat them like soldiers that can take anything#in the name of 'improvement' more like 'win my silly ego game my little barbie doll'#THEY WERE ALL JUST KIDS DAMN#FUCK#slams my head on the pavement agai
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Do you ever wish you could hire Hawkeye Pierce to come in and lambast a group of people on your behalf?
#brought to you by me getting my head repeatedly slammed into the pavement by bureaucracy and poverty#this is one of those rare personal posts that i don't mind if people reblog if it resonates with them btw because i know we are all in hell#my ramblings
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so. tbhk chapter 110 am I right or am I right
#violently slamming my head into the pavement#MISTUBA... FOR WHY..#the price i have to pay for having mitsuba be my fav....#tbhk#toilet bound hanako kun#jibaku shounen hanako kun
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HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! Get flustered
Springtrap was finally clean. His fur fluffy and smooth to the touch, the mold cleared off and a muted yellow colour with hints of green spotted from stains that couldn’t be removed. The corpse that was once him was removed, and the key joints repaired for a fully functional body. The blood and guts cleared out, the stench replaced with a slight lemon smell fitting for his colour, and all ancient diseases wiped out. You could finally touch the giant bunny without fearing the billions of mysterious miniature killers attacking you. Once the final touches were made, he grabbed you by the waist and carried you to the couch where he promptly laid down with you mostly under him. You two were cuddling for the first time. (I may continue this one later on my own acct for you)
GRGRGRGRGRGRGRGRGRGRGR YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
#spacie splains#SLAMS MY HEAD INTO THE PAVEMENT CRACKING IT OPEN#UUUUUUUU SPRINGTRAPPPPP#GOD I WOULD GIVE A N Y T H I G 2 CUDDLE HIM SILLYYYY#gib me my soft man............GIB HEEM 2 MEEEEEEEEEEEEE#thinks about basyas art of him for 100000000000000000000000000000000000000 years
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“waaah testosterone is a controlled substance we have to make it harder for you to pick up your damn hormones waahhhh” Well um uh your mom was controlled by me last night how do you feel about that. Huh
#slamming my head into the pavement WHY CANT MY INSURANCE JUST TELL ME HOW MUCH IM GONNA HAVE TO PAY FOR THE DAMN GEL#SO I DONT HAVE TO EMBARRASS MYSELF AT THE PHARMACY WHEN THEY TELL ME ITS LIKE 500 DOLLARS OR SOMETHING#Girl i cant do this
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if i was oswald (bc hes definitively talking about oswald) id punch the daylights out of him ngl
#pau liveblogs gotham#jim gordon#like WDYM 'oh i dont want you around here bc youre bad bc uuuhh :( i did not see your behaviour coming despite you being IN THE MAFIA' but#now you come back to me???? so i can give you info and you can go back to pretending you dont know me even though you saved my life??? KYS#specially because oswald told him AND HE WAS RIGHT that hed end up needing him again but nooo jim has his moral code even though his partne#just threatened to slam another guys head against the pavement at high speeds. but thats ok bc its harvey <3 if it was oswald theyd end up#in a screaming match smh. anyways i want this man dead in my desk by 11. os get up please
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Euuugnnghhhhhhhhhhhhghhg
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i cant begin to tell you how many times ive had the thought "where could this stupid asshole have put down the bread clip?" (its me. im the stupid asshole)
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simon being protective of his mail order bride scratches all the right spots in my brain.
mail-order bride
you're almost relieved when you hear the knock at the door. you've been a holding a tree pose for a few minutes too long, and the girl hosting the online yoga class is starting to fry your eardrums with her too-perky voice.
you're sweating bullets, and her hair hasn't moved a fucking inch out of her ponytail.
you mute the television, wiping your forehead before making your way to the front door. you open it with a sigh, not really knowing what you expected to see, but it certainly wasn't the average-dressed man standing on the steps there.
you blink, raising a brow when his eyes roam over you, and you realize suddenly that you're wearing workout clothes, which is showing off a little more than you'd like to some rando standing on your doorstep.
"uh..." you look around a little. "i'm sorry, can i help you?"
he smiles. it's a little unnerving.
"right, yeah, i'm starting a business around here, and i wanted to ask if you've been needing any help with any fixtures around the house. i'm giving a 50% discount if you give me a rating on google."
you open your mouth for a moment, frowning.
"uhm..." you shake your head, "sorry. we don't need any help right now."
"you live here alone? sometimes it's hard to spot when the electric's on the piss, y'know? need a keen eye," he laughs, coming up one of the steps. you shake your head again.
"no, thanks."
he's a wiry man, but he's tall (not taller than your husband, but taller than you). you step back a little and start to close the door. he comes up the steps. out of the corner of your eye, you see the cat slip out between your legs, hissing a little as the distance closes between you and the man.
"wait! can i give you my contact info? i don't have a card, but i can leave you my--"
the sound of simon's truck pulling into the garage gets both of you to look behind. simon doesn't even park all the way inside. he throws the truck door open, stepping out of it, and the man on your steps moves back away from you immediately, making his way off the little porch.
simon looks huge, more so than ever. his steps are heavy, boots hitting the ground like a warning bell, and he's wearing just a short-sleeved shirt that's showing off those glorious fucking arms. you have never doubted simon's strength, but he looks like he could flip a car with the anger that's leaving him in heavy waves. you're surprised that you are not afraid; you just know somehow that simon won't touch you.
"oi!" simon yells, and the man definitely understands he picked the wrong fucking house to be a creepy salesman at when his knees nearly buckle as he tries to walk away. "where the fuck do y'think y'r goin', you twat?"
you sigh deeply, not realizing how much you were shaking until you notice your hands trembling around the doorknob. you watch as simon catches the guy by his dirty jean jacket, nearly lifting him completely off his feet as he drags him towards the fence gate.
"hey! hey! i didn't do anything!"
"i saw ya, ya fuckin' arse, know exactly wot the fuck y'were doin'," simon growls, tossing him onto the sidewalk. he hits the pavement with a cry, holding onto his arm, and simon slams the fence gate closed before pointing at him accusingly. "'f i ever see ya anywhere near m'fuckin' house or even askin' m'wife for so much as fuckin' directions, i'll cut y'r bloody prick off, y'hear?"
you blink as simon comes closer, the cat retreating back into the house once they see him. he keeps walking, crowding you back into the house before he shuts and locks the front door. his chest is heaving, black t-shirt doing nothing to hide the puff of his chest and how large he makes himself when he stands up to other men. he doesn't even need to make himself larger; simon takes up enough space for two men combined.
"he touch you?" simon asks, his voice low. you see his fists clench, and you have no doubt that if you said yes, simon would go outside and paint the pavement a new color with the man's face.
you shake your head frantically, and he lets out a deep breath, reaching up and wrapping a hand around the back of your head and pulling you close.
he bends, pressing his masked forehead against yours, closing his eyes as he breathes in slowly. he rubs at the nape of your neck, soothing you, and you smile when he pulls away, giving him those big eyes that say thank you, thank you, thank you.
simon cocks his head, staring behind you, and you turn with him to see the cat blinking slowly at the two of you from it's place on the windowsill.
"should get you a fucking guard dog instead," simon mutters, pulling his mask off and kicking his boots into the corner. you smile as he walks away, trying to cool your warm cheeks with the backs of your hands.
doesn't he know you already have one?
#simon ghost riley#simon riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#ghost mw2#ghost cod#ghost call of duty#ghost mwii#ghost x reader#cod#call of duty#order up
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CRASH ft. Wonyoung
wonyoung x male reader smut
11k words
When she wanted to be (and it was often), Jang Wonyoung could be a real fucking bitch.
If you were to ask her, she’d probably say the same about you.
And yet, that doesn’t stop her from calling you in the middle of the night, slurring about some shit with her manager, telling (not asking) you to come pick her up.
You’re inclined to recommend that she fuck off and find her own way home.
But of course, you don’t. (You never do).
-
“Sorry boys, my ride’s here!”
There’s a collective groan of disappointment that ripples through the crowd that’s formed up behind Wonyoung; each face falling one after another as they realise that ultimately none of them get to be the lucky suitor that takes her home.
Moths around a flame, unable to do anything but watch as she sashays through the neon haze towards your car. Hips sway with a drunken grace, a dangerously short skirt dances around her thighs, high heels strapped to her feet make her legs seem endless.
It’s a view, that’s for sure.
It probably makes the pain of rejection a little more bearable, makes them forget that they’re being abandoned on the sidewalk with all the rest of the has-beens and ‘who the fuck were you again?’
Her ‘co-workers’, technically. Some you recognise, most you don’t. But they’re all basically the same insecure douchebag in a different shade of overpriced streetwear.
You’d probably be doing the world a public service if you were to steer your car onto the pavement and run them all down.
It’s an idea you entertain a little. Doing it would really ruin her night.
That’d almost make it worth the dent it would put in your brand-new car.
Still, you can’t completely blame the gaggle of potential casualties, not really.
It’s Wonyoung.
Girls like her are the reason they invented the word ’idol’ in the first place, because calling her ’pretty’ or ’hot’ is like calling the Mona Lisa ‘a nice portrait’.
It doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Like the starlet she is, Wonyoung waits until she’s at your car to make her grand exit. A turn to her adorers and a final goodbye: a casual flick of her wrist, a sweet, flirty smile and a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it wink that’ll have them deep in their group chats ranting about how they definitely had a moment with the Jang Wonyoung.
You just roll your eyes. You’ve seen that wink a hundred times.
You know exactly how much it’s worth.
After all, it’s your car that she’s climbing into, slamming the door behind her like it’s her name on the registration; leaving behind her new fan club with nothing but their dicks in their hands and their heads swimming with fantasies of what totally could have happened.
You’re no better though, are you? The second she slides into the passenger seat, you’re judging the shortness of her skirt, eyes greedily tracing the length of her thighs, all the way up to a hint of lace that’s destined to be ruined later.
You’re not subtle. And in that outfit, she’s not either.
“What took you so long? I swear to God I’m going to punch the next guy that asks me ‘how much of a baddie I really am’.”
No thank yous, no pleasantries, not even a look in your direction.
To think that you used to be impressed by how quickly she could drop the act: gone is the sugary sweetness that she’d fooled those simps with back at the club; the pretty, airheaded, ‘lucky Vicky’. As fake and useless as the glasses resting on the bridge of her perfectly shaped nose.
Next to you is the real Wonyoung, the one that you’ve become intimately familiar with: intimidatingly smart, unfathomably hot, and all too aware of how dangerous a woman those two traits made her.
“Why is this car black? I thought I told you to get the red?”
You glare at her. The gall on this woman.
“What are you waiting for? Drive.”
Barely a minute in and she’s setting a personal best record for time taken to piss you off; impatiently kicking off her heels, tossing them over her shoulder and into the back seat (of again: your car, not hers).
You can be just as childish: you slam your foot down, pedal to the floor, wheels screeching, and you peel off into the night. The acceleration forces Wonyoung back into her seat, scrambling for her seat belt, yelling, “What the fuck?”
Now she’s looking at you. You’re casual, offering, “Oh, sorry, did I scare the passenger princess?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Yeah, and you’re welcome,” you grumble, slowing to a more reasonable (legal) speed as you turn onto the highway. “Remind me, when was it that I started operating a taxi service for wasted idols?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She rolls her eyes, puts her hands together, bows her head down low. Rich, coming from someone who’s never had to genuinely apologise for anything in her life. “Didn’t realise washed-up trainees had such precious schedules.”
It’s a low blow, her go-to insult for you. Nothing you’re not used to; it’s been years of this, after all.
Years of Wonyoung, the living reminder of your biggest failure, making your life her personal pet project. Years of her smugness, of her flaunting her success in your face, of her demanding more from you, demanding better.
Years of you pushing back, pushing her, and somehow always ending up in the same place, the same bed, the same tangled mess of sweat and spite.
To think it all started when you saw her across that shitty practice room and one of you (you forget who, though it was probably her) said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and it was pure hate at first sight.
“Couldn’t get literally anyone else? Don’t you have friends?” You throw the question out there, keeping your eyes on the road, and not down at her legs, crossing and uncrossing, teasing and taunting. It’s a herculean task—she’s practically ninety percent leg anyway; so fucking easy to admire, so right wrapped around your waist.
“Trust me, I tried. None of the girls have their license, I definitely can’t call someone from the company, and the last time I tried to get a taxi the fucker recognised me and threatened to leak my address. So that leaves me with you,” Wonyoung sighs. “The last resort.”
“Wow, what an honour,” is your reply. You’re still not looking—not sneaking glances at her stomach, as she stretches in your passenger seat.
As an exercise, you pretend she doesn’t exist. Pretend that the hem of her shirt isn’t rising up, peeling back to grace you with a glimpse of her midriff, that waist, her abs tight and exerted after a night spent out on a dance floor.
It nearly works—for a second, you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed at her.
Right until Wonyoung laughs. Not that fake, high-pitched giggle that she knows you find so grating. No, this has an edge to it, a bite that she reserves just for you. “Don’t pretend like you weren’t waiting for me to call. Or were you in the middle of jerking it to my fancams again?”
There’s the memory, the one loss in territory you haven’t quite recovered from. (A reminder: be less blasé about what you choose to name your saved playlists.)
You fire back with, “Yujin’s actually, but nice try.”
“Whatever, pervert.” Your attempt at a riposte doesn’t work, it’s dismissed, leaving Wonyoung satisfied that she’s won this exchange.
As for her prize, she does what she always does—gets touchy with your property.
She busies herself, fiddling with the touchscreen on your dashboard—’What the fuck is this playlist?’ and 'Why do you listen to this group? You know all those girls are absolute bitches, right?’.
“Stop that.” You reach over to slap her wrist before she starts getting too ambitious and messes with the temperature controls again.
"Hey!” Wonyoung yelps, recoiling, and then pauses. You turn to her, see her annoyingly flawless features scrunch up in disgust as she asks, “What’s that smell?”
You curse under your breath as you realise what’s coming. Wonyoung’s frustratingly sensitive when it comes to scents; she’s got a nose like a bloodhound—and a penchant for sticking it in the parts of your life she doesn’t belong.
She’s gone as far as 'gifting’ you every perfume you’ve owned, every body wash, every shampoo, even your fucking laundry detergent.
Just another way she’s tried to take over your life.
You give your own car a whiff, if only to see if this is just another case of Wonyoung being a brat.
It doesn’t smell bad at all.
In fact, it smells sweet. Too sweet.
“Ew, seriously, what is that? Is that you?”
You’re too slow—she’s got your forearm now. For someone that looks so delicate she’s got a grip like a vice. She brings your wrist up to her nose, sniffing, making her way higher up your arm.
“Let it go, Wonyoung.”
She’s not listening at all, unbuckling her seat belt, leaning over the console, pulling herself closer to you, pushing her body against yours. Whatever little respect Wonyoung had for your personal space is gone; her nose is on your neck, her breath hot against your skin.
“It smells like…” She pauses, getting even closer, taking a deep inhale as she tries to place the fragrance. “Why do you smell like a whore?”
Her voice is low, coloured with a barely noticeable slur. You can feel it: the powder keg about to explode, Wonyoung getting ready to go from zero to a hundred. So, you deflect, “Sure you’re not smelling yourself?”
“Fuck you, I don’t use that cheap shit,” she snaps. “You fucked someone tonight, didn’t you?”
You don’t reply. It’s not like you owe her one, anyway—she’s not your girlfriend, you’re not her boyfriend, you two are…
Rivals, mortal enemies, fuck-buddies, friends-with-benefits (except without the whole friendship part).
(Take your pick, call it whatever you want, or in Wonyoung’s case: don’t call it anything at all.)
“Who—who was it this time?” Wonyoung’s fingers tighten around your arm, and there’s that spark in her eyes.
Every chance she gets, she’ll insist she gives so few fucks about your personal life, but one mention of another woman and she’s diving right in the mud, for once not hiding the fact that she may actually give a shit about you.
It’s probably why you do it.
“Who’s the slut dumb enough to spread her legs for you?”
Now it’s your turn to avoid her gaze, to pretend that having her this close isn’t doing wild things to your heartrate. You make an unforced error: “None of your business.”
“So you did fuck someone.” Her hand moves down your arm, dragging her fake acrylics across your skin until they find purchase in your thigh, digging in hard enough to make you flinch. “You fucked someone I know didn’t you. Who…” She’s reading you, trying to find the answer somewhere in the stress lines of your face. “Hyewon. Yena. Yuri. I swear if it was fucking Eunbi, I’m going to—”
“Going to what?” You challenge. You know this game. You’ve played it before—every damn time she gets like this (and you know where it leads). “Going to lie to me about your own personal survival show back there?”
Wonyoung scoffs. It’s a throaty sound that seems almost foreign coming from her—too impolite, too uncouth for the elegant, refined image she’s painstakingly cultivated. But she makes it anyway, because she’s had a few too many drinks and you’re the only one who’s around to see her like this—raw, unfiltered. “Those losers? I’m not like you, bringing home every pair of tits that strokes your ego.”
“Good to know that I’m special then,” you smirk, but she’s not smiling back.
No, she’s just looking at you, in that annoying, Wonyoung way. It’s those big, doe eyes of hers that you’ve seen do so much damage before—make men bend over backwards, light themselves on fire just to get her to look their way. “You wish.”
You push on, push her just a little bit. “Drop the act, Wony. I wasn’t your last resort—I’m the only one you even considered. You needed your daddy—isn’t that what you were calling me before?”
“I never said that.”
“Wony—”
“And if I did, I’ll never say it again,” she declares, before emphasising. “Never. Again.”
But you know her better than that. You know her lies just as well as she knows yours; it’s in the quickness of her response, the defensiveness—the vulnerability.
“I doubt that,” you say, making the most of the tiny crack in Wonyoung’s armour. “I remember you screaming it. Had you cumming like a fountain—ruined a perfectly good set of sheets, you know?”
“You’re disgusting,” she hisses, but she’s got the same memories in her head—that same night, so similar to this one (so similar to every night before).
The fighting, the fucking, the endless cycle of pushing each other’s button until one of you snaps.
“And what about you? You got here awfully quick for two in the morning,” she says. Her hand’s still on your thigh, less nails, more fingertips now, tracing patterns through the denim of your jeans. “Couldn’t bear the thought of me with someone else, could you? Lie to me—tell me that you weren’t waiting to get your hands on me again.”
Your denial dies before it even makes it past your lips—your own body turns traitor on you, provoked by her hand rising higher. There’s a smile as Wonyoung finds what she was looking for, the proof in the stretching of your jeans, the outline of your cock begging for more of her attention.
“At least this part of you is honest,” she muses, fingers dancing around your growing stiffness.
You grit your teeth, doing your best to keep the car steady, managing to grind out, “Please. It’s like you said, any decent pair of tits does it for me. Even your tiny ones get the job done.”
Her hand freezes on your thigh—you’ve hit a nerve, hit that dark part of her that’s so desperate for validation. “You think you can replace me? Find someone else to fill your sad, lonely nights?”
She’s closer now, her breath against your neck, her fingers drumming a beat right over where the head of your cock is. It’s a heady feeling, one that you hate and crave all at once.
“Was she even good?”
You know what she’s really asking: Was she better than me?
And you know the answer: How could anyone be?
But you don’t say that. You don’t need to. Instead, you reply, “It’s not a competition.”
“Everything’s a competition.”
Wonyoung’s hand relaxes, nails retreating from your thigh, leaving you flustered and fighting against the constraints of your own jeans. She settles back into her seat, having done her damage.
And for a moment, silence reigns inside your car, allowing you to actually focus on the road. Not that it really matters, you know the route to her apartment by heart—you could drive it blindfolded if need be. It’s just a welcome distraction to avoid dealing with the state she’s left you in.
The quiet survives a beat, two, and then Wonyoung’s squirming, shifting in the passenger seat.
And then she does it again.
And again.
You should keep your eyes ahead—you need to keep your eyes ahead.
You know exactly what you’re going to find if you look over at her.
That’s the problem with you and Wonyoung. You know each other too well. Your likes, your dislikes. What gets you off. What makes you mad.
What drives you fucking wild.
And yet, because you’re a sucker for punishment, you still risk a glance, and see Wonyoung, leaning back in her seat, her hand sliding up her own thigh, so casually drifting up her soft, bare skin, higher and higher.
The skirt rises, inch by torturous inch, and it’s those panties—the same set that was around her ankles the last time you had her bent over your couch, swearing she’d hate you forever. The same set that’s probably already soaked, just waiting for you to rip them off again.
You have to tell her to stop, to keep her hands to herself, to not do this to you, not now. Not while you’re trying to keep you both on the fucking road. But your mouth is dry, and all you can manage is a choked, “Wonyoung—”
Her fingers have slid past the hem of her skirt, now playing with the lace that’s the only barrier between her and open air. She’s biting into the plumpness of her bottom lip, staring at you, expecting your full attention, even now. There’s no subtlety with her, there never is, it’s one of the few things Wonyoung’s bad at.
You swallow hard, finding your voice. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Making myself comfortable,” she says, a little breathy now, as her fingers slip under the lace. “You got a problem with it?”
There’s the flash of skin, a gasp as her fingers find purchase between her folds. She’s so wet that you can hear it—the slickness of her arousal, the quiet sound of fabric sliding against her skin.
You’re straining, gripping the steering wheel so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t snap in two. Her hand’s dipping lower, her finger sliding inside herself; not deep, not yet, just teasing. Enough to make you want to pull over, to grab her and throw her on the hood of your car, to show her exactly why you’re the only she thinks about when she’s lonely and desperate.
But you don’t, despite the way your body is begging for you to do something, anything, to ease the ache in your cock.
Because if you stop, it’s over. You know how this ends—or rather, you know how she’ll want it to end. She’ll want you to apologise for even being in the proximity of another woman, she’ll want you to beg for her forgiveness so that she might bestow upon you the privilege of touching her again.
If you’re lucky, she just might let you. But only if you play her games.
So you drive faster.
You push the speed limit, weaving through the mostly empty streets. You’re racing to a finish line, except all that’s waiting at the end of it is the taste of Wonyoung on your tongue, the feeling of her wrapped around you, the sweet victory of making her scream.
It’s hell—ignoring the sound of her pleasure, the wetness of her fingers working in and out of herself. There’s glimpses of her in the corner of your eye, she’s still watching you. She’s enjoying this, loving every second of it.
“What’s wrong?” She asks, oh-so-innocently, even though she doesn’t expect an answer—she just likes to hear her own voice. “Getting distracted? It’s a long, long way back to my place. No one can blame you if you need to give up and pull over.”
Wonyoung’s getting bolder now, pulling her skirt up to her waist, parting her legs for you, so you can see her hand moving faster, her hips rising to meet her own touch. So you can hear her, hear the fucking sound of each stroke of her fingers inside her, punctuated each time by a wet slap of her palm against her cunt, reverberating through the car, taunting you.
“You want it, don’t you?” She throws the question out so casually, like of course it’s only natural for her to be fingering herself in your car, of course she should be doing everything in her power to make you want to drive into a fucking wall. “I can tell, you’re so desperate to touch me. Definitely going to die if you don’t fuck me soon. Maybe even right here, right now?”
Your foot slips and the car swerves a little—it’s not much, but it’s enough to let her know that you’re losing focus, that she’s winning.
“Careful,” she laughs. “You wouldn’t want to crash before we get to the fun part.”
“You can’t wait until we get back to your place?” You finally ask, the question burning in your throat.
“No. You need to be reminded that you’re-ah-mine,” comes Wonyoung’s answer. “You’re going to fuck me anyway, so why not-mmph-why not save us both the trouble and get started on my own?”
“You don’t own me, Wonyoung.”
To that, Wonyoung raises a carefully sculpted eyebrow.
It’s not even worth a proper reply. Without a word, Wonyoung reclines back into her seat and snaps open the buttons of her shirt, nonchalantly revealing the swell of her breasts, the darkened peaks of her nipples.
No bra—they’re just there. Right there, in your face—those tiny, round, perky tits that you’ve had in your hands, that you’ve had between your teeth, that you’ve covered with your cum more times than you can count.
She’s not shy about it—never has been—arching her back, pushing her breasts out even further. It’s the confidence from knowing every other idol (hell, every other woman in the world) would sell their soul to have a body like hers. So why the fuck not flaunt it?
“Somehow, I don’t think that’s true,” she says, reaching up to her chest. A palm finds her tits, pinching and rolling the sensitive nubs, making them nice and red and swollen for you.
She’s moving faster now, grinding down on her own hand, teeth sinking down into her bottom lip so deep you’re surprised she hasn’t drawn blood. Her breaths are getting shorter and shorter, she’s so close, she’s so fucking turned on, she’s so hot it hurts.
Her eyes remain fixed on you; seeing you struggle only makes her hotter, spurs her to circle her clit faster. She’s drinking you in—the tightness of your jaw, the way your eyes can’t decide whether to keep on the road or on her, the way you swallow, trying (and failing) to keep it together.
The worst part of it all is this wicked smile that’s settled on her lips; thoughts of wiping it off her face with your cock flash through your mind. She’s just so fucking smug about it, so sure of herself.
And maybe she should be.
“Admit it,” Wonyoung purrs. “Admit that you need me.”
“Why would I? You’re just a convenient hole to fill.” It’s not true, of course. You’ve never believed it; none of the hundred times you’ve said it to her before—and she’s never once been fooled.
Wonyoung is back in your ear, “You’re a bad liar.”
Her hand’s returned to your thigh, teasing closer and closer to where you really want it to be. You grunt a weak, “Wonyoung, if you think that’s going to work—”
But she doesn’t listen (she never does).
She reaches for the bulge in your pants, far too quick for you to stop her from wrapping her fingers around you, from taking a hold of you and squeezing.
“See?” She whispers, thick with satisfaction, feeling you throb in her grip. “You’re already about to burst. You can’t resist me. No one can.”
You’re not backing down. You’ve got your own pride to think of, after all. “Save it for your fan club.”
Wonyoung’s never been one to take no for an answer. Her hand moves with purpose, sliding over your zipper and giving it a forceful tug. The sound rings through the car, and it’s an out of body experience; it’s all in slow motion as she pulls out your hard, aching cock.
Fuck.
“Last chance to pull over.” Wonyoung takes a hold of you, fingers curling around your cock with a firm grip that leaves no room for doubt—she’s not letting go until she gets what she wants. “Who knows what will happen if you keep driving like this. Wouldn’t want to ruin these expensive leather seats with your cum, now would we?”
“Not a fucking chance.”
“Your funeral,” she answers, her smile widening into a full-blown grin as she starts to move, stroking you, her hand gliding up and down your shaft with familiar ease. “Or ours, I guess.”
She’s not making it easy—there’s the slow, deliberate pumps, her thumb circling the head, her fingers teasing the sensitive skin. It’s so natural for her, so goddamn good.
“Are you sure you can handle this?” Wonyoung’s question hangs in the air, joining the sound of her fist pumping your cock, the squish of her own fingers plunging in and out of her cunt. It’s a taunting metronome, the more you try to ignore her, the tighter she squeezes, the fastest she strokes you, the louder she moans in your ear. “Are you sure you can handle me?”
“I’ve done it before and I can do it again,” you grit out. “You’re going to be the one begging for it in the end. Like always.”
She huffs, and you’ve found your mark. “Oh, really? You think you’re so much better than me? You think you can just ignore me like that?”
“Better than you? Easily,” you answer. “You’re just a pretty face and a pair of legs that can’t keep itself shut.”
That makes her stroke you harder, tighter now, firmer, she’s trying to make this hurt. “Is that what you tell yourself?”
“What gives you the impression I even think about you at all?”
“Oh, I know it keeps you up at night—thinking about me, wondering if I’m thinking about you, wondering if any other slut can make you feel the way I do,” Wonyoung’s leaning on you, chin propped up on your shoulder, a devil in your ear. “You hate it, don’t you? You hate that it’s my cunt that you can’t get out of your head, that it’s my pretty lips that you need so badly around your cock.”
"Are you sure you’re not just projecting, Wony?” You ask, glancing down to her hand between her legs, her fingers deep in her folds, her cunt dripping with juices and making a small puddle beneath her. “Look at how wet you are at just the thought of having my cock back between your pretty lips again.”
“Fuck you.” Wonyoung’s panting, short harsh breaths. There’s no conviction in her voice, no denial to be found—this dance of spite and lust has her so fucking heated. All of it—the hate, the competition, the push and pull: it’s all just foreplay. “You’re nothing to me. Nothing but a back-up plan, a toy I play with when I’m bored.”
“Now who’s a bad liar.”
“Go fuck your—”
You don’t let her finish her insult. You’re tired of the back and forth, the games, the fucking power plays. You take your hand off the steering wheel, grabbing her by the hair, wrenching her head up to meet your eyes.
“What the fuck do you think you’re—” Wonyoung’s mistake is opening her mouth in protest—you push her face down onto your cock; not giving her a chance to argue, not giving her a chance to do anything but suck you dry like the skinny little slut she is.
She chokes, hacks a cough as you plunge your cock down her throat, her nose meeting your waist, and it nearly has you emptying into her mouth then and there.
Turns out, she’s right.
You do need this. Need to feel her perfect, pouty lips on you again, her teeth grazing against your skin, her tongue giving in and worshipping you like she’s never done with anyone else.
You keep a hand wrapped up in a fistful of her hair, but you don’t even need to hold her down—she doesn’t fight you, doesn’t even make the slightest noise of protest. No, she just takes it; never mind how much her eyes water, her mouth drools.
“Fuck,” you’re moaning before you can think better of it, and just like that, you’re conceding the smallest victory to her.
And it makes her smile around your cock.
You grunt in response; buck your hips, feed her your cock, make her gag (make her regret it).
You don’t ease up, because if there’s one thing you know about Wonyoung (one thing you know about fucking Wonyoung), it’s that the most insulting thing you can do to her is to take it easy on her.
Just fuck her face and behold the sight of Wonyoung taking your cock. God, her pretty lips wrapped around you, her throat bulging at your length, her teary eyes staring up at you with a mix of defiance and something that’s eerily close to adoration.
It almost makes you forget that you’re supposed to be driving, and it takes a honk from a car behind you and a smile and a curt nod from Wonyoung to remind you of the world rushing by outside.
You pull your eyes back to the road, both hands on the steering wheel to right the car back on track, barely escaping death by deepthroat.
Wonyoung laughs around your cock, a muffled sound that sends vibrations up your shaft. You try to ignore it, but she’s already seizing the opportunity, taking full advantage of the distraction to push down on her own accord, to take you deep—to start properly sucking.
You swerve again.
Her mouth is absolute heaven, pure and simple—she’s a fucking master at this. Your cock’s been in her mouth so many times before that she could probably write an instruction manual on exactly how to make you come unglued.
Too much all at once—you’re groaning now, unable to help it. She’s not even trying that hard; just taking your cock between her lips, sliding it all the way down her throat, a few gentle licks here, a swirl of her tongue there, but it’s more than enough. It’s what keeps you coming back. No one else feels like this—no one else has mapped out your cock like she has—every inch, every vein.
It’s the rhythm that she’s got down to a science: how fast to take you, how much pressure to apply, when to break from her pace to keep you teetering on the edge.
You can feel her eyes on you, scanning you for any sign of weakness—this is precisely where she wants to be. Like this was her decision—like everything leading up to this was part of some messed up strategy to provoke you, to make sure that your cock ended up in her mouth.
You don’t get a chance to dwell on that thought, not when Wonyoung’s teeth is at the base of your cock, her cheeks hollowed out, her tongue doing these little flicks that make your toes curl.
And there’s the question in her eyes: ’is that all you got?’.
Fuck it—risk taking your hand off the steering wheel, it belongs in her silky, dark hair. Make her eyes widen, make her take you deeper, kiss the back of her throat with the tip of your cock, force these divine fucking sounds.
The noises when she gags around you, when the spit is hacked up and drooled down your cock; she’s so sloppy, so filthy.
And she takes it, takes all of it.
Push her down before pulling her up by the hair, choke her, gag her, have her slobber all over your cock, make her feel you.
Wonyoung takes and takes and takes.
It’s fucked up how you’re treating her (how she’s letting you treat her); she’s an idol for fucks sake. But that’s the last concern you have on your mind—all you can focus on is how fucking good it feels to do this to her, to have her fighting for air around your cock, fighting to keep her eyes on you as you fill them with tears.
Wonyoung’s not giving up though—she’s timing it, timing you. When to relax her throat to take you deep. When to suction her lips. Where to dart her tongue to find that sensitive spot along your shaft.
She’s battling back, in her own way, just as determined as you are to not lose this war of wills. But in the end, you’re the one in the driver’s seat.
“Mmmph,” she’s the one moaning now, moaning around your cock. Shivering in your lap, body jerking and trembling; you can tell her fingers are still buried in her cunt, playing with herself.
She’s so fucking shameless, so fucking pretty, even like this—cheeks flushed, makeup smeared, eyes watering.
You want to kiss her, but that would mean separating her lips from your cock. You want to tell her how much you hate her, but the words won’t come out—they’re stuck in your throat, lodged between your grinding teeth.
“Wait—fuck.” You realise you’ve missed your turn, a split second too late. You jerk the steering wheel, needing both hands as you pull a sharp U-turn. The tires squeal as you try to correct your error, Wonyoung’s mouth around your dick scrambling your brains.
She pulls her lips off from your cock with a hollow ‘pop’. “I thought you could handle me?”
You try to reply—try to form a single coherent thought—but the chance slips by as Wonyoung’s back on the offense, back throating your cock so quickly that your vision swims.
A deep breath is what you need to keep it together. You’re barely thinking straight, holding onto the steering wheel for dear life, doing everything you can to keep yourself from giving up (giving in to Wonyoung’s mouth).
But it’s hard. So fucking hard.
You’ve blown far past any normal speed limit, trying to keep from spinning out with every one of her enthusiastic bobs—it’s by some divine benevolence the car hasn’t completely flipped over by now.
Wonyoung’s relentless, her mouth’s a fucking black hole, sucking you in, stealing every thought from your mind until there’s nothing rattling around your skull but the feel of her wet, warm lips on your cock, and the obscene sounds of her fingers sawing in and out of her pussy, fucking herself.
You’re almost there, and Wonyoung knows it. You can feel it in the suction of her lips, in how hard she’s working you over. It’s the sweetest kind of torture—knowing that she’s got you right where she wants you, that she’s got you on the edge and you can’t do anything about it.
You’re not going to last much longer.
Neither is she.
So you drive. You drive like your life depends on it, because maybe it does. Maybe the only thing keeping you sane is the promise of your eventual release, of filling her mouth with her cum, of pulling her onto your lap and fucking her cunt raw until she screams your name.
“Come on, you can do it,” she’s taunting you now, lathering your cock with just her tongue, dragging it along your length, licking you all the way from your balls to your head. She’s giggling as she steals the pre-cum from your tip, the fucking bitch—like she’s got all the power in the world.
You can see her apartment building in the distance, a beacon of light in the darkness.
You’re almost there.
You reach for the garage remote, mashing the button as you get closer and closer (you’re going to break it). The gate sluggishly opens, and you make a sharp turn to swerve into the dimly lit building, not bothering to slow down.
You can’t, not when Wonyoung’s balancing your cock on her tongue, her hand now squeezing at your base, stroking so fast, so erratic, determined to have you cum in her mouth as soon as fucking possible.
“You’re going to cum for me, aren’t you?” she asks, expectantly. “Cover me in it, give me what I deserve—show me how much you need me.”
The car’s screeching to the closest parking space, the sound echoing through the garage, as you skid between parallel white lines.
You’re cumming before the car’s even completely stopped.
It’s explosive; a white-hot heat searing through your veins, a roar in your ears as you shower Wonyoung’s perfect face with ropes of cum. She’s still jerking you off with her hand, her mouth hovering around the head of your cock, slurping up every drop she can get.
“All mine,” she chants, greedy for it. You pulse in her hand, your cum spurting over her cheekbones, across her nose, painting over that tiny dark freckle above the corner of her mouth.
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink; she’s a statue, a goddess demanding her sacrifice. Her grip is ironclad, stroking you through your orgasm, not stopping until you’re drained, until your cock is twitching in her hand and there’s nothing left but a sticky mess plastered across her big, wide grin.
You feel the last of your orgasm pulse out of you, dripping down her dainty fingers. She licks her lips, smearing your cum across her cheek with her thumb before she sits up straight, basking in her victory.
“Fuck, Wonyoung,” you manage to get out, your chest heaving, your hand finally loosening its grip on the steering wheel.
“Mm-hmm,” she nods, not looking away from you, not breaking the eye contact that’s holding you in place. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”
She’s not done yet—she still has to take her victory lap.
Wonyoung pulls herself off you, giving the tip of your cock a parting kiss as she sits back in her seat. She lifts her legs up—those endless stretches of porcelain skin—one after another, slow, dramatic, placing her bare feet on the dashboard.
Her skirt rides up, and with a stretch she drags her panties up her thighs, along her calves, and off her feet; the lace is soaked with her juices, leaving a trail of stickiness as she reveals herself to you.
The panties disappear somewhere into the backseat of your car, another spoil of war, and she spreads her legs wide, so wide, making sure you have a perfect view of her gleaming cunt. You can see her clit, peeking out from between her folds, and it’s all you can do to keep your hand from reaching over and taking over.
But this is her show, isn’t it? This is all for her, all about her getting off. And she’s fucking drowning in it—fingers in her cunt again almost immediately, so wet, so hot, so shameless in your car, so confident in her ability to get what she wants from you.
Her hips rock up and down, she’s fucking herself in front of you—for you. She’s daring you to look away, challenging you to deny how fucking hot she is.
You can’t.
“I’m going to cum now.” It’s a low hush, confident. “Watch me. Don’t move. Just fucking watch me.”
Wonyoung’s eyes are crystal clear, staring deep into you with the look of a girl who’s gotten everything she’s ever wanted in life. It’s that look she gets right before she shatters, and you know she’s there—right fucking there.
Her other hand reaches up, cradling your cheek, needing some connection, needing you to be with her. It’s not enough to just simply cum, she needs you to see it, to be a part of it in some twisted way.
“Just look at you,” Wonyoung says, like she’s not the one that’s covered in your cum, that’s not bucking her hips into her hand, working herself into a frenzy, like she’s trying to tear herself apart. “You can’t keep your eyes off me, can you?”
And she’s right—you hate her, you love her, you want to fuck her, you want to strangle her—it’s all a jumble of emotions in your head.
“That’s it—keep looking at me—don’t fucking take your eyes off me—fuck—yes—I’m going to—”
The only warning you get is a strangled gasp as Wonyoung cums, feeling it through her entire body, forcing her to keel over by just the force of it, making her fall into you.
Her hand on your cheek drags down to wrap around your neck, anchoring herself to you, pulling herself closer so she can smash her mouth against yours.
She’s kissing you, really kissing you, mouth open and hungry, all teeth and tongue, sloppy and wet. She’s marking her territory now, claiming you as she cums, and fuck, you can still taste yourself on her lips—salty and bitter.
Wonyoung’s hand is still working her clit, prolonging her bliss, and then she’s climbing on top of you, straddling you, grinding down on your half-hard cock as she rides out the last of her orgasm.
Her thighs are sticky with her juices, her skirt riding up so high that you can see the bare, plump skin of her ass, and you’re fighting the urge to just push it aside and plunge your cock inside her—
But she’s not giving you that satisfaction—not yet.
Her climax dies right on top of you—her hips rolling on her fingers, her body living and dying on the last embers of pleasure.
Finally, Wonyoung stops, collapsing against your chest, and you let out a deep sigh, feeling the weight of her body pressing down on you. She’s a mess, a fucking disaster, and you hold her tight, your arms around her impossibly tiny waist, your cock coming back to life between her thighs.
It’s intimate, almost kind of romantic in a way that’s entirely fucked up, considering, well everything. You’re both a mess of cum and sweat, panting against each other, intertwined together in the driver’s seat of your car, the garage lights flickering overhead like some kind of sick mood lighting.
Wonyoung laughs.
“You’re all sticky.” She leans back, taking her finger and swiping it across your cheek, coming away with a glistening strand of your own cum, a rope that must have strayed from her face and onto yours.
There’s a glint in her eyes, a dirty little idea, and before you can even react, she’s leaning in again, her tongue tracing the line of your jaw, collecting the rogue drops of you.
She rolls her hips down and over you as she does it, stirring your cock back to attention, because apparently she’s not done with you yet.
“You’re a fucking bitch, Wonyoung,” you reply, but there’s no venom behind it. You’re just stating a fact: the sky is blue, the sun rises in the east, and Wonyoung is a bitch.
It’s just the way she is.
You can feel her smirking against your neck, you can picture the look on her face—like she’s already won. It’s infuriating, really, and you’ve got to even the score.
“What are you going to do, take me upstairs and punish me?”
“No,” you say, the word sticking in your throat like it’s made of honey. “Not upstairs.”
“Here?” Wonyoung looks around your car, doing a terrible job of feigning shock (as if she doesn’t know what you’re about to do to her). Yes, she’s a horrendous actress, but it would take an Oscar worthy performance to mask the heat radiating from her thighs, her cunt dripping down onto your lap. “What makes you think I’d let you?”
“What makes you think you have a choice?”
A press of a button has your seat sliding back, giving you just enough room to lift Wonyoung up, hoisting her above you like she’s a trophy you just won. Congratulations, here’s your Grand Prize—Wonyoung’s tight body, yours for the night (yours for every night).
She can’t do anything but be held by you, have her hips positioned, her cunt aligned with your cock—in your hands, at your mercy, under your control.
“Wait, wait—fuck—”
And then you slam into her.
“Daddy!”
That word. That filthy, devastating word is fucked out of her mouth, a gasping scream as you bury yourself deep into her.
You’d do anything to hear it again.
You don’t bother with gentleness or foreplay—this isn’t a romantic reunion after a long day apart. It’s your hands on her narrow hips; hers doing its best to brace herself on the roof of the car, the window, anywhere she can get a grip.
“Say it again,” you grunt, pulling her back down on you, so hard that she bounces back up, only to be met by another thrust.
“Fuck you,” she spits out, but she’s moaning with every thrust, tightening around you each time, her body betraying her words.
“Fuck you, who?” You’re laughing now, the sound thick and low in your throat as you watch her squirm in your grasp. “You’re going to need to be more specific than that, baby.”
“You know who,” she says, her eyes flying open, glaring at you as she catches her breath. “You always know who.”
“Then say it.”
“Fuck you, daddy.”
“That’s fucking right.”
Her legs are trembling around your waist as you drive into her, her nails digging into the threads of your shirt. She’s begging you for more—harder, faster, deeper—because that’s what she wants from you, that’s what she needs from you. It’s always been like this—no soft embraces, no tender kisses. Just more, more, more.
You wrap your hand around her throat, not enough to cut off her air, just enough to remind her who’s in charge, who’s giving it to her. You lean in, so close her eyes cross, and whisper in her ear, “This is all you’re good for, you know that?”
Wonyoung’s response is to tense her muscles, clench her cunt around you, buck her hips to slap her ass against your thighs. Another battleground in your endless fight for dominance. Fighting for control, trying to dictate the pace, to set the rhythm, to be the one doing the fucking and not the one getting fucked.
And fuck, she’s tight.
Her cunt, her waist, her body. God, it’s like she was built for this.
Designed to fit perfectly in the palm of your hand, to be filled by your cock, to have her skirt hiked up to her waist like a flag of surrender. You’ve got her right where you want her, where she’s always been, where she always will be.
“I fucking hate how good you are at this,” she gasps, the confession spilling from her lips.
You laugh, “I fucking hate you too.”
She’s kissing you again, fingers in your hair now, scraping the back of your scalp, as she rises and falls on your cock. Reflex has your hand tightening around her throat, feeling her pulse quicken beneath your thumb, making her choke out another ‘daddy’.
You’re fucking her like you hate her, like you’re trying to punish her for every sharp word and cold shoulder she’s ever thrown your way. And she’s taking it like she loves it, like she’s been waiting for this all night, all year, all her fucking life.
Wonyoung looks so fucking good, so perfect riding you like this, it’s starting to piss you off. Her hair’s framing her face in perfect waves, not a single strand out of place, even though you’ve had your hands all through it, your fingers tangled in it. Her makeup’s smudged—you can see the tracks of your cum on her cheek—but she wears it like a fucking badge of honour—and like all things, it looks good on her.
It’s like the universe took one look at her and said, ‘nah, she’s too pretty to let any of that shit ruin her.’
But you’ll try.
Keep going—keep fucking; each moan into your mouth, each push of her tongue against your own, each graze of her teeth against your skin—tells you you’re getting there.
Like you’re trying to fuck out all the spite and anger that’s been building up between you, like you can somehow purge it from your systems and just be left with the good parts.
(It’s never that simple.)
“Wonyoung—” you start, but she cuts you off.
“If I could just have your cock without the rest of you—without your stupid mouth, without that fucking look on your face—fuck yes, just like that—without all the bullshit and fighting—fuck, fuck, fuck—”
You don’t believe her, of course—you’re not just a cock to her, the same as she’s not just a pussy to you. But you let her have her fantasy, let her keep pretending she’s just using you for a good time.
“You’re such a bitch,” you murmur, making her chuckle in your ear, her teeth finding the sensitive skin of your lobe, biting down and making you hiss.
Wonyoung’s confession: “Only because it—gah—makes you fuck me harder.”
And it does—it makes you want to show her, prove yourself to her, make her feel it the next day and every day after. Fuck her until she’s nothing but a trembling, whimpering mess, until she’s begging for you to stop. Until she’s begging for you to never stop.
You’re both getting sloppier now, Wonyoung’s hips stuttering as you pound that spot deep inside her, the one that makes her see stars and scream your name, the car shaking with the force of your fucking.
It’s a badly-kept secret you’re keeping from the world outside—the car’s rocking, the lights inside are on, making no efforts to hide what the two of you are doing (doing to each other).
If anyone looks closely enough, if the security cameras in the garage get curious and zoom in, they’ll see your silhouettes; her body arching back, your hips thrusting up and into her.
They’ll see Jang Wonyoung, the princess of the industry, getting fucked in the front seat of a car like some common whore.
And she’s loving it. The danger, the thrill of being seen, the risk that anyone could walk by and hear her moan your name, her voice strained by your hand on her throat. It’s the fact that she’s letting you do this to her, that she’s letting you fuck her like this, even when she’s telling you she fucking hates it.
This moment—Wonyoung—right here, is what you live for.
You want to save it, to bottle it up and keep it with you forever. You want to remember how she feels, how she tastes, the fucking sounds she makes when she’s just about to cum. You want to replay this in your head every time you’re alone, every time you’re with someone else—because even though there might be someone else, they’ll never come fucking close to her.
And then you get an idea.
It’s a terrible idea, one that’ll surely end in disaster—like all the best ideas.
You hold down on Wonyoung’s hips, stopping her mid-thrust, and she’s whining, letting slip just how good you’re making her feel.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she snaps, taking short, sharp inhales, replenishing all the oxygen you’ve fucked out of her.
You ignore her, reaching for the dashboard camera that’s been silently facing outside, towards the wall of the garage. It’s been switched on the entire time, waiting to record the car crash inside—you and Wonyoung tearing each other apart.
Wonyoung’s scared. “Oh no, don’t you fucking—”
But she can’t stop you. You’re already spinning it around, pointing it directly at her cum-covered face, her sweat-drenched body.
“Smile for the camera, Wony.”
Her mouth opens, but she can’t muster the words. You’re fucking her again, the camera watching everything, capturing every moan, every slight quiver of her body. It’s a side of her nobody gets to see—the side you’re most familiar with.
Wonyoung at her most honest, when she’s undeniably yours.
Just her—getting used (using you)—and fuck, there’s nothing more worthy to be captured and preserved for all eternity.
Her eyes dart to the camera, then back to you, her mind racing a mile a minute. You can see the gears turning—she’s trying to figure out how to get out of this, how to win back some ground, but she’s lost.
You’ve got her, and she knows it.
You’re fucking her, and she has no choice but to follow—whether she likes it or not.
“Fine,” she says, the admission torn from her throat as you push back into her. “But if this leaks—if you ever show this to anyone, I’ll fucking kill you.”
You just laugh. “You really think so little of me? Like anyone would believe it anyway.”
And you mean it. You’re not that stupid. But the thought of having a permanent record of this moment, of Wonyoung, begging in high definition—it has you hooked.
You can’t help but add, “But we’ll always know it’s there, won’t we? Forever.”
Wonyoung narrows her brows at you, but she doesn’t protest anymore. Instead, she does the opposite. She starts to lean into it.
She tips her head back, arching her spine so that her tits are pushed up, giving the camera a picture-perfect shot of her body, her chest, the stiffness of her nipples—everything.
Jang Wonyoung—always the performer.
A free hand runs through her hair, flinging it back over her shoulder, and she starts to roll her whole body; fucking herself on you in a way that’s so deliberate, so fucking pornographic.
“God, I fucking hate this.” Wonyoung puts it on public record, eyes never leave yours as she performs for the camera—or for you, it’s hard to tell.
“What’s that, baby?” You tease. "You hate how good this feels?”
“I hate that it’s you,” she says, the words forced out between gasps. “I hate how fucking hot you are.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
You’ll never understand it. How someone you despise so much, with every fibre of your being, can fit so perfectly around you, feel so downright incredible on top of you. It’s a cruel joke that the universe decided to play on you both.
But you play along, let her ride you like it’s her fucking birthright, lock you in some petty staring contest, keep your mind filled with nothing but the tightness of her cunt.
You’re both panting now, sweat slicking your skin, making it easier for her to slide up and down on your cock. Her small tits bounce with every movement, and you can’t help but reach out to grab one, pinch it hard, making her wince, making her gasp.
“Fuck—you should quit whatever the fuck you’re doing,” she says, trying her best to form complete sentences through the pain, the bliss. “Work for me.”
“And do what?”
“I don’t know.” Wonyoung looks down at you and you can see it on her face: the fucking slut is dead serious. “Manager, bodyguard, assistant. Whatever I can do to keep you close so you can fuck me like this whenever I want. If Yujin can have her drummer boy, it’s only fair that I get you.”
“Why the fuck would I want to spend all day waiting on you?”
She corrects you: “Spend all day inside of me.”
There’s your fantasy—mornings fucking Wonyoung in some hotel room, drinking all the juices from her pussy in the car on the way to work, having her suck your cock backstage at some concert, making her scream your name every night before going to sleep.
And then waking up and doing it all again.
There’s no hiding the smirk on your face. “Go fuck yourself, Wonyoung.”
Wonyoung mirrors your grin, that wild, cock-drunk look in her eyes. “Why would I do that when I have you?”
“No.” You’re pulling her close, holding her body tight to you, making her feel it. “You’re mine.”
That word again—'daddy’ on her lips, turning into a desperate cry as her thighs tense on either side of you, her hands locking behind your neck. She’s holding on tight, because you’re not giving her a choice, you’re not giving her anything but what she’s begging for.
You watch her face in the reflection of the car window—the way her mouth hangs open, the way her eyes flutter shut and then open again, searching for something, anything to keep her grounded.
"Fuck me like I’m yours,” Wonyoung pleads. “You own me? Then fucking treat me like you do. Treat me like I’m your fucking whore, daddy.”
It’s too much, all of it. Wonyoung: her face—those lips, her body—those fucking legs, her voice—the way she says your name, how she calls you daddy, like it’s a fucking curse. You’re so close to the edge now, so close to cumming again, cumming inside her. You can feel the beginnings of it, the tension coiling in your balls, the white creeping into your vision.
But she’s still talking—and so are you, you realise.
One of you cries out—holy shit—answered with a—so fucking good—followed by an exchange of—fuck yous—and—I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.
It keeps going, this fucking, this using, this hating—whatever this is.
“I fucking hate you—”
“Hate you too—”
“Hate how good your cunt feels—”
“Hate how big your cock is—”
“Hate how perfect you are—”
“Hate how much I want your fucking cum—”
“Fucking slut—"
“Daddy—”
“I’m going to—"
"Please!"
And that’s it.
It’s over—your cock pulsing deep inside her, Wonyoung’s cunt clamping down around you, and you’re cumming—together—tightening and writhing and calling each other every name under the sun, except maybe the one that actually matters.
Wonyoung’s head falls back, losing control of her own body, the camera catching every glorious moment as she cums, her orgasm ripping through her in a scream that you feel in every inch of your body.
You kiss her—her tits, her neck, her jaw, her lips—claiming her, making sure she feels every drop of you. You hate her, you love her, you hate that you love her, you love that she needs you, you hate that you need her.
And all the while the camera keeps rolling, capturing your sweaty, heaving chests; capturing you filling her, spilling out of her, giving her the cum she so desperately pleaded for. It’s so much more intimate than any kiss, any love confession, any of that romantic shit she sings about.
But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.
It’s every twitch, every shiver, every little pulse of your release flooding her. How she tenses and clenches around you, soaks you with her wetness, drowns you in her tight, drenched heat.
And she keeps calling you it—whispering it—‘daddy’—over and over again, even as she’s coming down from the high, even as she’s gasping for air, even as she’s forcing her tongue into your mouth.
Wonyoung slumps against you, your cum dripping out of her and down your cock, staining the leather of your car seats. You can feel the stickiness of it, the mess you’ve made together. It makes you want to do it all over again.
To make her say it again, to make her scream it again.
“You’re so fucking mine,” you murmur against her neck, kissing her collarbone, tasting the salt of her sweat.
Wonyoung just nods, too exhausted to argue, too satisfied to care. Her hand finds yours, weaves your fingers together, and you hold onto her, tight. It’s sickeningly sweet, and yet, despite your best efforts, the insult, the quip to break the spell doesn’t come.
Because in the end, you don’t want to kill the moment—not when it’s so perfect.
You don’t want to ruin it with talk of the real world, with the harshness of the light that’ll be waiting outside the car door.
You stay there, parked in the garage of her apartment building, the headlights dimming down to black. The air is thick with the smell of sex and sweat, the taste of it lingering on your tongues. It’s a bubble you’re both loath to burst—because once it does, once it pops, you’re just Wonyoung and some guy she fucking hates again.
“Thank you, daddy.” Wonyoung’s breathing slows, her grip on you loosens. She’s drifting off, the stress of the night and the alcohol finally claiming her.
You don’t know how long you sit there, the two of you tangled together. It’s quiet except for the occasional hum from her, a cute little sound that she’s probably unaware she makes. It’s soothing, almost sweet.
But reality has a way of crashing in, doesn’t it?
You know you can’t stay here forever. You know you’ve got to get her upstairs before someone sees, before the cameras (the dangerous ones, the ones you don’t own) spot you. Before the rest of the world catches up.
You ease her off your cock, she whines, her eyes struggling open. “Take me home,” she mumbles, still not fully coherent.
“Already am, baby,” you reply, gently untangling her body from yours.
With a bit of effort, you manage to get her into an almost presentable state—straightening her skirt, buttoning her shirt, dabbing the cum that’s pooled between her thighs. She watches you as you do it, through a hazy gaze, still recovering from being fucked into oblivion.
It’s an act. Partly at least. A way to save face—pretend that it’s only the exhaustion, that she doesn’t really need you, doesn’t really want to be taken care of like this. Doesn’t want to nuzzle her head into your shoulder, or hug you tight, or have you kiss her on the forehead and tell her that you’ve got her.
Tomorrow she’ll yell at you for it, probably call you an overbearing asshole for treating her like a delicate flower. Make fun of you for going soft, for totally falling under her spell.
(And sometime even later, in a moment when she’s all quiet and feeling vulnerable, right after you’ve fucked each other and hated each other and ended up holding each other for the millionth time, Wonyoung will say:
“You’re the only one who can keep up with me.”
You’ll know what she means right away; you’ll kiss her again and you’ll answer:
“I know.”)
Because despite the fact that when she wanted to be (and it was often), Jang Wonyoung could be a real fucking bitch, you’re also kind of in love with her.
And, if you were to ask her, she’d probably the same about you.
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#it’s just so fucking frustrating. i have 681 followers on Instagram. over 80% of those are inactive accounts. the rest I would say is -#-roughly 15% friends and family. and the other 5% is people who actually followed me cuz they liked my art#and I get about 20-30 likes a post. almost all of that is friends and family yet again. with a few stragglers that aren’t. and then of -#-course there’s bots in there too#and the reason I don’t clear out these accounts is cuz I know that once I do I’ll see how many people are left that actually do care. and -#-it’ll make me feel even more like shit than I do now when I see that#but oh ho ho this little 14 year old with toxic twitter brains is out here with a 5k plus following and their future basically guaranteed -#-in the art field#and a huge percentage of the time they’re like. fine! they’re not even good just FINE. like I am OBJECTIVELY better than them in many cases-#-and yet!!#but that’s not mentioning when these literal middle schoolers are actually amazing talented gifted artists#like I don’t understand. when I was your age my art was ass. it still is compared to how you’re drawing#i draw literally all the fucking time I’m constantly practicing and trying to test my limits but it never makes me any better#do I not fucking practice enough. am I supposed to draw until I get a goddamn carpal tunnel so I can even compare to this asshole kid on -#-twitter or instagram?? i dont fucking understand and I’m so over it#every time this happens I want to slam my head into a wall until I get brain damage and fall into a coma and never wake up#i want to fucking smash my head with a rock and my brains splattering the pavement will be my final awful art piece for this world to see#this is the only thing I have and yet I can never get the validation I crave and need and I’m not even good at it anyway so I probably dont-#-even deserve it in the first place#I’m so over this shit#vent
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#watching every ts and 1975 be retconned into being about each other is making me want to slam my head against the pavement#every day is a new version of hell
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What if reader's friends convince her to go on a date with another guy, and this guy is an absolute jerk? I think reader would call Eddie and ask her to come pick her up - why is every guy an asshole? Except Eddie of course 🖤
ty for requesting :D — grumpy!eddie rescues you from a bad date then offers to take you on a better one (friends to lovers, hurt/comfort ish | 1k)
bug's summer fic fest (ꈍᴗꈍ)
The sunset matches the color of your Slurpee. A fiery red and orange hue, like the mango and strawberry concoction in your cup. You sip from the plastic straw and pretend to taste the sky in your mouth — pretending not to notice the pounding bass of Eddie’s van as he peals into the parking lot.
You sit on the curb and keep your eyes trained on the cracked pavement under your feet. All cool. Like you hadn’t called him for help at all.
“You could’ve been more specific about where you were, you know?” Eddie shouts, punctuating his question with the slam of the car door. His worn sneakers scuff the concrete with each of his rushed strides. You’d almost think he was actually worried about you.
“I told you I was at the payphone by the Seven-Eleven,” you shrug, tilting your chin to look up at the boy when he stands ahead of you.
“There’s four of those,” he argues, with his lanky figure looming over you. He pushes his leather jacket off his sides (which he wears in spite of the summer heat) to put his hands on his hips. “Seriously. I counted ‘em all in the half hour it took me to find you.”
You squint up at him, hardly apologetic after the shit day you’ve had. “Well, sorry for not being more clear,” you spit in a cynical monotone.
“Apology accepted,” Eddie shrugs. He huffs and sits on the curb next to you while you slurp audibly at the slushie in your fist. He leans over to knock your shoulders with his. “What happened?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Figured… Can I have some, at least?”
He’s only partly surprised when you hand over the drink without protest. He takes it in his ringed fist, looks inside to observe its content, then sips at the red straw (trying to ignore the nagging thought that your lips have been where his are now). The strawberry-mango mixture melts quickly on his tongue, foreign and sweet. “’S nice.”
You scoff like you’re owed the compliment. “Right? I let Josh try some earlier, and he said it tasted like shit. I was like, you know what, this is my final fucking straw.”
Eddie’s face screws. He wipes dramatically at his mouth with the back of his hand, hopelessly trying to erase the other asshole’s DNA. “Are you serious?” he mumbles, all annoyed ‘cause you hadn’t thought to warn him beforehand. You don’t seem to understand his meaning, though, as you shrug lazily in response.
“Well, him trying to feel me up in his car was my actual final straw. But then he hated my all-time favorite Slurpee, and I didn’t even want to look at him anymore. I just told him to leave me here.”
The only thing Eddie hates more than putting his mouth where Josh’s has been — other than the thought of Josh taking you on a date at all — is the idea of Josh not treating you right. His chest burns with a withheld rage.
“Are you talking about fucking Josh O.?” he scoffs and passes the styrofoam cup back to you. “Like, the moron from Mr. Mundy’s, Josh O.? That’s who Steve set you up with?”
“Unfortunately,” you grumble and take another sip, more casual about the subtle spit-swapping than the boy beside you had been.
“He was basically setting you up for failure, then. You know that, right?”
“I just wanted a free meal,” you confess quietly.
Eddie squints. His eyes flit from your profile, to your fidgeting hand punching holes in the ice with your straw, and back to your profile again. “Well, did you get one?”
“Yep. We split one burger at the diner.”
A laugh sputters from his pink mouth.
Your head whips to glare at him. “It’s not funny.”
Eddie props his elbow on his knee to hide his smile behind his ringed hand. “I mean… It kinda is, though. ‘Cause even I could buy two meals for us, and I’m basically the brokest fucker in this town.”
“Are you offering?”
His brows pinch. “Offering what?”
“To buy me a burger,” you say in a mousy voice, pretending to be innocent as you peer at him beneath your lashes, all doe-eyed.
“What?” Eddie scoffs through the sparkling in his chest. As a self-proclaimed metalhead, there was absolutely nothing metal about confessing to stupid crushes. “No.”
“Well, it sounds a lot like you’re offering,” you tease before wrapping your lips around the straw of your drink.
“Well, this sounds a lot like talking for someone who doesn’t wanna talk about it,” he mocks.
Your eyes narrow in annoyance. You part from your Slurpee and mumble through the ice on your tongue. “I wasted my quarters on you,” you deadpan.
Eddie rolls his eyes. He rises from the curb with a huff, wincing at the distant ache in his long legs. “C’mon, weirdo. Let’s go,” he urges, towering over you again.
You shake your head, gaze averted, suddenly shy. “I’m okay here.”
“Let’s go.”
“I’m serious, Eds. I don’t feel like going home right now—”
“I’m not taking you home,” he scoffs like it’s obvious. Your eyes flit back to his, suddenly hopeful again, and he tries not to cower. “I’m taking you to the diner. So I can get you a real meal.”
You seem particularly moved by the uncharacteristic act of kindness. “Really?”
“Yes, really— I don’t want you to starve to death,” he grouses, feigning annoyance ‘cause it’s easier than facing his real feelings in the face. “Now, let’s go before I change my mind.”
He walks off ahead of you on long legs, leaving you behind to catch up. But, because he isn’t a total asshole, he opens the squeaking passenger side door for you.
“Can I get a milkshake, too?” you wonder with a scrunched nose, helping yourself onto the cracked pleather seat.
“Don’t push it,” Eddie squints. He goes to shut the door, then catches the pretty pout pinching your features. “Fine,” he groans before slamming it shut.
#published by bug#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x you#stranger things x reader#eddie munson imagine#stranger things imagine#eddie munson#stranger things#stranger things fanfic#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things fic#eddie munson fanfiction#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson fic#st drabbles#eddie spaghetti drabble#event: summer fic fest '24
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Truly I need to get over myself.
#slamming my head full force into the pavement i need to kill myself now#sui tw#mindsight#thus saith misael
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im going to jump off a bridge /pos
THANK YOUUUUUU AHWHJEHWHEIWHEUWGE?!????!?!?? 🩷❤️🔥❤️🩹🩷💞❤️💗🩷💓💓💓💞🩷❤️🔥🩷❤️🔥
"He didn’t deserve it, but in a cosmic sense, he really did." x
(Delta from @paingoes' series Destroyer)
#slams my head into the pavement one gazillion times#im just crying….. i love him so much….#destroyer art#my..fucking wig. just flew off
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