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yieldtotemptation · 7 months ago

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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. 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. 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 snaps open the buttons of her shirt. Casually 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 somehow manage to choke out.

“Mm-hmm,” she nods, not looking away from you, not breaking the eye contact that’s holding you hostage. “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, nails digging into the threads of your shirt. She’s begging you for more—harder, faster, deeper—because that’s all she wants from you, all she needs from you. It’s always been like this—no soft embraces, no tender kisses. Just more, more, more.

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, 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.

#kpop smut #wonyoung smut #ive smut #male reader

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reasonsforhope · 1 year ago

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In the Willamette Valley of Oregon, the long study of a butterfly once thought extinct has led to a chain reaction of conservation in a long-cultivated region.

The conservation work, along with helping other species, has been so successful that the Fender’s blue butterfly is slated to be downlisted from Endangered to Threatened on the Endangered Species List—only the second time an insect has made such a recovery.

[Note: "the second time" is as of the article publication in November 2022.]

To live out its nectar-drinking existence in the upland prairie ecosystem in northwest Oregon, Fender’s blue relies on the help of other species, including humans, but also ants, and a particular species of lupine.

After Fender’s blue was rediscovered in the 1980s, 50 years after being declared extinct, scientists realized that the net had to be cast wide to ensure its continued survival; work which is now restoring these upland ecosystems to their pre-colonial state, welcoming indigenous knowledge back onto the land, and spreading the Kincaid lupine around the Willamette Valley.

First collected in 1929 [more like "first formally documented by Western scientists"], Fender’s blue disappeared for decades. By the time it was rediscovered only 3,400 or so were estimated to exist, while much of the Willamette Valley that was its home had been turned over to farming on the lowland prairie, and grazing on the slopes and buttes.

Pictured: Female and male Fender’s blue butterflies.

Now its numbers have quadrupled, largely due to a recovery plan enacted by the Fish and Wildlife Service that targeted the revival at scale of Kincaid’s lupine, a perennial flower of equal rarity. Grown en-masse by inmates of correctional facility programs that teach green-thumb skills for when they rejoin society, these finicky flowers have also exploded in numbers.

[Note: Okay, I looked it up, and this is NOT a new kind of shitty greenwashing prison labor. This is in partnership with the Sustainability in Prisons Project, which honestly sounds like pretty good/genuine organization/program to me. These programs specifically offer incarcerated people college credits and professional training/certifications, and many of the courses are written and/or taught by incarcerated individuals, in addition to the substantial mental health benefits (see x, x, x) associated with contact with nature.]

The lupines needed the kind of upland prairie that’s now hard to find in the valley where they once flourished because of the native Kalapuya people’s regular cultural burning of the meadows.

While it sounds counterintuitive to burn a meadow to increase numbers of flowers and butterflies, grasses and forbs [a.k.a. herbs] become too dense in the absence of such disturbances, while their fine soil building eventually creates ideal terrain for woody shrubs, trees, and thus the end of the grassland altogether.

Fender’s blue caterpillars produce a little bit of nectar, which nearby ants eat. This has led over evolutionary time to a co-dependent relationship, where the ants actively protect the caterpillars. High grasses and woody shrubs however prevent the ants from finding the caterpillars, who are then preyed on by other insects.

Now the Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde are being welcomed back onto these prairie landscapes to apply their [traditional burning practices], after the FWS discovered that actively managing the grasslands by removing invasive species and keeping the grass short allowed the lupines to flourish.

By restoring the lupines with sweat and fire, the butterflies have returned. There are now more than 10,000 found on the buttes of the Willamette Valley."

-via Good News Network, November 28, 2022

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lesmana-enterprise-ltd · 1 month ago

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Almanara Castle, Historical Landmark in Tatrosa | Museum and Wedding Venue (NO CC)

The Almanara Castle (Also known as "Almanara Al-Tartos", or "Alcazar of Tartosa")

Almanara Castle, once part of the grand Qasr Al-Zayl al-Tartos, was the last refuge of Emir Jabar Al-Tartozi II before the fall of the Emirate of Tartosa in 1497. Spared after the siege, it later became a royal villa and was declared a cultural heritage site in 1876. Now a museum and wedding venue, Almanara offers a glimpse into Tartosa’s past with stunning coastal views.

Lesmana Enterprise led the restoration efforts after the 2021 Tartosa earthquake which damaged the castle, restoring it to its former glory.

The Last of its Kind in Tartosa

This picturesque castle was built in the late 14th century during the early years of the Tartosan Emirate rule by Al-Simhara sulanate engineers.

Its arabesque-moorish architecture is a reminder of a much more different, by-gone era of Tartosa's deep history.

Well Preserved, As if it was Built Yesterday

Our team of highly skilled engineers, historians, craftspeople, and archeologists ensures that the Almanara Castle retains its charm for centuries to come.

From intricate archway designs, geometric tileworks, centuries-old plasters, to water features that had worked for the past 600 years without the use of eletricity, we made sure visitors would experience Almanara Castle the way the Emirs of Tartosa and his royal court had experienced it centuries ago.

The Hall of Jenane

During the rule of Emir Hamid I (AD 1401-1429), Almanara Castle was repurposed as a private quarter of his daughter Amirah Jenane Al-Munr, who added more geometric tilework to the castle, adorned in her favorite azure and tosca colors to every edge of the estate.

In 1415, Amirah Jenane had her wedding in this very hall, where dignitaries from neighboring kingdoms like Kingdom of Windenburg, Grand Duchy of Champ-les-sims, and even norther simlandic kingdoms were invited to attend.

Today, the hall of Jenane becomes an exhibition hall that displays the collections of Amirah Jenane, where centuries-old potteries from different parts of the world can be seen, showing the Amirah's love for future generations who visits the castle.

Also, just like Amirah Jenane, you can experience becoming an Emirate royal by having your wedding in this hall too, by arranging the dates from the Museum's website.

The Emir's Exhibition

On the second floor of the main keep, you can find an exhibition of the Emir Jabar II's personal belongings such as weapons, books, and tapestries.

Pieces like the Emir's silver sword crafted by a Ravenwood master blacksmith, or the Emir's Gunpowder-powered broom crafted by a Glimmerbrook 15th century famed gunsmith-warlock is diplayed in this room.

The Azure Sanctum

In the castle's subterrane, is a breathtaking hall called the "Azure Sanctum", a hall with and endless arrangement of pillars and arches adorned in the finest lazuardi tiles and gemstones, with a fountain that had been running for centuries without the help of electricity.

According to historians' records, the Azure Sanctum used to be a place where the Royals would lounge during the hot Tartosan summer, as this room is proven to be -5 to -7 degrees celcius cooler than the air outside.

Now, the Azure sanctum serves as an exhibition hall for wall decorations and the famed "Scales of righteousness", a golden scale used widely in the Tartosan Emirate's Al-Simharan justice system in the medieval era.

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theplotmage · 8 months ago

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Medieval Nobility: Ranks, Titles, Authority

Reference for Historical Fantasy Setting--Writers save this!

1. Emperors and Empresses

Rank: Supreme

Territory: Vast empires, often comprising multiple kingdoms.

Titles: Your Imperial Majesty

Authority:

- Ultimate sovereign power over multiple regions or kingdoms.

- Capable of enacting laws and decrees that influence entire empires.

- Commanders of large, imperial armies and navies.

- Oversee administration across vast territories, managing both justice and taxation.

- Engage in high-stakes diplomacy with other empires and realms

2. Kings and Queens

Rank: High

Territory: A single kingdom.

Titles: Your Majesty

Authority:

- Absolute rule within their kingdom, capable of legislating and decreeing laws that impact their entire realm.

- Lead the kingdom's military forces and are the highest judicial authority.

- Oversee administration, including management of the kingdom's justice system and tax collection.

- Conduct diplomacy with foreign powers such as neighboring kingdoms and empires.

3. Princes and Princesses

Rank: Royalty, often next in line for the throne

Territory: Varies, often given duchies, counties, or smaller regions to govern.

Titles: Your Highness

Authority:

- Dependent on position; typically serve as advisors to the king or queen and govern specific territories.

- Can command military forces, administer justice, and oversee taxation within their assigned lands.

- Play significant roles in court politics and are often key players in diplomatic missions or alliances.

- As heirs, princes and princesses are groomed for future rule, receiving responsibilities that prepare them for kingship or queenship.

4. Grand Dukes and Grand Duchesses

Rank: High

Territory: Large regions, often exceeding standard duchies in size and influence.

Titles: Your Grace

Authority:

- Command significant regional power, governing over numerous counts, barons, and lesser nobles.

- Ability to enact regional laws, oversee justice, and manage estates across vast territories.

- Command regional military forces, often pivotal in defending or expanding the realm.

- Conduct regional diplomacy and maintain relationships with nearby territories.

5. Archdukes and Archduchesses

Rank: High

Territory: Large, often strategically or ceremonially important regions.

Titles: Your Grace

Authority:

- Hold considerable sway in both local and imperial court politics.

- Exercise legislative power, control estates, and command military forces within their territories.

- Responsible for the administration of justice and collection of taxes in their lands.

- Engage in diplomatic negotiations at both the local and imperial level.

6. Dukes and Duchesses

Rank: High

Territory: Duchies.

Titles: Your Grace

Authority:

- Exercise significant influence, overseeing the administration of their duchies.

- Govern large estates, enact local laws, and command regional military forces.

- Oversee justice, taxation, and maintain order within their lands.

- Engage in diplomacy, often acting as key regional liaisons with neighboring nobles and the crown.

7. Marquises and Marchionesses

Rank: High

Territory: Marches or border territories.

Titles: My Lord/My Lady or Your Lordship/Your Ladyship

Authority:

- Tasked with defending frontier regions, holding vital military responsibilities.

- Oversee the administration of law, justice, and taxation within their border territories.

- Command border garrisons and protect the realm from external threats.

- Often engage in frontier diplomacy, managing relations with nearby foreign powers.

8. Counts and Countesses

Rank: High

Territory: Counties.

Titles: My Lord/My Lady or Your Lordship/Your Ladyship

Authority:

- Govern counties, ensuring law and order, tax collection, and justice administration.

- Oversee estates, command local military forces, and implement local laws.

- Conduct regional diplomacy and manage relationships with neighboring lords and the crown.

9. Earls and Countesses (Primarily British Context)

Rank: High

Territory: Counties.

Titles: My Lord/My Lady or Your Lordship/Your Ladyship

Authority:

- Similar to counts, earls govern counties, overseeing local governance, law enforcement, and tax collection.

- Command local military forces, often participating in regional defense.

- Engage in local diplomacy, managing relationships with surrounding nobles and the crown.

10. Viscounts and Viscountesses

Rank: Intermediate

Territory: Sub-regions within counties.

Titles: My Lord/My Lady or Your Lordship/Your Ladyship

Authority:

- Act as deputies or assistants to counts or earls, managing smaller estates and overseeing local justice.

- Enforce laws, collect taxes, and maintain order within their territories.

- Command smaller local military forces.

- Manage local diplomacy, often representing higher lords in negotiations.

11. Barons and Baronesses

Rank: Lower Nobility

Territory: Smaller estates.

Titles: My Lord/My Lady or Your Lordship/Your Ladyship

Authority:

- Govern their lands, maintaining local law and order, and providing military support to higher-ranking nobles.

- Responsible for the administration of justice, tax collection, and estate management within their lands.

- Command small local forces and contribute to the defense of the kingdom.

- Engage in local diplomacy, often representing higher-ranking nobles in smaller disputes or agreements.

Medieval Gentry

The gentry represented the upper-middle class of medieval society, often possessing land, wealth, and influence, though they were not part of the nobility. They held important local roles and contributed significantly to governance, military, and economics at the regional level.

1. Knights

Rank: Upper Gentry

Territory: Typically smaller manors or estates.

Titles: Sir/Dame

Authority:

- Sworn military service to a higher noble or the crown, responsible for local defense and enforcement of law and order.

- Managed estates granted to them, overseeing agricultural production and local administration.

- Often served as local judges or sheriffs, ensuring justice in their regions.

- Held significant status in society due to their martial role, often participating in tournaments and other chivalric events.

2. Esquires (Squires)

Rank: Upper Gentry, typically below knights

Territory: Often managed smaller estates or served as aides to knights.

Titles: Esquire

Authority:

- Served as apprentices or attendants to knights, gaining experience in military tactics and estate management.

- Held responsibilities in local governance, such as collecting taxes and overseeing the workforce.

- Managed the day-to-day affairs of estates, particularly if the knight or lord was away in service.

- Held potential for knighthood, depending on service and recognition by higher nobles.

3. Gentlemen and Gentlewomen

Rank: Gentry, below esquires

Territory: Often owned small estates or managed properties for wealthier lords.

Titles: Mister/Mistress

Authority:

- Possessed land and wealth but did not typically hold titles of nobility.

- Often served as local officials, such as justices of the peace or mayors, contributing to the administration of justice and local governance.

- Acted as stewards for larger estates, managing agricultural production and tenant relations.

- Enjoyed a degree of prestige due to their education, wealth, and societal position, often involved in trade or finance.

4. Yeomen

Rank: Lower Gentry, often wealthy commoners

Territory: Small farms or lands, usually worked by themselves or with hired labor.

Titles: Yeoman

Authority:

- Owned or leased their land, making them independent farmers who were economically stable.

- Often served in the militia or as archers in times of war, providing military service in exchange for protection and privileges.

- Held responsibilities in local governance, such as acting as jurors or local officials.

- Represented a prosperous middle class, often rising in status through hard work and successful management of their lands.

5. Merchants

Rank: Lower Gentry, wealthy commoners with commercial influence

Territory: Based in towns and cities, owning shops, warehouses, or trade routes.

Titles: Master/Mistress

Authority:

- Held economic power through trade, commerce, and banking, often becoming influential in local councils or guilds.

- Managed extensive trade networks, both locally and internationally, playing a crucial role in the economic life of the region.

- Acted as benefactors, sponsoring local events, religious institutions, and sometimes even providing loans to the nobility.

- Often accumulated significant wealth and influence, sometimes enough to purchase land and enter the gentry class through marriage or royal favor.

6. Clergy (Higher Ranks)

Rank: Gentry (non-noble but influential)

Territory: Managed ecclesiastical estates or served in key positions within the Church.

Titles: Father/Mother, Brother/Sister, Reverend

Authority:

- Held power over church lands, overseeing agricultural production, taxation, and local governance.

- Served as local religious leaders, offering spiritual guidance and administering sacraments to the community.

- Often involved in local and regional politics, acting as advisors to both nobility and commoners.

- Collected tithes and other forms of ecclesiastical income, contributing to both church and community projects.

People could gain nobility through various means in medieval society, though the process often required the favor of the monarch or other high-ranking nobles.

1. Birthright (Hereditary Nobility)

- Inheritance

The most common way to become a noble was by being born into a noble family. Titles and lands were typically passed down through generations, with the firstborn son often inheriting the majority of the family’s wealth and title (primogeniture). In some cases, titles could also pass through female lines if no male heirs existed.

- Titles Inherited

Children of nobles inherited their parents' ranks, becoming dukes, counts, barons, etc., upon their death or abdication.

2. Royal Favor or Granting of Titles

- Ennoblement by the Monarch

A king, queen, or emperor could grant titles of nobility as a reward for loyal service, significant achievements, or contributions to the kingdom. This could include elevating a loyal knight to a baron, a wealthy merchant to a count, or a successful general to a duke.

- Acts of Valor or Service

Displaying extraordinary bravery in battle or performing a critical service to the crown, such as negotiating treaties or managing crises, could result in ennoblement.

- Financial Support or Gifts

Wealthy individuals who provided substantial financial support to the crown or military might be rewarded with a noble title.

3. Marriage

- Marrying into Nobility

A commoner could gain noble status by marrying someone of noble birth, although this often depended on the consent of the noble family and the monarch. Marriage alliances were key to both maintaining and enhancing noble status, as they could bring new lands, wealth, or military alliances into the family.

- Dowries and Alliances

In some cases, wealthy or influential commoners could arrange marriages with lesser nobles by offering a substantial dowry or political alliance, which could lead to their family entering the nobility over time.

4. Military Achievement

- Knighthood

A commoner could be knighted for bravery, loyalty, and exceptional service in battle. Knighthood was a step towards nobility and often the gateway to further titles. Knights who distinguished themselves could be granted estates or titles, eventually rising into the nobility.

- Military Leadership

Successful generals or commanders could be rewarded with noble titles and lands for their leadership in protecting or expanding the kingdom.

5. Clerical Elevation

- High Church Positions

Bishops, archbishops, and other high-ranking clergy often held noble titles or lands. While clergy were technically separate from the lay nobility, the church wielded significant power. Clerics of humble origin who rose to positions of influence within the church could gain noble status through church appointments or by receiving land grants from the monarch.

- Influence over Secular Affairs

Clergy who played key roles in advising or assisting the crown could be rewarded with lands and titles, blurring the lines between ecclesiastical and secular power.

6. Wealth and Land Ownership

- Accumulation of Wealth

Wealthy commoners, particularly merchants, financiers, or landowners, who accumulated significant land or financial influence could sometimes purchase noble titles or secure them through royal favor. This was more common in later medieval periods and into the Renaissance when wealth became increasingly influential in determining status.

- Purchasing Titles

In some cases, particularly in financially troubled realms, noble titles could be outright purchased from the monarch. This was controversial but became more common in later periods.

7. Legal and Political Achievements

- High Office

Serving in a high office, such as a chancellor, treasurer, or other key political position, could lead to ennoblement. Those who proved their loyalty and effectiveness in governing could be rewarded with titles and land.

- Diplomatic Success

Successful diplomats who negotiated critical treaties or alliances might be granted noble titles as a reward for securing peace or expanding the influence of the realm.

8. Adoption and Favor by Nobles

- Adoption

In rare cases, a noble without heirs might adopt a commoner or relative, raising them to noble status and making them the heir to the title and estates. This required the consent of the monarch and was often done to preserve the family name and estate.

- Favoritism

Individuals who became favorites of the monarch or powerful nobles—such as courtiers, artists, or scholars—might receive titles, estates, and positions in return for their service or companionship.

9. Conquest or Seizure

- Conquest

Nobility could also be gained through conquest. A warlord or leader who seized land and power could eventually claim a noble title, often through negotiations with the crown or by force of arms.

- Seizing Titles

During times of turmoil, individuals who rose to power by overthrowing or displacing existing nobles could claim their titles, provided they gained the monarch’s recognition or solidified their power through force or alliances.

10. Elevations through Legal or Social Changes

- Social Mobility

In later medieval periods, legal reforms and social changes allowed for some mobility between the classes. Wealthy or influential commoners could leverage their status to gain noble titles, particularly in times of economic or political upheaval.

- Inheritance Laws

Changes in inheritance laws, such as the decline of strict primogeniture, sometimes allowed for non-traditional heirs to rise to nobility.

Gaining nobility typically required a combination of wealth, land, military service, and favor from the existing nobility or monarchy. It was a complex process, often intertwined with the politics, wars, and social structure of the time.

Medieval Clergy

The medieval clergy held a significant place in society, balancing religious duties with political power. The Church's hierarchy mirrored that of the nobility, with various ranks conferring different levels of authority, responsibility, and influence. Unlike the nobility, positions in the clergy were not inherited but achieved through devotion, education, and sometimes political maneuvering.

1. The Pope

Rank: Supreme Head of the Catholic Church

Territory: The entire Catholic Church, with temporal power over the Papal States.

Titles: His Holiness, Holy Father

Authority:

- Spiritual leader of all Christians in Western Europe, regarded as Christ's vicar on Earth.

- Held ultimate authority over religious doctrine, canon law, and church governance.

- Had the power to excommunicate kings, issue decrees, and call for crusades.

- Acted as a temporal ruler over the Papal States, wielding political and military power.

- Appointed cardinals, bishops, and other high-ranking clergy, guiding the direction of the Church.

2. Cardinals

Rank: Princes of the Church, directly below the Pope

Territory: Often governed major dioceses or held high positions within the Church's central administration.

Titles: His Eminence

Authority:

- Advisors to the Pope, often serving as administrators of the Vatican or as legates to foreign courts.

- Participated in the election of new popes in the College of Cardinals.

- Held considerable influence over church doctrine, policy, and political matters.

- Governed large dioceses or regions, exercising authority over bishops and the clergy within their jurisdiction.

- Acted as intermediaries between the Church and secular rulers, negotiating treaties, alliances, and policies.

3. Archbishops

Rank: Senior Bishops overseeing an archdiocese (a major ecclesiastical region)

Territory: Governed an archdiocese, often encompassing several dioceses.

Titles: His Grace, Your Excellency

Authority:

- Supervised the bishops within their archdiocese, ensuring adherence to church laws and doctrines.

- Held authority over religious matters in their region, including the appointment of clergy and the administration of sacraments.

- Played a political role, often advising kings and princes, and sometimes held seats in royal councils.

- Presided over religious courts, dealing with matters of heresy, marriage, and church disputes.

- Held significant wealth and land, often rivaling secular nobility in power and influence.

4. Bishops

Rank: Senior Clergy, overseeing a diocese (an administrative district of the Church)

Territory: Governed a diocese, typically including several parishes.

Titles: His Grace, Your Excellency

Authority:

- Responsible for the spiritual welfare of their diocese, including the ordination of priests and the administration of sacraments.

- Managed church lands, finances, and estates within their diocese, acting as landlords and administrators.

- Held power in local governance, often serving as advisors to local rulers or acting as judges in ecclesiastical courts.

- Built and maintained cathedrals, the central church of the diocese, which served as the bishop’s seat of power.

- Engaged in diplomacy and politics, often involved in regional power struggles between the Church and secular rulers.

5. Abbots and Abbesses

Rank: Heads of Monasteries and Convents

Territory: Governed a monastery (for monks) or convent (for nuns), with control over large estates and communities.

Titles: Father Abbot/Mother Abbess, Your Reverence

Authority:

- Held authority over the monks or nuns in their care, enforcing the Rule of their order (e.g., Benedictine, Cistercian).

- Managed extensive lands and estates, which provided the monastery or convent with food, wealth, and resources.

- Oversaw religious and educational activities within their communities, including copying manuscripts, teaching, and providing charity to the poor.

- Acted as local powerbrokers, often wielding influence over surrounding towns and villages.

- Abbots, in particular, sometimes sat in local councils or parliaments, representing the interests of the Church.

6. Priors and Prioresses

Rank: Deputies to Abbots and Abbesses or Heads of Smaller Monasteries/Convents

Territory: Managed priories (smaller religious communities).

Titles: Father Prior/Mother Prioress

Authority:

- Assisted abbots or abbesses in managing the affairs of the monastery or convent.

- Sometimes acted as the head of smaller religious houses, with similar responsibilities to abbots and abbesses, but on a smaller scale.

- Enforced the religious discipline of the order, ensuring that monks and nuns adhered to their vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience.

- Managed the lands and resources of the priory, often engaging in agricultural production or other economic activities to support the community.

- Provided spiritual guidance and performed religious services for the local community.

7. Priests

Rank: Parish Clergy

Territory: Governed individual parishes, typically one or more villages or a small town.

Titles: Father, Reverend

Authority:

- Responsible for the spiritual care of their parishioners, including administering sacraments such as baptism, marriage, and last rites.

- Served as the primary religious authority in the local community, providing sermons, religious instruction, and guidance.

- Managed the parish church, often the center of community life, and oversaw local charities and events.

- Acted as mediators between the church hierarchy and the laypeople, relaying messages and collecting tithes.

- Held some political influence in their communities, often serving as advisors to local lords or as scribes for legal matters.

8. Monks and Nuns

Rank: Lower Clergy, members of religious orders living in monastic communities.

Territory: Lived in monasteries or convents, often removed from secular life.

Titles: Brother/Sister

Authority:

- Dedicated their lives to religious contemplation, prayer, and service to God.

- Engaged in various activities depending on the order, such as copying manuscripts, teaching, farming, or providing charity to the poor.

- Took vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, living according to the rules of their religious order.

- Held little secular power but wielded significant moral and spiritual influence in their communities.

- Monks and nuns were often seen as holy individuals, respected for their devotion and service to God.

9. Friars

Rank: Itinerant Clergy, often belonging to mendicant orders (e.g., Franciscans, Dominicans).

Territory: Did not own property or reside in monasteries; instead, traveled and preached.

Titles: Brother/Sister, Friar

Authority:

- Preached to the public and lived among the people, relying on charity and alms for sustenance.

- Focused on poverty, humility, and missionary work, often in contrast to the wealth and power of the established Church.

- Played a significant role in evangelizing, educating, and caring for the poor in urban and rural areas.

- Held little formal power within the Church hierarchy but were influential in spreading religious reform and charity.

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my-darling-boy · 1 year ago

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So a very unique purchase I made during hiatus… a pair of antique prosthetic arms I basically saved from being sold as lamps?? They were most likely made between 1900-1930, though one professor I reached out to says they might specifically be WWI era or thereabouts which is grand cos I’ve been getting very into WWI medicine, specifically prosthetics and plastic surgery, these past two years. Definitely a great addition to my collection regardless! They are two left arms produced for two different people but by the same maker in France and came with a swivel joint and hook, ring, and brush attachments.

#you wanna buy just one but then you think well i can’t separate them they’re friends #the wild thing is they were being sold as LAMPS like they were holding bulbs and attached to bases and everything #and I messaged the guy being like Hey Uh would you consider de-lamping those and selling them to me #had to have the little fellas WWI or not #rare to find them these days #wwi #world war one #antiques #prosthetics

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seoulzie · 9 months ago

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10 things i love about you

WHEREIN: yeonjun is used to having girls swoon over him daily. however, he's set his sights on you, the one person who seems completely uninterested in his charms.

彡 paring: jock!yeonjun x reader 彡 genre: fluff 彡 warnings: none! :)

₊˚🏒 read the whole collection here!

yeonjun was the undisputed king of the campus. with his smile, athletic prowess, and a legion of admirers, he was used to getting what he wanted. however, the one thing he wanted most was the one thing he couldn't seem to have—you.

it all started when he noticed you in the library, quietly reading a book while the world buzzed around you. unlike the other girls who sought his attention, you seemed completely uninterested in him. this intrigued him more than anything.

one afternoon, as he and his friends lounged in the cafeteria, they teased him about his latest crush. "i bet you can't even get her to look at you," one of them jeered. never one to back down from a challenge, yeonjun grinned. "watch me," he declared confidently.

determined to make a connection, yeonjun approached you. you were sitting under a tree, engrossed in a novel, completely oblivious to the commotion around you. gathering his confidence, he strode over and cleared his throat.

"hey there," he began, flashing his signature smile. "whatcha reading?"

you glanced up briefly, your expression unreadable. "a book," you replied curtly before returning your attention to the pages.

yeonjun blinked, slightly taken aback by your indifference. he wasn't used to being brushed off so easily. "mind if i sit?" he asked, undeterred.

you shrugged, not bothering to look up. "it's a free country."

he sat down, trying to think of a way to engage you. "so, do you come here often?" he ventured, inwardly cringing at how cliché it sounded.

you finally looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "is that your best line?" you asked dryly.

yeonjun chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head. "okay, that was pretty lame. let me try again. i'm yeonjun, by the way."

"yeah, i know who you are," you said, turning back to your book. "everyone does."

there was a long pause as yeonjun searched for something, anything, to keep the conversation going. "what's your name?" he asked, hoping to at least learn something about you.

you sighed, clearly exasperated. "look, yeonjun, i'm sure you're a nice guy, but i'm really not interested in whatever game you're playing."

"it's not a game," he insisted, leaning forward earnestly. "i just... i want to get to know you."

"why?" you asked, your eyes meeting his with a challenge.

"because you're pretty," he said smugly.

for a moment, something flickered in your eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. "thanks for the compliment, but i prefer to be alone," you said, closing your book and standing up. "see you around, yeonjun."

as you walked away, yeonjun watched, feeling a mix of frustration and admiration. you were proving to be a tougher nut to crack than he had anticipated, but he wasn't giving up that easily.

"challenge accepted," he muttered to himself, a determined smile playing on his lips.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

the next day, he "accidentally" bumped into you in the hallway, flashing his signature charming smile as he helped you pick up your books. you thanked him politely but remained aloof, much to his frustration. he decided to up his game.

in an attempt to spend more time with you, yeonjun convinced a mutual friend to invite you to a study group.

during the session, yeonjun tried to impress you with his knowledge and wit. he explained a complex theory, using grand gestures and confident tones.

"...and that's why the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell," he concluded, flashing a triumphant smile.

you raised an eyebrow. "actually, that's a bit of an oversimplification. the mitochondria do produce energy, but they also have roles in signaling, and cellular differentiation among other things."

yeonjun blinked, surprised. "oh, uh, right. of course."

"you should really read up more on cellular biology," you added with a hint of a smirk. "it's quite fascinating."

he chuckled, genuinely amused and impressed by your knowledge. "you got me there. i'll make sure to do that."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

one afternoon, you sat together on the quad, books spread out around you. yeonjun was explaining a concept from your history class, but you were only half-listening, distracted by the way his eyes lit up when he spoke.

"you know, you're pretty good at this," you said, interrupting him.

he looked at you, slightly taken aback. "at what?"

"at making things interesting," you replied. "history's never been my favorite subject, but you make it sound... exciting."

yeonjun laughed, a warm, genuine sound. "well, that's a first. most people think i'm just good for sports and parties."

you shook your head, smiling. "you're a lot more than that, yeonjun. i'm glad i got to know you."

he grinned, a blush creeping up his cheeks. "i'm glad i got to know you too. you're... different from anyone i've ever met."

there was a comfortable silence between you, filled with unspoken thoughts and feelings. you realized that you were starting to see yeonjun in a new light. he wasn't just a pretty boy jock; he was someone you genuinely cared about.

but why did you want something more? why did your heart race when he looked at you? why did you feel a pang of longing when he wasn't around?

you pushed the thoughts aside, reminding yourself that you were just friends. yet, deep down, you couldn't shake the feeling that you wanted something more, something deeper.

as you looked into yeonjun's eyes, you wondered if he felt the same way.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

a few days later, you were walking through the halls, your mind drifting to thoughts of yeonjun and your recent interactions. you were starting to enjoy his company more and more, and the line between friendship and something more was beginning to blur.

as you turned a corner, you overheard yeonjun and his friends talking. they hadn't noticed you yet, so you paused, curiosity getting the better of you.

"damn, i didn't know you could actually get her to talk to you," one of his friends said, clapping yeonjun on the back.

"yeah, i thought she was a lost cause," another chimed in, laughing.

yeonjun shrugged, a small smile on his lips. "she's different, you know? it just took a bit of effort."

"so, what now?" a third friend asked. "you gonna keep trying or is this just for fun?"

your heart sank at their words. were you just a bet to him? just another challenge for the campus heartthrob to conquer? the thought stung, and you felt a wave of hurt and anger wash over you.

you turned on your heel and walked away quickly, not wanting to hear any more. as you rounded the next corner, tears pricked at your eyes. you had started to trust yeonjun, to let him in, and now it felt like it had all been a lie.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

yeonjun noticed immediately that you had become distant. your texts became curt, and you avoided him in the hallways. confused and worried, he decided to confront you after school.

he found you sitting under the tree where you usually read, your expression closed off. "hey," he said softly, sitting down beside you. "you've been avoiding me. did i do something wrong?"

you took a deep breath, your heart aching. "i overheard your friends talking in the hallway," you began, your voice trembling slightly. "they said... they said you were just trying to get me to talk to you as a bet. is that true?"

yeonjun's eyes widened

yeonjun sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "no, it's not true," he said firmly, meeting your gaze with sincerity. "i never saw you as a bet, or a challenge. from the moment i noticed you, i... i wanted to get to know you. i wanted to understand why you were different from everyone else who surrounds me every day."

you studied him for a moment, searching his eyes for any sign of deceit. his gaze was unwavering, his expression earnest. slowly, you felt a flicker of hope ignite within you.

"why didn't you say anything?" you asked softly, your voice tinged with vulnerability.

yeonjun looked down, his shoulders slumping slightly. "i didn't know how," he admitted quietly. "i wanted to prove myself to you, to show you that i'm not just some shallow jock. but i guess i went about it the wrong way."

you felt torn. part of you wanted to believe him, to trust that his feelings were genuine. but another part of you feared getting hurt, feared that this was all just a misunderstanding. you looked away, unsure of what to say next.

"i love the way you get lost in your books," he began, his voice steady despite his nervousness. "i love how you stand up for what you believe in, even if it means standing alone. i love how you make me want to be a better person."

your heart pounding. "did you really mean all of that?" you asked softly.

"every word," he replied, his voice filled with sincerity.

"okay," you said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "okay, let's give this a chance."

a relieved smile spread across yeonjun's face, his eyes shining with gratitude and hope. "thank you," he murmured.

in that moment, the distance between you disappeared. yeonjun's lips met yours in a tender kiss, a silent promise of honesty and devotion. it was a kiss that spoke of newfound understanding, of forgiveness given and accepted, of hope for what the future held.

as you rested your head against his shoulder, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. maybe this wasn't the ending you had expected, but it was a beginning. a beginning of something real, something sincere, something that had the potential to grow into so much more.

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notearsnora · 2 months ago

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Ariana mentioning Gelphie in her THR interview:

Wicked’s second installment, Wicked: For Good, hits theaters in November. Without wading into spoiler territory, she confirms that part two is considerably darker than part one. “I’m still recovering,” says Grande. She and co-star Cynthia Erivo, the Elphaba to her Glinda, will engage in another press tour, too, an almost inconceivable prospect given how long, emotional and viral this one has been. The actresses have spent much of it syncing their character-specific wardrobes, as they clutch each other’s fingers and shed tears at almost every stop. At this point, “people think we’re secretly married,” offers Grande, who adds of what she calls “the Gelphie stuff,” referring to the internet’s vast collection of fan fiction and art explicitly dedicated to a sapphic pairing of Elphaba and Glinda: “I wish I could unsee some things. I mean, wow, I had a feeling, but I didn’t know it would be on this scale or this graphic.”

#everyone quickly lock the doors! 😭#btw if you know Ariana you know she’s just joking don’t turn this into discourse #gelphie #wicked #wicked movie #ariana grande #glinda upland #wicked the musical #dailygrande #elphaba thropp #cynthia erivo #galinda upland

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murdereddoubt · 2 years ago

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Style maestro Wade Desarmo

#wade desarmo #wadedesarmo #es skateboarding #primitive skateboards #grand collection co #grand collection #skateboarder #skateboard #skateboarding #skate #skater #skate life #skateboarding forever #skate forever

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thissying · 10 days ago

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What’s your favourite gp/max moment? If u wanna give multiple favourites I would not complain btw

Oh dear, I couldn't possibly pick one so yes, there will be multiple, anon! And then I will probably forget one or two probably more big ones that I'll think of later and be bummed about that. In the meantime, I've had a little time to think about this and decided: there could be categories!

Max and GP in the media: not so much a moment but both of them saying they don't want to work with anyone else. Both of them giggling together at the beginning of podcast, and the '23 Talking Bull podcast in its entirety but special mention for "he's my little brother" and GP's fond looks. But I really have a lot of love for when they did the virtual lap videos, because even though it's not a race you can actually see them working and having fun together. But I especially loved when they switched and GP drove with Max being his co-pilot ("See? I press DRS for you." 😭) which was not just fun but suddenly the dynamic was slightly different than what we were used to with GP asking if he was doing well, if Max was happy and Max praising him (though apparently not enough: "don't be a motivational speaker, will you? 'a bit better'?! I was flat through Maggotts!")

Onboard radio: there are way too many and while I love their squabbling ones, I truly love the ones where GP praises Max as well or maybe more. Especially post-race when all the congrats and little race reviews you usually hear in the broadcast have been said and GP comes back on the radio once more to pay Max a compliment and Max deflects. Max telling GP: "You won your home Grand Prix" and GP saying: "You whispered well today." at Monza '22. Imola '22: "where's GP? he ran off? [...] oh hi GP!" and then he went and got GP an apology ice cream after. When Max hit the pitwall when driving out of the garage and GP innocently asking "What happened, mate?", GP calling Max 'Seabob' after Zandvoort qualifying after they'd spent a bit of their summer vacation together. Brazil '24, the whole race, I don't think I need to elaborate. The WDC '21 where GP, previously known to us as calm and collected, absolutely lost all of that and turned into a screaming Alex Albon , and '24 where they both got emotional and GP had to take a moment and let Horner do the talking 🥺.

Pre-race footage: GP fixing Max's collar at the Monaco GP, it's a blink and you miss it moment at the beginning, and it looks like nothing special, casual, which is exactly why it makes me so 🥰🥺🥵😊When watching the older onboards, I noticed GP giving Max a three minutes until race warning with just holding up his fingers, no radio, which means Max has to have been watching GP even when there's other things going on and people bustling about and that GP is assured he will see. As far as I've seen there was only one time that he had to wave his clipboard to get Max's attention for it. There are more than the three in the video below the cut but you get the idea. And then there's this pre-race encouragement gesture, short but sweet 🥰 And obviously a big fan of their pre-race ritual get-togethers underneath/over the halo.

GP's smile when Max did a bit of overtaking in the pitlane. Not just supporting but enjoying his work husband's, sorry, little brother's crimes. One of my all time favourites actually.

Post-race/WDC win moments: I love all of them, the dick grab and hands holding of '22 and the hug and fond neck tuck of '23 but last year's with GP lifting Max up and quietly (and maybe a bit awkwardly on account of the cameraman in there as well who was pretty much in their faces) keeping him company on the Rolls Royce ride to the podium is... I love it so much that I don't have proper words for it actually.

#this is what happens when you ask me to name one or maybe more favourites 😭#if anyone feels like chiming in with their favourite moments feel free <3 #f1 anon #anon ask #gp x max #max verstappen #gianpiero lambiase

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frostedmagnolias · 11 months ago

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Dress

c. 1895

“This dress made of taffeta features a net overlay designed with metal sequins and beadwork. The standing collar is made of lace as is the yoke. This dress also has lace undersleeves. There are elaborate designs on the center front of the boned bodice and also on the skirt hem. This dress is gathered at the back and has a train. Features that indicate this is an 1890s dress are the monobosom and the standing collar.

This dress was created by Julius Barnes & Co. and was part of the Miss May Godfrey Collection.”

Grand Rapids Public Museum

#OBSESSED #1895 #1890s #fashion history #Victorian fashion #historical fashion #historical clothing #history of fashion #dress history #vintage fashion #19th century fashion #19th century #late 19th century #moda #frostedmagnolias

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queenshelby · 1 year ago

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MINI SERIES: THE SLAVE

PART THREE OF THE DARK & SEXY SERIES

NOTE: This is a series of one shots and mini series for Cillian Murphy & Tommy Shelby in which he acts totally off-canon. Most of these shots are very dark in nature and you should read their individual warnings. All of these shots are requests from readers. Co-written with @darkshelbyfiction! ALL CHARACTERS ARE OVER 18. MINORS DNI.

PAIRING: TOMMY SHELBY X VIRGIN READER

WARNING: NON-CONSENSUAL LOSS OF VIRGINITY, CAPTURED READER, SLAVE READER, TOMMY GETTING OFF ON PAIN

NOTE: AGAIN THIS WAS A REQUEST AND I FELT A LITTLE UNCOMFORTABLE PUBLISHING IT...VERY DARK!

It had been two days since you were brought to Birmingham from your home country after promises of prosperity and wealth.

But the cost for this was higher than you ever imagined when you were sold, by your very own father, as property to the highest bidder.

Now you had arrived at Thomas Shelby's estate, which stood majestically against the backdrop of lush greenery and manicured gardens. The mansion, built centuries ago, seemed to command the landscape around it, much like how its owner commanded people within it.

A maid named Nadia greeted you at the entrance, leading you up the grand staircase that spiraled upwards into a series of breathtaking domed ceilings and magnificent chandeliers. Each room presented an extravagant spectacle of artistry and craftsmanship; it was as if every corner had been meticulously designed to overwhelm even the most jaded observer.

Despite the opulence surrounding you, something felt unsettling about the silence that enveloped the house. As far as you could tell, there was no one else here except the maids and yourself. This was not just a house, but a fortress - an impregnable bastion constructed on foundations of isolation and distance.

"This way," intoned the maid, gesturing down a long hallway lined with oil paintings depicting scenes of aristocratic splendor. The air smelled stale - it had been many years since anyone had breathed life into this grand edifice.

"I will show you to your room," whispered Nadia, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder.

As she walked ahead, you noticed her movements were careful, almost rehearsed, as if she had done this countless times before.

Her gait betrayed an unnatural rhythm, a pattern formed by habituation rather than choice.

She knew the layout of the house inside out, each twist and turn etched into her memory like grooves on an old vinyl record.

You followed her silently, allowing the grandeur of the mansion to wash over you.

Every now and then, you caught glimpses of your reflection in the polished marble floors, a ghostly image of yourself trapped between reality and illusion. You found yourself feeling strangely calm and collected, despite the circumstances that led you here.

Nadia finally stopped outside a door adorned with intricate carvings and gestured you into a room without windows.

"This is where you will sleep and perform your duties," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. There was something eerie about the maid, an unspoken understanding between her and the master of the house.

Slowly stepping into the dimly lit chamber, you took note of the opulent surroundings: velvet curtains hung from gold-plated rails, plush rugs lay scattered across the polished hardwood floor, and delicate porcelain vases filled with fresh flowers graced every surface.

However, the abundance of luxury did little to ease the unease that settled deep within your gut.

The maid turned abruptly, locking eyes with you. "At night, the room will be locked securely so don't attempt to leave. If you need anything, ring the bell by the bedside table," she told you before fluffing up some of the cushions on the bed.

"I never..." You trailed off, swallowing back tears that threatened to betray your bravado. You forced yourself to maintain eye contact with the maid, knowing full well that any sign of weakness would be exploited mercilessly. "I have not done anything like this before. I was told that I had to because a lot of money was paid for my services, but understand please that I have no experience," you then stammered, knowing full well that you had been purchased to perform sexual acts for your benefactor.

"The fact that you are so innocent, and young is precisely why Mr. Shelby has purchased you," Nadia responded coldly, turning away to adjust a lamp on the nightstand.

"Now, let me explain to you what is expected of you around here," she continued, softening her tone slightly.

Your heart pounded wildly in your chest, and your palms slickened with sweat, though you managed to nod affirmatively, meeting her gaze steadily. "Firstly, you must address Mr. Shelby as 'Sir' at all times. Do not forget," she warned sternly.

You swallowed hard, nodding again.

"You will be allowed to leave your room with another maid, between eight o'clock in the morning and eight o'clock in the evening, but not otherwise unless Mr. Shelby is with you," Nadia explained, adjusting a silk pillow propped by the headboard.

You tried to picture a day spent in confinement, the mere thought sending shivers down your spine.

"Mr. Shelby will inform you directly when he requires your services. Most often he will come here to use you for his pleasure, and he usually expects to be attended to at least twice per day, occasionally more often. You should prepare yourself mentally and physically for his needs because it can get quite overwhelming sometimes," Nadia explained and your breath hitched, but you managed to control the panic rising within you.

"And if I refuse?" you asked, causing Nadia to pause and look at you. "Refusal is not an option. Mr. Shelby doesn't tolerate disobedience. You must do whatever he asks."

Your hands shook involuntarily, but you clenched them into fists to prevent further trembling. You nodded weakly, fighting back tears.

"What he wants...is it...painful?" What you didn't know, what you couldn't comprehend, was whether the physical pain of intimacy would be more bearable than the emotional agony of submitting to someone else's whims.

"Sometimes, but he's gentle enough," Nadia replied matter-of-factly. "Now, you must get ready for tonight. He will be visiting you at 8 o'clock and expects you to wear nothing but a pair of undergarments of your choice," Nadia said before directing you to your wardrobe. "You will lie on the bed and wait for him, understood?" she asked and, again, you nodded.

"I will be back after he is done with you to change the sheets and provide food and water," Nadia then finally explained before she left you alone in the darkness, save for the faint glow of your bedside lamp. You heard the key turn in the lock, sealing you in the room. You sat on the edge of the bed, trying to process everything she told you.

On the bedside table you found a bottle of lubrication next to a bottle of painkillers, both small comforts in the face of the reality of your situation and, when you looked around the room, you also found other items such as restraints hanging neatly from hooks in the wall. You shivered, feeling your anxiety rise.

Then, just before 8 o'clock, there was a knock on the door. You flinched, jumping to your feet and nearly knocking over the lamp.

"It's time," Nadia called through the door. You took a deep breath, gathering your courage.

You stripped off your clothes, leaving you naked in the dim light of the room. You pulled on a pair of cotton panties, their thin fabric barely covering the shame you felt.

You then laid down beneath the thin sheets and waited for your new master's arrival. The tension mounted as the seconds ticked by, the sound of footsteps echoing loudly in the silent mansion.

There was a creak of the door opening, and an intimidating figure emerged from the shadows. His presence loomed large, filling the space with an aura of dominance and power. He wore only a robe, his toned body visible underneath. You bit your lip nervously, unable to tear your gaze away from those imposing features.

Thomas Shelby, you reminded yourself – a name that would forever haunt your dreams. His cold blue eyes swept over you, assessing your worth.

You stared back, holding his gaze, refusing to cower.

"Welcome, Love," he rasped, his voice like gravel underfoot, but you remained silent, swallowing the lump in your throat. He moved closer, looming over you like a storm cloud, his scent of sandalwood and spice filling your nostrils.

"I trust Nadia has briefed you on your duties?" he queried, reaching out to stroke your cheek.

Your skin recoiled at his touch, but you refused to pull away.

"Yes, she did," you mumbled hesitantly, your voice cracking under his scrutiny. He studied you carefully, tracing the lines of your jaw with his fingers.

"Good girl," he crooned softly, a strange sense of pride swelling within you. Your resolve wavered at the compliment, but you steeled yourself, reminding yourself of the reality of your situation as he touched some of your bare skin not covered by the white sheet.

"Relax Love," he then said softly as the heat of his hand seared through your skin, sending quivers up your spine. "You will get used to this after a while," he went on to say and his voice was comforting, yet the words stung like venom.

Your breath quickened, chest rising and falling in rapid succession, and your hands instinctively curled into fists beneath the thin white sheet covering you. You wanted to scream, but instead, you simply nodded, unable to find any words to respond.

Thomas looked at you, his eyes appraising your form beneath the covers. "I am going to have a look at you now, eh" he said suddenly, reaching down to lift the edge of the sheet away from your body.

You squirmed and turned red, trying to cover yourself. But he pushed your hands aside gently, staring at you with a mixture of lust and admiration. "I cannot wait to feel your tight little cunt squeeze around my cock when I claim you," he whispered, running his fingertips along your inner thigh, causing you to shiver uncomfortably.

"But first, let me have a look at this little virgin hole of yours, eh?" the man said and his words sent a wave of unease coursing through your veins. You could feel the sweat trickling down your face, mingling with the tears pooling in your eyes. You bit your lip, struggling to contain the sobs threatening to erupt from inside you.

With a gentle tug, he pulled your panties down just enough to expose your slit and your heart pounded against your chest almost painfully.

"I have been told that your opening is particularly small" he murmured, trailing his fingers over your slit before parting your labia slightly, exposing your tiny clit.

"Ow!" you gasped, wincing at the sudden stretch caused by his fingers.

"You do have a tight opening indeed," he grinned wickedly, licking his lips.

Thomas gazed at it with fascination, reaching between your thighs. You tried to close your legs, but he firmly held them open, pressing a dry finger against your entrance, probing it gently.

"Look at that," he breathed, leaning forward to get a better view. "It's barely opened up yet," Tommy groaned as he probed deeper, widening your opening until he found your hymen—a thin membrane that separated you from being fully broken. His fingers brushed against it, sending stinging pain shooting through your core as he toyed with your opening.

"Now, be a good girl and hold still for me," he cooed, pressing the tips of one of his fingers against your entrance. "I need to stretch you out a bit, ready for later," he went on to say as his finger pressed harder, forcing its way into your most intimate space. It felt too big, too foreign. The pain was excruciating, but you did your best not to make a sound.

"There we go," he muttered, thrusting deeper until his entire pointer finger filled you up. "That's a good girl. Now, let's see if I can get a second one in there," he told you before reaching for the bottle of lubrication he kept on the nightstand and squirting the viscous liquid onto two of his fingers.

"Hold still for me," he reminded you before swiping his fingers across your outer lips and then pushing not one but two fingers right into you.

You cried out and arched your back, biting into your own fist to stop any louder sounds from escaping.

"Shh," Thomas hushed you, rubbing soothing circles into your hipbone as he pumped his fingers in and out of you.

His fingers felt cold and slimy inside you, sliding easily past your resistance, tearing at your hymen with each thrust.

You closed your eyes tightly, gritting your teeth as the sensation of being stretched and torn overwhelmed you.

The sight of his fingers stretching you like this turned him on; he couldn't help but groan and squeeze harder, making sure you knew exactly what he was doing to you.

"Such a good girl," he praised between grunts, watching your petals pulse around his digits, growing wetter and slicker with every stroke.

"See how hard you make me?" he moaned, opening his robe and grabbing hold of his erection, stroking it firmly. "I really want to fuck you now," he determined before he withdrew his fingers from you, leaving you feeling empty and exposed.

"Now be a good girl and turn over and lay flat on your stomach, face down against pillow," he commanded gruffly, pushing your upper body onto the mattress.

You hesitated, wanting to turn over and hide your nakedness, but fear of displeasing him kept you lying facedown.

"I am going to use some lubrication, but it is going to hurt a lot more if you don't relax Love," he warned sharply, pulling your waist upwards and spreading your legs apart.

As you lay on your stomach and your heart hammered against your chest. The thought of being penetrated by him sent chills down your spine. You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping to block out the inevitable.

You whimpered softly, trying to prepare yourself for what was to come, and Tommy smeared a generous amount of lube onto his cock, coating it in a thick layer of slippery fluid. You flinched in anticipation as he positioned himself between your legs.

"This might hurt a bit for the first few days, but you will get used to it after a while. The more we do it, the easier it will get," he said while aligning himself with your entry point.

"Now," he continued, his tone stern. "I want you to stay completely still when I penetrate you," he added, applying another dollop of lube to his shaft.

You remained silent, swallowing loudly as you attempted to gather your courage. You could hear your own heartbeat echoing in your ears; the rhythmic, thunderous pounding was deafening.

"Do you understand?" he asked quietly and you nodded. Your muscles tensed, ready to endure whatever came next.

Thomas placed the head of his penis at your entrance, teasing you with a slow push. You exhaled loudly, gripping the sheets in your fists.

"Relax and let me in," Thomas urged you, nudging the tip of his member against your entrance. "That's it," he sighed, feeling your body yield under his command. His cock slid into you, stretching you wide open, and the friction of entering you caused a shudder to ripple through his body.

"Ah," he groaned, reveling in the exquisite sensation of being enveloped by your warm, tight channel. "Such a good girl," he groaned as he savored the moment, basking in the sensations that coursed through him. Then, he began to thrust, filling you up inch by agonizing inch until every last millimeter of his erection was buried deep within you.

"So tight," he groaned, bucking into you with a force that seemed to shake the entire bed. "Fuck, you're so goddamn tight."

"You are going to be such a good little whore for me, eh?" Tommy murmured into your ear, his hot breath tickling your neck.

"You will take my cock many times a day, love," he growled, his words a dark promise that sent a chill down your spine. "In the morning, afternoon, and evening."

You swallowed loudly, unable to meet his gaze. Your heart hammered wildly against your chest, and you struggled to suppress the sob that threatened to escape.

"Every time I come through that door, you'll be ready for me, won't you?" he asked, his grip tightening around your hip.

"Because I'm going to fuck you whenever I want, Love." Tommy snarled, punctuating his words with hard thrusts.

For almost an hour, he used you like this, treating you like a rag doll that belonged to him alone until, finally, he was ready to ejaculate inside your raw opening.

"I am going to cum inside you now, Love," he informed you, his cock twitching violently against your vaginal wall.

"Do you want me to fill you up with my seed?" he asked you, his voice laced with lust, his fingers tightening around your hips.

"Yes, sir," you managed to reply, your voice hoarse with exhaustion.

He smiled down at you, satisfaction shining in his eyes. "Good girl," he praised, pumping his cock a few more times before letting out a guttural yell and filling you up with his essence.

As he collapsed next to you, panting heavily, you could feel his warmth radiating into your channel.

The remnants of his semen trickled down your leg, leaving a sticky trail behind.

"That was a lovely experience, wasn't it?" Tom said, his voice still coarse from exertion. "Now rest. I am going to fuck you again when I come back from my business deal tonight" he added, his gaze lingering on your tender, swollen lips.

He moved his hands to cup your breasts, palming them gently before pinching your nipples.

"You are going to learn to enjoy it Love," he whispered, his voice harsh and commanding. "And when you do," he paused, his breath hot against your cheek, "you are going to beg me for more," he determined before putting his robe back on and calling one of the maids to help you clean up.

#cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy #tommy shelby #cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy imagine #peaky blinders #tommy shelby smut #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby fanfic #thomas shelby #thomas shelby imagine #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby fanfiction #thomas shelby smut

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