douceenvie

[douceenvie]

✎ 𝙊𝙉 𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝙊𝙒𝙉(until you aren’t)

ᯓ★ megan x fem!reader

ᯓ★ college fluff · chaotic x calm · slowburn softness

✩°｡🧸𓏲⋆.🧺𖦹 ₊˚

𓂃 𓈒𓏸“i love you,” she says

again and again and again.

you hear it every time. ⊹ ࣪ ˖

Megan says it the first time on a Wednesday — mid-yawn, mid-bite of her third chocolate croissant, mid-sentence about some girl in her bio class who keeps flirting with the professor. The words slip out like they’re casual, like she didn’t just lob a meteor at the quiet safety you’ve wrapped around your heart. “Anyway, I think I’m in love with you or something, but like, whatever, right? Did you see the TikTok I sent—” You don’t even flinch. You blink, sip your iced tea, and pretend you’re rereading the same line in your psych textbook for the third time. You hear her. Of course you do. But if you look up — if you acknowledge it — something will happen that you’re not sure either of you are really ready for. So you hum. She laughs it off. The world spins on.

The second time comes during a movie night in your dorm, your legs tucked under hers, the glow of the screen flickering soft blues against your face. Megan’s head is tilted, messy bun sliding sideways like it’s holding on for dear life, and she’s rambling about how this movie is way too dramatic for its own good — but then her voice drops into that rare quiet she saves for real things. “You’re kinda it for me, you know?” she mumbles. “Like, I love you.” It’s muffled into the sleeve of your hoodie she’s stolen again, and you pretend you didn’t catch it. You offer her another gummy worm instead. She takes it with a grin, a flash of teeth, like she hadn’t just placed her heart between you both and watched you step around it.

By the third time, you start keeping count.

This one is in a coffee shop, noisy and busy, but Megan is loud enough to rise over everything. She’s wearing a backwards cap and talking with her hands too much, telling you about a dream she had where you both opened a cat café in Tokyo and one of the cats had your eyes — she pauses then, breath caught like she’s realizing something too heavy. “Anyway, I love you,” she shrugs, like it’s nothing, like it’s not everything. And you — coward, protector, pretender — you smile. You tuck a sugar packet between your fingers and tap it against the table like you didn’t just hear the softest truth disguised as a joke. Megan changes the subject before you can say anything. She always does. Like she knows.

The fourth time doesn’t even sound like a confession, not really. It’s loud and messy — you’re both tipsy off two wine coolers and cheap instant noodles, her socked feet in your lap and a pillow fight already lost between you. She says it while looking at the ceiling, her voice loose and fond: “If no one’s told you yet today, I love you. Like a lot. Just FYI.” You throw a popcorn kernel at her and say, “Your hair’s in your ramen,” and she groans dramatically and flops onto your lap like you’ve broken her heart. Maybe you have. But you hold her head in your hands and run your fingers through that chaos-soft hair, and she lets you, quiet now, only the thrum of her heartbeat pressing into your thigh.

The fifth time — it’s different. Maybe because the sun’s setting just right, honey and apricot bleeding into the dorm hallway windows. Maybe because you’re both alone, tucked against the brick wall behind the theater building where she likes to sneak cigarettes she never actually smokes. Maybe because this time, when she says it — “Hey… I love you, like. Actually. I think I’ve loved you for a while now” — there’s no laughter after. No shift in topic. Just Megan. Barefaced. Hopeful. Scared.

And maybe it’s your own heart that stirs something into courage this time. Because this is Megan — loud, ridiculous, always tripping over her shoelaces and interrupting her own sentences — but she’s also the girl who listens when you whisper, who waits when you freeze, who’s confessed five times without ever asking you to be ready before you are.

So you look at her — really look — and the panic in her eyes flickers into something stunned when you say it back. Soft, sure. “I love you too.”

And God help Megan. She squeaks. Actually squeaks. Then lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a battle cry and a dying dolphin as she launches at you with all limbs and teeth and joy. “I KNEW IT,” she half-yells, half-sobs into your neck, covering your face in kisses like she’s trying to stamp it with proof. You laugh — for real, full-bodied — and wrap your arms around her like you’re anchoring her to the earth. She smells like vanilla hand cream and something citrusy, and she’s muttering “I love you I love you I love you” into your jaw between each kiss, like the words have waited too long to be quiet now.

Later, curled together on your twin bed that suddenly doesn’t feel too small anymore, she traces patterns into your arm and whispers, “You really heard me every time?” And you nod, cheeks warm. “Every single time.” She makes a dramatic wounded sound and tugs the blanket over her head. “You menace,” she groans. But she’s smiling — you can feel it in the way she squeezes your waist — and for the first time, you don’t feel scared at all. Just hers.

A/N:okay wait—this is not a fic fic 😭 just a tiny oneshot i wanted (tried??) to write. just a quick little thing that made me smile 🧸💭pls take this crumb and pretend i’m being productive <3 the annyeongz birthday fics are coming i promise!! but for now, enjoy this soft nothingness. Also,ignore the fact that i put this at end beacuse it was ruining the aesthetics 😭

[douceenvie]

pleaseee part 2 🥺 i can’t live without the resolution to this https://www.tumblr.com/douceenvie/790706894564196352/ahhh-karina-would-be-such-a-sweet-and-loving

ᝰ.ᐟ ꒰ karina x fem!reader ꒱

-ˋˏ ✄ ━━━━━ warnings: none <3 ,just karina trying to ear your trust back,one step at a time 🦭

at first, she doesn’t even try to touch you. not even your hand. instead, she starts with things you can say no to easily. a cup of water left by your nightstand. your favorite blanket already on the couch when she knows you're cold. soft “i’ll be in the kitchen if you want me” instead of hovering too close. it’s like she’s relearning how to love you without taking.

one night, a few days later, you sit beside her on the couch. not too close. but closer than before. she doesn’t move. doesn’t breathe too loud. just glances at you and whispers, “can i hold your hand?” you nod. and when she touches you, it’s like she’s terrified to do it wrong again. her fingers are gentle. hesitant. like she’s waiting for you to flinch. when you don’t—when you squeeze back—her eyes go glassy, but she doesn’t let the tears fall. she just brings your hand to her lips and kisses your knuckles.

the first kiss doesn’t happen until you lean into her shoulder, quiet and shy, and whisper: “you can kiss me if you want.” Karina blinks, stunned. “are you sure?” you nod. and she moves slow. so slow it aches. her lips barely brush yours. soft. reverent. like she’s the one being forgiven by god.and when you let out the tiniest breath of relief against her mouth? her arms wrap around you — not tight, but steady. like she’s there. like she’s staying.

when you finally feel safe enough to touch again — to want her again — she nearly breaks down. you pull her close one night and say, “i missed you.” and her voice cracks when she says: “i missed you too. but i’d have waited forever.” she learns how to ask. “is this okay?” “do you want me to stop?” “color check?” every step of the way.

because she’s not afraid of messing up — not anymore. she’s afraid of not listening. of not protecting you the way you trusted her to. but now? she’s here. listening. learning. because loving you gently is the only way she ever wants to love again.

[douceenvie]

G!p Dani trying to play off like she’s just hugging you from behind but she’s really grinding against you and ends up finishing in her pants because she got too into it

ᝰ.ᐟ ꒰ g!p daniela x fem!reader ꒱

-ˋˏ ✄ ━━━━━ warnings: clothed grinding, dry humping, cock bulge, desperate rutting, humping

it starts so sweet. you’re in the kitchen, halfway through making coffee, when she comes up behind you. arms slipping around your waist. chin on your shoulder. slow, lazy kiss to the side of your neck. “hi,” she murmurs, voice low and warm. “hi,” you hum, leaning back into her. and she just stands there for a while. pressed up against your back. breathing you in. holding you like she missed you.

but then— her hips start to shift. just a little at first. barely-there rocks of her pelvis against your ass. soft enough to pretend it’s innocent. but you feel it. you feel her cock hard, straining against her sweats. feel the way she adjusts her grip on your waist, pulling you tighter, aligning herself just right. “Dani…” you say it like a warning. and she just grins. “what?” kiss to your jaw. “i’m just hugging you.” but her hips keep moving. “hugging me with your cock?”

“can’t help it.” she presses in harder. “you’re warm. you’re mine. you feel so fuckin’ good like this, baby.” and now she’s fully grinding. soft, desperate little thrusts against your backside, cock stiff and trapped and aching in her pants. you glance down. her sweats are tented, damp at the tip. “are you seriously getting off from this?” you laugh, a little breathless. she groans—low, needy—and buries her face in your neck. “fuck—yeah, I am—just need a little more—please just let me—” her voice breaks. and then it happens.

she ruts in once, twice—hips jerking, breath hitching— and suddenly she freezes. “oh my god.” her whole body shudders. “fuck—baby, I’m—I’m coming—” you gasp. feel the heat against your back. watch the wet stain bloom through her sweats as her cock pulses, twitching uncontrollably, soaking her waistband. and she just moans, desperate and broken, holding onto you like she’s falling apart.“i didn’t mean to—i just—i needed you so bad—”

and now she’s panting. red in the face. cock still hard and leaking through the fabric. completely ruined. you turn your head slowly. “…you came in your pants?” “…yes.” “from grinding on me like a dog?” she nods. shameless. “only for you.”

[douceenvie]

G!p Megan being insecure about your guys’ first time together because she thinks she didn’t do a good job(but she did)

ᝰ.ᐟ ꒰ g!p megan x fem!reader ꒱

-ˋˏ ✄ ━━━━━ warnings: first-time sex, soft dom!megan, post-sex insecurity, reassurance, emotional vulnerability, praise

it’s not how you expect it to go. not with the way she was teasing you before—smirking, flexing, acting like she was gonna ruin you. but once you're both actually naked? once you're holding her face and whispering, “i want you, megan,” and guiding her in, soft and slow and warm? she gets quiet. like… really quiet.

her breath hitches when she slides inside. her eyes flutter shut like she’s feeling too much. and she keeps asking, so quietly: “this okay? does it feel okay?” every few seconds. and you keep nodding. moaning. kissing her jaw. telling her she’s doing perfect.

but afterward—when you’re lying there in the dark, her arm around your waist and her skin still damp with sweat— she’s so still. so tense. you turn your head. “what’s wrong?” and she goes, after a pause: “…was i… okay?” you blink. “you were amazing.” but she just bites her lip and avoids your eyes.

“i just… i don’t know. you were really quiet near the end and i thought—i thought maybe you didn’t finish? or maybe i wasn’t doing it right, or it didn’t feel good, or—” her voice cracks. “—i really wanted it to be good for you.” and your heart shatters. because she’s not being dramatic. she’s genuinely upset. she thinks she failed you. and you can see how hard she’s being on herself—see it in the furrow of her brow, the curve of her mouth, the way she’s still holding you like she’s afraid you’ll pull away.

so you reach for her hand. place it over your chest. and whisper: “it was more than good. it was you. that’s all i’ve ever wanted.” and then her eyes get all shiny and she kisses you like she needs to. like she’s trying to say thank you without words. like you just gave her her whole heart back. and next time? she makes sure you’re moaning the whole time. just to shut up the voice in her head that ever doubted it.

[douceenvie]

G!p Daniela letting you use her like she’s a toy made only for your pleasure

ᝰ.ᐟ ꒰ g!p daniela x fem!reader ꒱

-ˋˏ ✄ ━━━━━ warnings: dominant reader, submissive daniela, cock worship, riding, begging, orgasm control, overstimulation, praise + light degradation

she’s always so composed. walks like a soldier. talks like a CEO. always neat, always calculated, always that voice—low and cool and dangerous. but the second you pin her to the bed and slide your thigh between hers? the second you tug her belt loose with your teeth and whisper “mine.”? she fucking folds. she doesn’t even blink when you straddle her, doesn’t breathe when you tug her pants down and expose that flushed, aching cock twitching against her stomach like it’s begging for attention.

you spit in your palm, wrap your hand around it, and she whines. actual noise. pretty and pathetic, breath caught in her throat, cheeks pink already. “please…” she says, voice so strained it sounds like it hurts. “let me—can I—” “no.” your voice is calm, lazy. “you don’t move. don’t touch me. don’t cum until I say.” and she nods, frantic, like she lives to obey.

you ride her like it’s your goddamn right. you sink down slow, feel every inch stretch you open, and she gasps so hard it sounds like her soul left her body. her fingers curl into the sheets. her thighs tremble. she’s already sweating. you grind. slow at first. deep. dragging her cock against your walls until she��s whimpering like she’s in pain. “f-fuck, baby—feels too good—” and you smirk. lean forward. press your lips to her ear. “i’m not here to make you feel good. you’re just here to get me off.” and she moans. like a slut. cock twitching helplessly inside you.

she keeps trying not to move. keeps mouthing your name like a prayer. keeps begging under her breath. “please let me cum. please. please. it hurts.” but you don’t let her. you use her. grind your hips until your legs shake, fuck yourself stupid on her cock while she stares up at you like you’re a god and she’s blessed just to be under you. when you finally say “cum for me,” she nearly sobs. her body jerks. her mouth falls open. she cums hard, hips twitching, cock pulsing inside you, and still tries not to move — still keeps her hands fisted in the sheets because she doesn’t want to disobey. she cums for you. because you let her.

after, she can barely speak. still hard, still twitching, still leaking. and she looks up at you—eyes glassy, hair stuck to her forehead, voice wrecked— and whispers, “did… did I do good? did I make you feel good?” like that’s all that matters. you lean down. kiss her neck. stroke her pretty, overstimmed cock between your fingers again, slow and mean. “you were perfect, baby. now shut up. i’m not done with you yet.” and she smiles. because being your toy? is the best thing she’s ever been.

[douceenvie]

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSSf99vnF/

Bro i want them👅😈

Not a single appropriate thought in my head #NEEDTHAT💔

[douceenvie]

please dont share ai generated photos of aespa🙏

Okay, man,i apologise🙏🏼i LIKED the idea. That's why i shared it, sozzz, i will delete them if you guys want, but i don't think so, it's harming anyone👆🏼

[douceenvie]

okay so listen. i saw these photos and something in my brain short-circuited. like. aespa? in racing suits?? the helmets?? the attitude?? and obviously my first thought was “what if they were f1 drivers and also my enemies but also maybe my soulmates actually” so yeah. here we are. these are just short, silly headcanons because my mind wouldn't shut up until i wrote them down. not planning to turn this into a fic unless uhhhmmmmm unless... 👀 anyway. this is me projecting enemies-to-lovers tension onto aespa in a high-stakes motorsport setting because why not?enjoy the chaos <3

ps. no i don’t know how racing works and that is NOT going to stop me.(these pics are not mine)

🐋 Karina – The Machine You Can’t Read

She carries herself like the race is already won before she even steps on the track. Composed. Efficient. All sharp lines and sharp words, especially when directed at you.

She never looks at you unless she’s overtaking. That’s how you noticed it—the way her gaze lingers half a second too long when she slips past your car, as if checking if you’re watching her too.

In interviews, she calls you “competitive,” but the curve in her mouth betrays something more. You wonder if she likes the push-and-pull as much as you do.

The paddock whispers call her “cold,” but you once caught her pausing by your garage after a near-crash, lingering like she wanted to say something.

When she finally does? It’s quiet, direct. “I don’t hate you. I just don’t know what to do with how much I notice you.”

🐶 Winter – The Rival Who Hits Too Close

With her messy hair shoved under her helmet and the smallest smirk always tugging at her lip, Winter races like she has a personal score to settle with the world. And somehow, you're the one who gets the brunt of it.

You’ve fought on the track more times than you can count—brake checks, late lunges, elbows out. But it’s what happens after the race that haunts you.

She finds you in the garage. Wipes her sweat with the sleeve of her suit. Throws a water bottle your way like it’s a peace offering.

“You drive like you’re scared to lose,” she says one day. You snap back, “And you drive like you're trying to prove something.” She pauses. “Yeah. Maybe to you.”

She never says sorry. But when you crash in the rain, she’s the first one at the medical tent—shoulders heaving like she’s the one who spun out.

🦋 Ningning – The Spark You Can’t Shake

Ningning always makes an entrance—helmet tucked under her arm, gold-tinted visor glinting in the sun, grin that dares you to keep up. You pretend not to look. You always look.

She waves at the crowd. Blows kisses to the camera. Posts captions like “P2 but always No.1 in your head <3”—tagging you. Of course.

Everyone thinks it’s banter. You know better. You know the softness behind her eyes when she finds you alone in the pit lane after hours.

“I don’t flirt with just anyone,” she tells you once, too casually. And then, quieter, “But with you… it’s not just flirting, is it?”

She’s fire and flash and chaos, but when she holds your hand after a night race—just for a moment—it’s grounding. Real. Dangerous in a different way.

🦄 Giselle – The Quiet Problem Solver

Giselle isn’t the loudest or the fastest, but she’s always there—in your mirrors, in your telemetry, in your head. She learns you like you’re a puzzle she’s determined to solve.

She never trash-talks. Never gloats. Just raises an eyebrow when you cut her off on track, like she’s already planning her next move.

You started out underestimating her. Now you can’t stop wondering what she’s thinking when she watches you during meetings.

There’s a moment, one night, when you both stay late reviewing footage. Silence stretches between you until she speaks softly, without looking up: “I notice your weaknesses because I watch you too much. That’s not professional, is it?”

She never confesses. She just shows up—every time you crash, every time you break, every time you win—like she never left your corner.

[douceenvie]

Hear me out… truth or dare with shy and inexperienced reader and popular girls aespa and a winter who’s very keen on getting a taste of readers ass

Pairing: aespa ot4 x shy!fem!reader

CW: oral , light coercion, exhibitionism, power imbalance, manipulation, baby sub!reader

i just think. you were the awkward, sweet little thing they invited to hang out “just for fun” — and suddenly you’re at aespa’s dorm, sitting on the floor with your knees tucked under you, surrounded by four of the hottest, meanest, most predatory popular girls on campus.

and of course it's truth or dare, because of course it is. and they’re already tipsy. and you’re already squirming. and they love it.

Karina, the leader the one who acts the most composed but is secretly the worst one. she chooses “truth” first just to lull you into a false sense of safety. asks “who here do you think would fuck you the best?” like it’s casual. smiles when you choke on your answer. and when it’s her turn again? she dares you to take your shirt off. not in a cruel way — no, she’s sweet about it. smiling. murmuring “don’t be shy, baby. we’re just playing.” but her eyes are eating you alive. she doesn’t even touch you yet. she’s just watching. slow. plotting. waiting for you to crack.

Ningning loud, flirty, bratty little chaos engine. definitely the one who escalates everything by saying “i dare you to sit on Karina’s lap for five minutes — and if you squirm, you lose.” she laughs when you do. calls you “cute” and “pathetic” in the same breath. keeps whispering shit like “your nipples are hard. is that from the game or from unnie’s thigh?” also 100% the one who records everything under the guise of “memories.” she doesn’t even pretend to be subtle — she wants to see you crumble. wants you whining and wet and overwhelmed so she can sit back and say “you were never that innocent, were you?”

Giselle lazy, low-voiced menace who pretends to be chill but is actually deranged. she doesn’t even say much. just leans back and watches you with her head tilted, biting her lip while the others tease you. when it’s her turn, she doesn’t ask. she commands. “strip to your panties and sit on the table. you’re the center of attention now.” and when you hesitate? she raises an eyebrow like you’re disappointing her. and of course you do it. you’d do anything to keep her looking at you like that.

Winter the quiet one… at first. she doesn’t talk much during the first few rounds. just sips her drink, eyes glued to you. unreadable. but then someone asks her truth or dare and she says “dare.” and without skipping a beat, Ningning goes, “i dare you to make Y/N cum without using your hands.” AND SHE DOES. like it’s easy. like she’s been waiting. lays you out on the carpet, pushes your thighs apart with her shoulders, and eats you out like she owns you. like she’s starving. and when you’re gasping, legs trembling, whimpering her name — she still doesn’t stop. and then later, when it’s almost over, when you’re flushed and dazed and can barely sit upright, she whispers in your ear: “next time, i’m eating your ass.” like it’s a promise. like she means it. and you just nod. because what else can you do?

you came over to play a game. you ended up in your panties on aespa’s rug, legs shaking, the center of a storm. and the worst part? you’d do it again.

[douceenvie]

winter would be an absolute nervous wreck during her first time

Pairing: winter (minjeong) x fem!reader

CW: first time.

minjeong trying so hard to keep it together. trying to be chill, calm, “i’ve done this before” coded. but it's her first time and she’s so nervous.

she kisses you like she’s trying to memorize it — slow, careful, so focused — and you can feel how tense she is. like her whole body’s buzzing under your hands. she keeps checking in with little whispered “is this okay?” and “do you want me to stop?” even though you’re already half-naked and pulling her closer. she hesitates before touching you anywhere intimate. literally stops and just stares at your chest for a second with the most adorably overwhelmed look on her face before stammering, “you’re… really pretty. like. distracting pretty.” SHE’S SO SCARED.

and then when you touch her? when your hand dips beneath her waistband? she makes the softest, most helpless sound and physically freezes. like just sits there, mouth parted, wide eyes, no thoughts. “baby,” you whisper. “do you want me to stop?” and she goes “no. no—please don’t stop. i just… i think i might die.”

SHE’S NOT COOL ANYMORE. SHE’S RED-FACED AND SWEATING AND MAKING LITTLE WHIMPERS AND HER HANDS ARE SHAKING WHILE SHE TRIES TO TOUCH YOU BACK. and when she finally makes you cum? she just stares. in awe. “did i… do that?” YES, MINJEONG. YOU DID. YOU DID SO GOOD.

and she gets this dumb little proud smile while you’re still shaking and she’s kissing your cheek like “i made you feel good… i actually made you feel good…” like she’s shocked. like she didn’t just make you cum so hard you forgot your name. i’m going to cry. she’s so shy. and so gentle. and so in love.

[douceenvie]

hi sorry!! i love ur fics bby!! maybe some scissoring with yunjin after she’s frustrated from practice because it didn’t go so well and takes it out on you… 😘

Hey, your fics are amazing too,love.

Pairing: yunjin x fem!reader

CW: scissoring, rough sex, rage sex.

she’s been snapping all day. hair tied up, sweat glistening on her collarbones, tank top clinging to her back. every time something goes wrong she huffs and clenches her jaw and resets the count like it’s war. and you're just watching quietly, trying not to say the wrong thing, but then you do.

maybe it’s small. maybe you say “you’re being a little hard on yourself” or “it’s just practice.” and suddenly her eyes are on you. burning. “if you’re gonna stand there and be useless, at least lie down and make it worth my time.”

so now you're on the floor of the practice room, tights pushed down to your knees, legs tangled with hers — and she’s grinding against you like she’s trying to exorcise a demon. yunjin moaning through gritted teeth, still pissed, still perfect. her nails clawing your hips as she ruts against you, fast and angry. “this what you wanted, huh? to be a distraction? to get fucked stupid while i’m trying to focus?”

and you’re trying to keep up but she’s so deep against you, thighs slapping, clits sliding, the friction devastating. your name falls from her mouth like a curse. your moans echo off the mirrors. she doesn’t even slow down when you cry out — just presses harder, faster, until your thighs are twitching and your voice is gone.

she cums like she’s furious about it. you cum because she lets you. and after? she doesn’t even say anything. just grabs a towel, wipes her sweat, throws you your hoodie, and mumbles “we’re not done practicing.”

😵‍💫 okay, boss.

[douceenvie]

Could you make an idol reader with Minji, making the reader ride on your fingers? I'm going crazy

Pairing: minji x idol!fem reader

CW: semi-public, fingering, mirror play.

no but imagine being an idol too. same group, different vibe. you're flirty, a little reckless. she’s calm, quiet, in control. and you’re so mean onstage but such a whimpering mess when she gets her hands on you.

so picture this: after a comeback stage, you’re still glowing from the lights, sweat glistening down your spine, and she corners you in the dressing room. sits down. spreads her legs. pats her thigh. “c’mere.” like she owns you. like she always has. you’re still in full stage makeup. lashes fluttering. lips bitten raw. thighs trembling as you straddle her. and she just slides her fingers in like you’ve done this a thousand times. “ride it.” she says, so casual it makes your stomach twist. “you looked so good out there. now be a good girl and show me how much you want it.”

her thumb pressed to your clit while you grind down on her knuckles. her mouth close to your ear, whispering filth like “so wet already? what, did the cameras turn you on?” her hand grabbing your jaw, making you look at yourself in the vanity mirror while you bounce on her fingers with your nails digging into her shoulders

and when you start whining, begging for more, she just clicks her tongue. “what’s wrong, pretty thing? you perform so well for the fans. why are you so shy now?” you cum like that. ruined, mascara-smudged, crying on her hand with your stage mic still clipped to your top. and she just kisses your temple, smug and calm, like this was all just rehearsal.

[douceenvie]

ahhh karina would be such a sweet and loving girlfriend 😭 what if she actually hurts you by accident? and you keep flinching away from her or subconsciously get scared as a result?

ᝰ.ᐟ ꒰ karina x fem!reader ꒱

-ˋˏ ✄ ━━━━━ warnings: safeword violation, non-consensual, angst, soft hurt/comfort

no because what if karina — soft, warm, gentle karina — accidentally hurts you. not in a cute ouchie way. not in a "you like it rough, don’t you?" way. but in a real way.

like maybe you were already having a bad night. overstimmed. edging into panic. and she didn’t notice. or maybe she did but thought it was part of the scene. the crying. the squirming. the way you said “no” with shaking legs and a breathless whine that sounded too much like begging. you said your safeword. she didn’t stop.

she thought you were just being dramatic. she thought you were playing. she thought you were fine. until you weren’t. until she saw your face. until your voice broke. until she realized too late — too fucking late — that your safe had turned into danger, and she hadn’t seen the line until she was standing over it. and now? now you won’t let her touch you. not the same way. not with trust.

you flinch when she walks too close. you shrink when she raises her hand to tuck your hair. you’re quieter. gentler. like you're scared of her. and it destroys her.

karina sleeping on the couch even though you never asked her to. karina crying in the shower with her hand over her mouth so you don’t hear. karina whispering “i'm sorry, baby. i’m so sorry, i didn’t mean—i thought you—please look at me—” but you can’t

and she doesn’t even try to touch you anymore. not without asking. not without waiting for a yes three times over. she just... exists near you. careful. small. like she’s trying to prove she’s not dangerous. because she loves you. and she fucked up.

and now her punishment is watching you flinch every time she reaches for the same body she once worshipped. and she’d rather never touch you again than make you feel unsafe.

[douceenvie]

i need mean dom hoseok, i NEED him making me cry

Pairing: j-hope (jung hoseok) x fem!sub!reader

CW: dom!hoseok, degradation, orgasm denial, crying kink, rough fingering, rough sex, bondage, overstimulation, humiliation

You’ve been grinding on his thigh for ages, arms tied behind your back, cheeks soaked, legs trembling, and still—he hasn’t let you cum. Not once. You’re a mess. Mouth open, panting, trying so hard to chase it, to be good, to make him proud. But he just watches. Lazy. Detached. His arms crossed over his chest, head tilted, like you’re nothing but a toy winding itself up in front of him.

"Still trying?" he murmurs, voice smooth, bored, cruel. “God, you're pathetic.” You sob. You don’t want to be pathetic. You want to be good. You want to cum. You want to be held. You want anything from him — praise, affection, even another insult, as long as it means he’s seeing you.

Your body jerks, thighs burning, your cunt soaked and pulsing and swollen. But the friction isn’t enough anymore. It just hurts. And the ache between your legs feels mean. Feels like punishment. “Please,” you whisper, voice all broken and high and shaky. “Please, Hobi, I can't—please let me—” He exhales through his nose. Stares at you like he’s disappointed.

“You’re crying?” he says, almost amused. He leans forward, cups your cheek, wipes the tears away with his thumb like he's being gentle. Like he’s not the reason you're falling apart. “You think tears are gonna make me nicer?” he asks, smirking. “You think I’ll let you cum just because you’re cute when you beg?” You nod. Desperate. It’s humiliating. He laughs. Soft. Cruel.

“That's so fucking sad, baby,” he breathes, leaning in close. “You’re just a dumb little thing, aren’t you? So needy. So easy to break.” And then — finally — he moves. Grabs you by the waist and shoves you back onto the bed, unties your arms, pushes your legs open without warning. You gasp, already crying harder, hips jerking up like you’re begging for it without words. He doesn't waste time. Pushes two fingers inside you, fast, rough, curling deep as he looms over you, watching every twitch. You sob out his name, tears streaking down your cheeks.

“Oh, now you’re loud?” he mutters. “Should’ve made you cry earlier.” He fucks you with his fingers like he’s mad — fast, cruel, unforgiving — his thumb rubbing sharp circles over your clit until your whole body seizes up, thighs clamping around his wrist, chest heaving. And just when you’re right there — on the edge, finally about to cum— He stops.

You scream. Break down. Legs kicking weakly, sobs wracking your whole body as you stare up at him in disbelief. “Shhh,” he says mockingly. “You’ll cum when I say.” “Hoseok—please—” you’re full-on crying now, blabbering, incoherent. “Please, I’m—I need it, I need you—please—” He groans.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you cry,” he mutters. “Alright. I’ll give it to you.” And then he’s inside you. No warning. Just pushes in — deep, rough, splitting you open, grabbing your throat as your back arches off the sheets. “You wanna cum?” he growls, fucking into you hard, snapping his hips with cruel precision. “Then fucking take it. Come apart for me. Cry for me.” You do. God, you do. You cum so hard it nearly hurts, body locking up, tears pouring down your face as you sob his name over and over like a prayer. And he doesn’t stop. Keeps going, keeps ruining you, letting you feel every inch, every thrust, until you’re twitching, limp, raw.

When he finally stops, you’re shaking. He pulls out, wipes the tears off your cheeks, kisses your temple once. Then slaps your thigh gently. “You’ll be good next time, yeah?” You nod, barely conscious. He smiles. “Good girl.”

[douceenvie]

─── 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆— 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏 ──

❝ 𝓎ℴ𝓊 𝒹𝒾𝒹𝓃'𝓉 𝓀𝒾𝓈𝓈 𝓂ℯ — 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓎ℴ𝓊 𝓇𝓊𝒾𝓃ℯ𝒹 𝓂ℯ 𝒶𝓃𝓎𝓌𝒶𝓎❞

THE GIRL WHO NEVER SAID YES

જ⁀➴ Pairing : Jang Wonyoung × fem!reader

જ⁀➴ Genre : strip club AU · CEO x stripper · power imbalance · smut

જ⁀➴ Length : ~6.6k words

જ⁀➴ Warnings : g!p wonyoung · explicit smut · restraints · spanking · facefucking · nipple torture · anal · overstimulation · creampie · cumplay · cockwarming · crying · dubcon · brutal degradation · no aftercare

✎ Summary: You were the girl who never said yes — not to the men who watched, not to the ones who begged, not to the ones who offered too much. But she didn’t ask. The infamous CEO didn’t need words. Just an envelope. A stare. A command. And when she took you, she didn’t speak. She didn’t kiss. She didn’t stop. You swore it was just once. But your body still remembers the way she split you open and left you shaking in silk sheets, ruined and wet and worthless. You weren’t the girl who never said yes anymore. You were just the one who couldn’t forget.

A/N: as i previously warned—i spiraled into absolute horniness writing this. if it’s not your thing, don’t read it. literally no plot. just filth. pure, unfiltered, probably-should-be-illegal smut. idk where the storyline ran off to, but it left me in the dust with nothing but sweaty thoughts and cold bitch wonyoung (iykyk). i was supposed to post this on girl's birthday but... yeah. BUT dw—you will be fed on her birthday too. consider this a warm-up (a very inappropriate one). so anyway. sorry in advance. or maybe you’re welcome? idk. hehe. enjoy the mess. 😌🖤

There were rules you kept like religion.

Not just habits. Not preferences. Rules. Etched into your bones the way ink settles into skin — permanent, sacred, not up for negotiation.

No touching without consent.

No giving out your real name.

And never — under any circumstances — say yes to a patron, no matter how pretty their smile or how heavy their wallet.

The club was velvet and perfume and smoke. It was a womb of shadows and want, the air saturated with low lights and lower expectations. The bass didn’t just pulse — it throbbed like a second heartbeat. Champagne flowed like water, served in long-stemmed flutes with gold rims and false promises. Men came here to forget. To unmake themselves in the haze of expensive cologne, slipping off the weight of their names and titles like ill-fitting suits.

And women like you?

You didn’t forget.

You survived.

You existed on a diet of detachment and discipline, your body a performance and your soul locked behind a one-way mirror. You learned how to make them ache without giving them anything real. The art of illusion was your craft — how to smile like you meant it, how to move like a dream just out of reach. You danced on that stage like you belonged to it, like the music came from inside you, and you walked away before anyone could get close enough to remember your scent.

You didn’t do private rooms. You didn’t do backseats. You didn’t get bought.

And because of that, you became something of a legend in the club. A myth in stilettos. A whispered warning.

The girl who never said yes.

They all tried — the ones with diamond cufflinks, the ones who smelled like old money and expensive failure. They offered you rent money, cars, even condos in Gangnam. One man said he’d tattoo your name on his chest if you just let him touch your ankle.

You smiled.

And left him with a nosebleed.

You had bills, yes. Debt like everyone else. The kind of obligations that scratched at the back of your mind when the music stopped and the lights came up. But your dignity had a number. A high one. One that hadn’t been reached yet.

And then —

She arrived.

Not entered. Not walked in.

Arrived.

Like smoke under a door. Like a chill in a room that had been warm seconds ago. There was no announcement. No bouncer’s nod. No flash of paparazzi. But the atmosphere shifted the moment she crossed the threshold — like gravity reoriented around her, like the club had been tilted slightly in her direction.

She was tall — strikingly so — every inch of her wrapped in tailored black. A wool coat hung from her shoulders like it had been cut to fit no one else. Her heels clicked sharp and precise against the lacquered floor, each step a statement. Her hair was pulled into a sleek low ponytail, parted clean down the middle, and it moved like silk when she turned her head. Her mouth was painted in a red so deep it bordered on cruel.

She didn’t look around. She didn’t smile. She didn’t bother pretending to be impressed.

She took a seat in the far back corner booth, the one half-shrouded in shadow, and crossed one leg over the other slowly, deliberately — like she wasn’t just getting comfortable. Like she was settling in to watch something die.

You recognized her before your brain could catch up.

Jang Wonyoung.

The name alone carried weight. But the woman? She was myth turned flesh. CEO of Jang Corporations. Multi-billionaire. One of the youngest and most powerful women in the city — and certainly the coldest. There were no scandals, no flings, no rumors to cling to. She lived like a blade in a glass case: sharp, beautiful, untouchable. No entourage. No weaknesses. No mistakes.

She was the kind of woman who didn’t fuck.

She conquered.

And if she didn’t like what she tasted, she’d spit you out before you even hit the floor.

You knew the stories — boardroom massacres, takeovers signed in blood, men twice her age crumbling under her stare. But nothing had prepared you for what it felt like to be seen by her.

Because that’s what she did.

She didn’t look at the stage.

She looked at you.

And not like a man would — not with hunger or heat. It was colder than that. Cleaner. Her gaze didn’t linger. It evaluated. Like she was assessing your lines, your posture, your timing. Like you were a piece of machinery she was deciding whether to invest in.

It wasn’t desire.

It was acquisition.

You danced anyway. Because that’s what you were paid to do. That’s what the rules said.

You rolled your hips, stretched your legs, twisted around the pole with practiced grace. Not too eager. Not too distant. You let the music guide your rhythm, every motion fluid, every smile perfectly measured. But underneath the choreography, your skin burned.

You felt her watching. Not just your body, but your walls. The scaffolding you’d built around your soul to survive this place — she was inspecting it, looking for cracks.

You dipped low, one heel to the ceiling, spine arching like a bow, and glanced toward her through your lashes. She hadn’t moved.

Same position. Same face.

Emotionless. Immaculate. Still as a painting.

Your set ended. You gathered your robe around your shoulders and stepped off the stage without looking again. You didn’t run, but your pulse betrayed you. A drumbeat against your ribs. Your hands buzzed with something you didn’t have a name for �� not fear, not heat, but something colder. Something deeper.

She hadn’t tipped.

Hadn’t spoken.

Hadn’t moved.

And yet you felt flayed open. Like she had reached inside you and pulled something free — something you thought you’d buried long ago.

You moved through the staff corridor, heart in your throat, past the mirrored walls and private rooms. You wanted a shower. A cigarette. Silence.

But just as you reached the exit to the dressing rooms, a man stepped into your path.

He was young. Clean-shaven. Wore his suit like it had been tailored to his bloodline. No cologne, no coldblooded charm — just presence.

“Miss Jang sent me,” he said, voice low, careful, like he was afraid the walls might overhear.

You stared. Unblinking. Unsure whether to laugh or slap him.

“She would like your company tonight.”

The sentence sat between you like a loaded gun.

Your voice came out sharper than expected. “I don’t do that.”

He nodded once. “She knows.”

Then, without preamble, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a single white envelope. Thick. Unmarked. Clean as untouched snow.

He didn’t explain. Didn’t threaten. Just handed it to you like it was a formality. Then turned and disappeared behind the curtain without another word, vanishing like fog.

You looked down at the envelope in your hands.

It was heavier than it should’ve been. Not just in weight, but in meaning. Your fingers were suddenly clumsy. Slippery with sweat. You peeled it open, breath shallow — and froze.

Cash. Stacks of it. Thick and neat. Crisp bills bound in paper bands, each one tighter than your chest. And tucked in the middle, like a secret, was a single white card.

No name. No contact.

Just one line.

Printed in black serif font, centered with almost surgical precision:

This should cover the year.

Your lungs forgot how to move.

You stared at the card. Then the envelope. Then the hallway where the man had vanished.

This wasn’t a request.

It wasn’t a proposition.

It was a declaration.

A line in the sand, drawn in silk gloves and blood-red lipstick.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even hesitate.

---

The ride to her penthouse was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of silence that felt intentional. Weighted. Like a test you hadn’t studied for.

Like being seated in the front row of a trial you didn’t realize you were on the stand for.

The car was all black leather and shadow, cocooned in luxury so refined it felt almost clinical. The seats were smooth beneath your thighs, soft in that impossibly expensive way, and the windows were tinted so dark you couldn't even see your own reflection. The scent inside was subtle — sandalwood, mostly, with a colder, sharper edge beneath it. Not quite cologne. Not quite perfume. Something that smelled like power. Like unspoken rules. Like control.

You sat stiffly, knees pressed together, back straight without meaning to.

Your hands folded in your lap like you’d been summoned by the headmistress, not invited by one of the richest women in the country.

Your dress barely reached mid-thigh. Your heels were still on. Your lip gloss was smudged just slightly, catching faint light from the car’s overheads. But none of it felt sexy now. Not here. Not next to her.

Because she hadn’t looked at you. Not even once.

Wonyoung sat across from you, legs crossed, hands resting with quiet elegance on her thighs. Her posture was immaculate, like her spine had been cast in porcelain. Her coat remained on, her eyes locked on the dark blur of the passing city outside the window. If she noticed your presence, she gave no sign of it.

No glance. No small talk. No smirk.

Nothing.

And somehow, that was worse than being touched.

You'd danced for strangers. You’d felt their eyes crawl all over you — desperate, hungry, shameless. You’d smiled while they whispered filthy things, while they shoved cash into your straps and offered you things you never intended to take. You could handle lust. You could handle attention.

But this wasn’t that.

This was absence.

Like she didn’t need to look to make you squirm.

Like she already owned you, and didn’t have to prove it.

You tried to say something. Once. Twice. You opened your mouth and started to speak — a question, maybe, or just a breath — but it died somewhere in your throat. The words didn’t make it past your lips.

Because this wasn’t a conversation.

It was a consequence.

And she had already spoken the moment she sent that envelope.

You said yes.

That was all she needed.

___

The elevator ride was even quieter.

She stood behind you this time. Close enough that her presence curled against the back of your neck like heat off a flame, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t touch. Just watched, you thought. And that was enough to make every inch of skin on your back buzz with anticipation — or fear. Maybe both.

You didn’t turn around. Not until the doors slid open.

Her penthouse was… glass. That was your first impression.

So much of it. Windows stretching from floor to ceiling, walls of it, shining and flawless, offering a panoramic view of the city below. Seoul glittered beneath you — cold, distant stars of concrete and neon — but the room itself was colder.

The furniture was sparse. Modern. All clean whites and polished grays, accented in chrome. Not a single pillow out of place. No clutter. No books. No photographs. Not even a rug to soften the gleam of the marble floors. The whole place felt untouched, unlived in — like she’d never sat on that couch, never curled up under a blanket, never laughed here.

Even the air was still.

You stepped in like you were trespassing.

She didn’t tell you to sit. Didn’t offer you a drink. She just walked ahead, unhurried, and shrugged off her coat with a practiced flick of her shoulders. It landed on the back of a leather armchair without her needing to look.

You hesitated. One foot in the doorway. Every instinct told you to retreat.

But when she turned to face you — just stood there, expression unreadable, watching — something inside you shifted.

It wasn’t a command.

Not technically.

But you moved.

Your heels tapped quietly across the marble as you closed the distance. One step, then another, drawn forward like gravity had changed again — tilting everything toward her.

She watched you the entire time.

Not like a man might. Not with lust, or hunger, or admiration.

She looked at you like you were something breakable she hadn’t decided whether to keep or crush.

You stopped a few feet away, breath shallow, skin prickling with the awareness that you weren’t on stage anymore.

There was no spotlight here.

No fourth wall.

You were alone. With her. And whatever version of yourself you were about to become.

Your eyes flicked upward. Met hers.

Jang Wonyoung, up close, was terrifying. Beautiful, yes — almost unreasonably so. Her cheekbones caught the light like sculpted marble, her lashes long and deliberate, her mouth sharp even in stillness. But none of that was what made your stomach twist.

It was her stillness.

Her silence.

Her eyes.

She didn’t look amused. Or curious. Or aroused.

She looked in control.

And then she spoke.

“Strip.”

Her voice was low. Clipped. Not breathy. Not warm. Just a sound that existed only to be obeyed.

You froze.

For one second, everything inside you rebelled. Reflexively.

You didn’t do this. You didn’t say yes to strangers. You didn’t remove your clothes without a contract, without a pole, without a stage.

This was the moment you could’ve walked away.

Could’ve kept your pride, your armor, your name.

But instead —

Your hands moved.

The dress slipped off your shoulders like it had been waiting to fall. One strap. Then the other. The fabric gathered around your waist, then slid to the floor in a soft whisper, pooling around your heels like surrender.

You were left in your thong and stilettos. Nothing else.

No bra. No perfume. No persona to hide behind.

You reached behind and unhooked the thin strip of fabric. Pulled it down, slow and measured, stepping out of it like a dancer.

But there was no performance here.

Just silence.

She said nothing.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t compliment. Didn’t blink.

She only watched, eyes cold and fixed on your bare body, like she was waiting to see what you’d do next. Like you were a mirror, and she was inspecting her reflection.

Your arms stayed at your sides.

Not to cover yourself. Not to please her.

Because it felt more honest that way.

She moved then. A single step closer.

You heard it before you felt it — the quiet shift of leather, the soft scrape of her shoes on marble. She stopped just in front of you, and for the first time, you felt her warmth. It radiated like tension. Like storm air.

And that’s when you saw it.

The bulge.

High. Thick. Pressed firm against her tailored slacks. Too big to ignore.

Your breath hitched.

She was big. No — massive.

You hadn’t even considered she might be packing like this.

And she still hadn’t touched you.

Her hand rose — slow, deliberate — and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. Then tilted your chin upward with two fingers under your jaw. Not roughly. Not gently. Just precisely.

You looked up at her.

You were already gone.

She unbuckled her belt with one hand.

The sound was louder than it should’ve been. The soft clink of metal, the slide of leather, the low scrape of fabric as she pulled the strap free — it echoed in your head like thunder, like the beginning of something irreversible.

Your thighs pressed together without your permission.

She didn’t hide what she did next.

Her fingers moved to her zipper. She pulled it down with that same patient ease — mechanical, unbothered — then reached inside and drew it out. Her cock. Long. Veined. Already thick with anticipation.

It was obscene.

Beautiful.

Real.

She stroked it once. Just once. Lazy, slow. More for your benefit than hers.

Then — finally — she spoke.

“On your knees.”

And you dropped.

No hesitation. No thought.

Just instinct.

Just need.

Just her.

—

The floor was cold beneath your knees — a polished slab of marble that should’ve felt jarring against your skin, but your nerves were too frayed to register it. Your focus had narrowed to a single point of fixation: the thick, flushed length of Wonyoung’s cock in her hand. It was fully erect now, veined and stiff and wet at the tip, impossibly hard for someone who hadn’t even laid a finger on you. It looked out of place on a body that elegant, like a weapon dressed in silk — beautiful, unnatural, and meant to harm.

She didn’t stroke it again. Didn’t indulge in showmanship. She simply wrapped her fingers around the base once — firmly, as if testing her own patience — and waited. Waited for you to look, to understand, to see her not as a woman or a stranger or a client… but as a force. Something above you. Beyond you.

You weren’t meant to worship it.

You were meant to take it.

And when she stepped forward, unblinking, you didn’t retreat. You didn’t even breathe.

The head of her cock brushed your lower lip — just a nudge, slick and demanding — and her voice came low, cool, completely without heat.

“Open.”

That was all.

No coaxing. No affection. No hunger disguised as kindness. It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even an order. It was a door she expected to find already unlocked.

So you obeyed.

Your mouth opened, slow and uncertain, lips stretching wide to accommodate the thick head pressing insistently forward. The first taste of her was subtle — clean skin, warm and faintly bitter with pre-cum — and then she pushed. Not gently. Not like a lover.

Her hand slid to the back of your head, fingers slipping effortlessly into your hair, and with a single, precise motion, she shoved herself fully into your mouth. The stretch was immediate and painful — your jaw ached from the strain, your throat tightened reflexively, and your eyes blurred as she bottomed out in a single breathless thrust. You gagged around her. Choked, instantly. Your body recoiled from the pressure, but she held you still, your nose pressed against the sharp flatness of her pelvis, the scent of her skin flooding your sinuses as your throat squeezed around her length.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t soothe.

Didn’t praise.

She just held you there, impaled on her cock like you were nothing more than a sleeve — a warm, wet place to bury herself. Your hands flew to her thighs instinctively, trembling fingers braced against muscle, but she didn’t flinch. Her body was a statue. Composed. Still.

Your lungs burned. Your throat spasmed again. Your eyes watered violently.

And still, she didn’t pull back. Not yet.

Only when your entire body began to tremble from the lack of air did she withdraw — just slightly — letting you suck in one ragged gasp before slamming her cock back into your throat with a wet, brutal sound that echoed off the pristine walls of the penthouse like a slap.

Then again.

And again.

She didn’t moan. She didn’t grunt. There was no mess of passion or sweat. She used your mouth like a tool, setting a rhythm that was too fast, too deep, too mechanical to be mistaken for pleasure. This wasn’t about desire. It wasn’t even about sex.

It was about control.

Her grip in your hair grew tighter, anchoring your head in place as she forced your mouth into a pace that made your neck ache and your pride splinter. Your throat burned. Your nose was running. Saliva poured freely from the corners of your mouth, drenching your chin, your chest, soaking down your sternum in warm, sticky strings. You were crying, though you didn’t remember when the tears started.

Every thrust made your vision scatter — white stars bursting behind your eyes with every forced plunge. And still she didn’t stop. Even when you gagged again — this time harder, your whole body twitching — she didn’t slow.

She only said one thing.

“You’ll gag,” she murmured, flat and final, almost as if speaking to herself. “Deal with it.”

Not cruel. Not threatening. Not even mocking.

It was just a fact. Like the time. Like the weather. Like gravity.

You swallowed the cry in your throat. You were barely holding yourself together now — your spine locked in place, thighs shaking, mouth raw from friction. And yet, somewhere beneath the humiliation, beneath the tears and spit and ache, there was something else forming.

Not arousal.

Obedience.

When she shoved in again and held — hips still, cock pulsing hot and full against your tongue — you thought she might finish right there. But instead, she let you choke. Let you drown in her, vision tunneling as your throat clenched involuntarily around her shaft. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

And finally — finally — she pulled out.

The sound was indecent. Wet and stretched, the drag of her cock along your throat leaving your mouth gaping, your chest collapsing forward. You dropped to your hands, coughing uncontrollably, spit spilling in ropes from your lips, still attached to the swollen head now bobbing inches from your face. You were soaked. Shaking.

You gasped for breath like you’d been underwater.

Still — she said nothing.

No praise. No mockery. Just the quiet rustle of her clothes as she adjusted her slacks, her hand casually resting on her length as it twitched against her palm. Then she crouched, fingers sliding beneath your chin to tilt your face upward again.

Your cheeks were flushed, hot and wet. Mascara streaked beneath your eyes, lips red and puffy, mouth open in a messy pant. You looked broken. You felt broken.

She examined you in silence.

Then said, without inflection, “Keep your tongue out.”

You obeyed. Automatically.

Her cock tapped against your tongue once. Then again. Coating it in the taste of your own humiliation — your spit, her precum, the evidence of how deep she’d gone.

Then she stood and stepped away.

“Get on the bed.”

You staggered to your feet, legs shaking beneath you. The heels felt higher now, crueler. Every step was unsteady, and the blood rushing to your head made the room tilt slightly. But you walked. You obeyed. You made your way to the bedroom. The bed was enormous draped in dark gray sheets, clinical and perfect, like the rest of her home.

You hesitated at the edge, unsure of how to position yourself. You looked back once, but Wonyoung didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She crossed to the side table, opened the drawer, and pulled out a length of black silk.

Your heart thudded hard enough to shake your chest.

She approached without hurry. Without expression. Just control — steady and quiet, terrifying in its calm.

Her hand touched your back. Not to comfort — to position. She pushed you forward, rolled you neatly onto your stomach, then reached for your wrists. You didn’t resist. You felt the silk loop around your hands, smooth and cold, pulled tight in one motion. It held. Clean. Final. You were bound. Helpless.

She stepped away, and you heard the quiet sounds of her undressing — her shirt being peeled off, the whisper of fabric sliding down her hips, the thump of her heels placed neatly aside. You didn’t dare turn to look.

You didn’t need to.

She didn’t need you to watch her undress. She already knew how this ended.

You stayed face-down on the bed, bound and still, your breathing uneven against the pillow. You were naked, breathless, used. But beneath it all — beneath the fear and the ache — you were wet. Soaking. Embarrassingly so.

The bed dipped.

You didn’t see her move. You only felt it — the weight behind you, the warmth of her body pressing the air out of your lungs. Then her hand, firm between your shoulder blades, pinning you in place like you might try to run.

And then — the head of her cock.

Thick. Hot. Heavy.

She ran it along the curve of your ass, down the seam of your thighs, and back again — slow, deliberate, letting the tip collect the slick already pooling at your entrance. There were no fingers. No warning. No preamble.

You opened your mouth to speak — maybe to ask for time, or mercy, or anything at all —

But before the sound could form, she thrust in.

All at once.

No patience.

No pause.

Just the stretch — brutal, instant, dizzying — as her cock speared into you, deep and wide and unrelenting. You cried out, voice hoarse and broken, and still she pushed deeper, burying herself to the hilt in a single, unforgiving stroke.

You gasped. Then shook. Then surrendered.

Because this wasn’t a fuck.

This was a possession.

—

She didn’t ease in.

She forced herself inside you — slow only in the cruel way her cock stretched you wider than you thought possible, thick and merciless, until your cunt clenched so tight around her intrusion that it almost locked her out. Almost.

But she pushed anyway.

One brutal thrust, spine-shuddering and unforgiving, tore a sound from your chest that barely registered as human — a strangled gasp caught halfway between pain and disbelief, your lips parted on a sob that died in your throat before it could find air. The sheets bunched under your hands as your whole body stiffened.

She didn’t grunt. Didn’t groan. She just watched your back arch, your legs jerk, your fingers curl in panic as your body fought to make sense of the impossible stretch.

It was too much. Too thick. Too deep.

You’d had cock before — long ones, rough ones, the kind that made you limp the next day. You were used to being filled, used to the slow burn of a hard fuck. But this? This wasn’t sex. This was invasion. This was the sensation of being remade from the inside out, of your cunt being cracked open and carved around something that didn’t belong but refused to leave.

Your knees slid forward, trying to squirm away — a futile, instinctive recoil — but Wonyoung didn’t let you move.

Her palm flattened between your shoulder blades, pinning you in place with ease, and the silk binding your wrists only tightened with every twitch of resistance. The harder you tried to lift yourself, the more your shoulders ached — and still, she pushed deeper.

Her other hand gripped your hip, then your ass, then spread you wide with slow precision, not to help — not to make it easier — but to watch. To witness how her cock split you open inch by inch.

“Breathe,” she said — not as comfort, not as instruction. Just as fact.

But you couldn’t. Not properly. Not with her cock this deep, not with the way your walls clenched and spasmed around her, unsure whether to fight or yield.

Then, she pressed her hand lower — sliding across the small of your back, down your stomach — until it rested just below your bellybutton.

And she applied pressure.

“Feel that?”

Her voice was soft. Not kind. Just devastatingly calm. Her palm pressed in while her cock throbbed inside you, and that was when you felt it — the bulge. Her cock, visible beneath your skin. A hard, obscene swell against your abdomen that pulsed with every heartbeat.

“I’m here,” she murmured, palm still heavy. “All the way.”

A whimper tore out of you — high and helpless — as your eyes squeezed shut. Your face was buried in the sheets now, breath hot and shallow, lips quivering from the aftershock of just existing around her.

And then — she moved.

Not fast. Not immediately brutal. She pulled back halfway, and for a moment, you thought maybe she’d let you catch your breath. But then she rammed back in — one sharp, vicious stroke that lifted your hips off the mattress and made your body jerk forward with the force of it.

You cried out. Loud. Unfiltered. The sound was ripped from somewhere deep inside, the kind of noise you never made on stage — not for money, not for fantasy. This was real. Too real.

She didn’t pause. She found her rhythm.

Hard. Heavy. Ruthless.

Each thrust sent her cock barreling into your cervix like she wanted to break through it. The mattress groaned beneath you, the slap of skin against skin filling the room like violent thunder. Your arms twisted in their bonds. Your knees gave out slowly, slipping apart as the muscles in your thighs failed to hold you up.

But she didn’t care.

Wonyoung fucked like she had no sense of limits — not yours, not hers. She wasn’t chasing pleasure. She was claiming something. Taking you in the way rich people took everything — not because they needed it, but because it was there. Because they could.

You weren’t moaning anymore. You were keening. Sobbing into the sheets. The pressure inside you built too fast, too sharp — and your pussy betrayed you, clenching again and again around her cock as if it craved the very thing that hurt it.

Then — her voice.

“Don’t.”

One word. Cold. Authoritative.

You froze. Your body didn’t. Your cunt pulsed around her like it couldn’t help itself — like it wanted to come so badly it would risk punishment for it.

“I said don’t come.” Her voice stayed quiet. That terrifying calm. “Not yet.”

You whimpered. Your body shook.

Her hand flew down and struck your ass — once, twice, three times in quick succession — hard enough to sting, to burn. You jerked against the bed, hips trying to twist away.

“Be still.”

You tried. God, you tried. But your cunt was too swollen, too full, your clit pulsing and desperate. Every slam of her cock pushed you closer to the edge, and every time you hovered there, she pulled you back down with her voice alone.

The shame started to settle then — not from the pain, not even from the helpless moans, but from how much you wanted it. How badly your body responded. How your cunt wept for her. How your pride was already shattered and scattered beneath her heels.

And then — the end.

She thrust deep. All the way in. One final brutal slam that knocked the air from your lungs, and that was it. Your body broke. Your orgasm crashed through you like a storm — violent, wet, uncontrollable.

You came.

Hard.

Your pussy clenched tight around her, milking her cock, slick gushing down your thighs as your legs spasmed and your entire body shook. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out — just a sob, voiceless and stunned.

But she didn’t stop.

She kept fucking you — right through your orgasm. Past it. Into it. Like it didn’t matter. Like your pleasure wasn’t hers to acknowledge. You felt everything: every slam of her hips, every pulse of your cunt, every second of overstimulation as the pleasure blurred into pain.

You were crying now.

Real tears. Hot and unstoppable. They soaked the pillow, your throat aching with each shallow breath. Your body had gone limp, heavy, undone. There was nothing left to hold onto. No words, no resistance. Just the raw sound of her using you.

She leaned forward then — her weight a presence against your back — and whispered against your ear, voice low and level.

“More.”

—

Your body wasn’t built for this.

Not for the relentless way she kept going, even after your orgasm had torn through you and left you twitching, boneless, hollow. Not for the way her cock continued pounding into your oversensitive flesh, dragging against every raw nerve. Not for the size of her, the shape, the rhythm — none of it.

Your pussy had gone numb. Not from lack of feeling — from too much of it. Every thrust now echoed through your bones like she was trying to fuck something deeper than your body. Spit mixed with slick, smeared across your inner thighs and ass, dripping onto the sheets in steady trails. Your cunt still clenched around her despite it all — like it didn’t know how to stop, like it was desperate to keep her inside even as it trembled around the intrusion.

And she —

God, she was patient.

Deliberate. Cruel. Mechanical in the way she moved.

As if she didn’t need to speed up or slow down. As if your cries weren’t real to her — just part of the soundtrack she expected. As if your orgasm didn’t count.

You were getting there.

Wherever “there” was — you were slipping into it.

Your mind floated in and out of awareness. Your face was slick with tears and saliva. You couldn’t feel your legs anymore, couldn’t tell if they were bent or shaking or still trying to hold you up. The silk tie around your wrists dug deeper into your skin with each twitch of instinct, each second you forgot you were bound.

You weren’t meant to move. That was the point.

She wanted you helpless.

She needed you ruined.

And then — she stopped.

Abrupt. Without warning. She pulled out, and the emptiness was jarring. Your cunt spasmed around nothing, wet and twitching, so swollen and stretched it felt like it was gaping. Slick poured from you in thick strings, soaking the sheets, sliding down your thighs.

Your breath stuttered. You barely managed a single inhale before she grabbed your hip and flipped you over like you weighed nothing. Your limbs flailed uselessly, your body limp and stunned.

A pillow was shoved beneath your lower back — lifted and stuffed under with an efficiency that felt more surgical than sexual. You blinked, tears still hanging in your lashes. Your vision blurred at the edges, chest rising and falling in short, frantic bursts. You tried to focus on her face — to find something human there.

There was nothing.

Just cold, controlled precision. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t turned on. She was working.

You thought she was going to slide back into your cunt.

But instead — her hand moved lower.

She spread your thighs open, one hand curling around the soft, shaking muscle of your inner thigh and yanking until you lay fully exposed. Her fingers dug into the pliant skin of your ass. She adjusted your hips, lifting and tilting them up slightly — angling you with the casual confidence of someone who had done this before.

And then —

You realized where she was aiming.

“W-wait—” you choked, voice cracking, but she was already guiding the head of her cock lower. Not toward your pussy.

Lower.

Your stomach dropped.

“No—!”

Too late.

She thrust into your ass with one brutal, unflinching push.

You screamed. A real scream — high and sharp, the kind that tore from your throat without warning or control. Your back arched violently off the bed, hands jerking in their bindings, eyes wide in disbelief.

It didn’t fit. It couldn’t.

But she didn’t stop.

Her cock shoved inside you inch by inch, splitting you open around its impossible thickness. There was no easing in, no finger, no prep — just raw, violent force. You were dry. Untouched. Tight to the point of tearing.

It felt like fire.

Your asshole clenched involuntarily, fighting her, but it didn’t matter. She kept going, kept sinking into you like she was drilling into the deepest part of you. Your voice cracked into sobs, your face wet with tears, your mouth open in a soundless wail.

She wanted this.

She wanted it unprepared.

Wanted the stretch, the pain. The resistance.

Wanted to make it hurt.

Her hips began to move — short, brutal strokes that ground deeper each time, dragging against tender, unyielding flesh. Your thighs shook. Your stomach trembled. Your whole body tensed and twitched, bound and helpless.

She gripped your knees and spread them wider. And then she fucked you harder.

Every thrust was punishing. Your bound arms scraped against the sheets, desperate to grab something, anything, as your body convulsed beneath her.

She leaned forward.

Her weight pressed down, and her hands found your chest.

She didn’t touch your tits with care. She grabbed them. Twisted them. Fingers closing around your nipples and pulling — hard. Rolling the soft, sensitive flesh between her knuckles until you gasped so loud your voice cracked mid-scream.

Then — her mouth.

She bent lower, latched onto your nipple, and bit.

You writhed. Legs kicking weakly. Her cock shoved even deeper as your spine arched.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t beg. Your words were gone. All you could do was sob — loud and broken — and take it.

Her pace never slowed.

Your body didn’t belong to you anymore. Not your ass, not your tits, not your voice. Everything existed for her. Every reaction, every tremble, every bruise.

This wasn’t sex.

It was ownership.

You were hers now — not because you gave yourself to her.

But because she decided you were hers.

You didn’t remember when it started feeling good.

But it did.

Somewhere in the blur of pain and degradation, pleasure clawed its way through you. The burn blurred into heat. The stretch turned to ache. Your empty cunt clenched helplessly, dripping slick into the sheets, your ass tightening around her cock like it wanted to hold her there.

You moaned. You hated it. You loved it. You couldn’t stop.

Then she pulled out.

Your body collapsed like a puppet cut from its strings. You were gasping — mouth open, lungs useless, throat too raw to scream again.

And then she was on your chest.

Straddling you. Slapping her cock against your face.

It was wet with your slick, your spit, your shame. She grabbed your tits, pushed them together, and shoved her cock between them.

You didn’t wait. You knew what she wanted.

She pressed your breasts tighter, allowing her to fuck them easily. Her shaft slid between the mounds, slick and heavy, the head slapping your chin and lips.

You opened your mouth. Let your tongue out. Let her use you.

Her hips stuttered.

And then —

She came.

Hot, thick ropes of cum splattered across your chest, your neck, your lips. It was messy. It was filthy. It dripped down between your tits, onto your stomach, soaking your skin.

You didn’t react. Couldn’t.

You just lay there. Used.

But she wasn’t done.

She moved again — between your legs — and shoved her cock back into your pussy. No warning. No pause.

You screamed.

“Please—”

Your voice cracked on the word.

Her hand closed around your throat — not choking, just... reminding. Reminding you what you were.

One last fuck.

She rutted into you like she was chasing something. Hard, fast, brutal. Your overstimulated cunt clenched painfully around her. The bulge returned — your belly rising with each thrust, her cock punching up into your womb.

You were begging now. Wordlessly. Your hips jerked in protest.

And then — again.

She came.

Inside you.

It was hotter than before. Thicker. Endless. You felt it fill you — your cunt overflowing, your womb cramping around it, your body twitching from the flood of heat. Her cum leaked around her cock, dripping down your ass, painting the sheets beneath you.

She didn’t move. Not at first.

She just breathed — calmly, evenly. As if none of this had touched her at all.

Then, slowly, she pulled out.

You gasped. Your pussy convulsed around nothing, walls fluttering in shock.

She stood. Walked to the bathroom.

No sound of a shower. No sink. No water.

Just silence.

Then — she returned.

She didn’t look at you. She didn’t say your name.

She walked past your limp body, reached into the drawer, and pulled out the envelope from earlier. She tossed it onto the nightstand.

Her voice came — cold. Flat.

“Get dressed. You’re done.”

She left.

The door clicked shut.

You lay there — shaking, sore, leaking onto expensive sheets — and stared at nothing.

And for the first time in your life,

You didn’t feel like the one in control.

You weren’t the girl who never said yes anymore.

You were the one who said yes once.

And now you couldn’t stop.

[douceenvie]

can u do a g!p ningning who’s like the dommy sugar mommy who spoils u silly and calls u her dumb puppy while she makes u squirt on marble floors....

ᝰ.ᐟ ꒰ ningning x fem!reader ꒱

-ˋˏ ✄ ━━━━━ warnings: dommy sugar mommy!ningning, petplay undertones, collar, “puppy” kink, dumbification, strap-on sex, overstimulation, squirting, degradation + praise mix

like. idk how to explain this without sounding actually unwell but. picture this: g!p ningning in a fur coat and louboutins, sipping a glass of wine that costs more than your rent, calling you her “dumb puppy” while you’re on all fours on her marble kitchen floor. and you're like, trying to be good, you really are, but she's got you so overstimmed and pretty and cockdumb that you're just drooling on the tile and making those embarrassing little noises that only make her smile harder.

and she's all smug about it too like “what’s wrong, sweetheart? too much? i thought you wanted to be spoiled.”

SPOILED??? ningning has you in a chanel collar with a diamond “N” charm on it. you haven’t paid for a single meal in months. your phone case is literally encrusted with crystals that spell out “MOMMY’S FAVORITE.” she flies you out just to use you and post mirror selfies with her hand around your throat like you're a damn accessory. AND SHE’S SO MEAN ABOUT IT TOO. sweet voice, nasty words. “look at that, you’re leaking all over mommy’s floor. guess we’ll have to get the cleaner in again—unless you want to lick it up yourself?”

like be serious for one second. i would bark. bark. actually bark. also her strap is rhinestoned. obviously. i'm gonna eat drywall. i’m gonna throw myself into the sea. mommy ningning please come ruin my life and make me your stupid little housepet who doesn’t know how to function unless you’re calling me “good girl” and shoving something inside me that makes my knees clack on polished marble. i’m so sick in the head it’s concerning.

[douceenvie]

okay but hear me out g!p daniela as ur morally grey situationship who lets u ride her in a club bathroom and then disappears for 6 months like some kind of sex wizard 😭

ᝰ.ᐟ ꒰ g!p daniela x fem!reader ꒱

-ˋˏ ✄ ━━━━━ warnings: riding and emotionally unavailable daniela(i will still let her ruin me, tho)

do u ever just think about a g!p daniela who’s all morally grey and emotionally unavailable with tattoos, a resting bitch face, and a scary-hot energy that screams “i’ve definitely killed someone but only because they disrespected you” ??? like. you meet her in some dark little club, not even supposed to be out that night, but then there she is. leaning against the wall like a sin in leather, looking at you like she already knows what you taste like. and god. she flirts like she has nothing to lose.

fast forward 30 minutes and you’re in the gross little club bathroom, heels off, skirt bunched around your waist, and she’s got you riding her like you’re trying to exorcise something. the stall door barely closes. her mouth is on your neck, her cock’s deep in your guts, and she’s growling “just like that, baby — knew you’d fuck me like you needed it.”

and she’s right. of course she’s right. you do need it. you don’t even care that there’s bass vibrating through the walls and someone doing coke in the next stall. you're losing your mind on her lap like you're possessed.

and THEN. THEN SHE FUCKING DISAPPEARS. like a cursed fable. no text. no goodbye. just gone. as if she wasn't buried inside you like an hour ago telling you you're the best thing she’s ever ruined.

6 months later you see her at a gas station or something looking stupid hot and acting like she didn’t rearrange your cervix in a bathroom stall like a mythological creature of lust. she just smirks and says “miss me?” and your knees literally give out.

SHE’S A SEX WIZARD. A HORNY POLTERGEIST. AN EMOTIONALLY DETACHED DEMON WITH A DADDY KINK.