#LAV YOUR MIND

[rhinocio]

[sixeyesonathiel]

told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead!

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

synopsis : you crushed on him for months, watched him dodge every advance like you were malware. so you dressed up a little, played a little dumber—and now he’s got you spread out in pixels and moaning in surround sound. worst part? you kinda want him to do it again.

tags/cw — masturbation, degradation, praise kink, dacryphilia, marking, overstimulation, explicit language, filming, voyeurism, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, power dynamics, obsession, lingerie, virgin weeb satoru, questionable but effective way of seducing ur crush. 13k wc, 18+ only, minors DNI.

a/n : plz don't nitpick about how a fashion vlog shouldn't be like that bc that's the point. toru doesn't know the difference because all he watches is 2d girls

the compressor’s peaking again.

satoru squints at the waveform, drags the threshold down two decibels, then listens back to the same three-second clip of voiceover for the tenth time. it’s a podcast intro, some wannabe influencer droning about mindfulness. he doesn’t care. he’s just here to make it sound less like it was recorded in a bathroom.

“sounds like shit,” he mutters, even though it’s clean. crisp. perfectly balanced.

it doesn’t feel right. nothing ever does. he tweaks the bitrate, checks the export codec, wonders if he should build a custom ffmpeg preset. maybe write a quick script to batch clean all future files—something to shave off a few milliseconds of his life. his fingers hover over the keyboard, itching for efficiency, for control.

ping.

discord overlay glows in the corner of his ultrawide monitor, a neon-green intrusion on his meticulously organized desktop. he freezes. the notification pulses like a heartbeat.

you.

he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.

hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…

his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.

“no,” he types, then erases it.

“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.

after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:

i guess. send what you have.

he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.

flashback.exe

he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.

they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.

but you were different.

not better. just... a different kind of stupid.

you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.

“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.

you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”

typical.

he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.

you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.

he watches again.

his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.

he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.

he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.

he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.

he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.

the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.

the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.

his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.

his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.

he’s close. too close.

his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.

he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—

he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”

he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.

he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:

np.

what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?

he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.

your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.

he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.

you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.

his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.

to replay your giggle.

he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.

the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.

it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.

that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done. 

he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.

and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.

ping.

another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.

hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!

he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.

the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.

he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.

the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.

“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do. 

“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”

then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.

he freezes.

his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?

you giggle.

“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”

he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.

you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?

satoru’s fingers twitch.

one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.

he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.

he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.

his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.

he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.

you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.

he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.

he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.

he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.

he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—

he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.

he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.

exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”

he tries to normalize it.

“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.

he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.

he tells himself he’s just learning.

every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.

now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.

“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”

right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.

he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.

the next class is worse.

you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.

you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.

he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s… desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.

your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.

he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.

his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.

he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.

a new text lights up his screen:

 hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T

you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.

you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.

he hates himself.

but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.

the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.

it starts with static in his skull.

not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.

he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.

it doesn’t help.

not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

satoru’s trying.

really.

he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.

2:03 a.m.

his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.

hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!

march haul (raw).mp4

he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.

click.

of course he does.

the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.

you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.

your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.

“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.

“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.

he knows it.

his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”

he does.

the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!

his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—

he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.

you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.

he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.

he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.

he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.

he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.

it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.

he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.

his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.

at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.

the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.

he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.

but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.

he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.

you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.

you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.

he doesn’t blink.

he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.

he can’t breathe.

his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.

someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.

“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.

satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.

but it’s you.

always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.

he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.

he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.

no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.

he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.

he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.

it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.

the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.

it’s been three weeks.

folders on folders: “hauls > favs > zoom_ins > stills > pantyshots.” “audio_samples > moan_loop > breath_only.wav.” “color tests > gloss_ref > lips.png.”

some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.

the worst part?

you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.

but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.

he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.

satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.

the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.

your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.

in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”

he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.

he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.

the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.

you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.

you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”

baby.

it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.

everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.

when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.

satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.

he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.

his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.

he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.

he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.

he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.

the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.

it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.

he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”

he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.

you, on the other hand, don’t break character.

in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.

you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.

one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.

the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.

“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.

satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”

you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.

he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”

you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”

you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”

00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.

“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.

his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this. 

he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.

he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.

he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.

his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.

he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.

he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.

he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.

you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe

he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.

it starts with a ping.

innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.

his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space. he’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.

he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.

you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”

he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.

he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.

he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.

“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.

he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.

you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.

he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.

“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”

“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.

you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”

he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.

“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”

you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.

his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.

the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.

he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.

“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.

you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.

“fuck.”

he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.

you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.

you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.

his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”

he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.

you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”

you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.

“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.

he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”

his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”

he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”

he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”

he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”

you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.

the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.

he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.

he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”

you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”

“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”

you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.

satoru doesn’t stop.

in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.

the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.

he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.

“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.

“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.

you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.

“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.

he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”

satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.

he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.

“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”

each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.

he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.

“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”

he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.

but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.

he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.

“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.

you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”

he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.

“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.

satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.

“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”

his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.

you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”

you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.

“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”

he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.

he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.

he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”

he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”

he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”

you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”

he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.

he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”

he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.

“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”

but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”

he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”

he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”

you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.

“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.

“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”

you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.

but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.

satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.

he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.

“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.

you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.

your silence makes him spiral.

“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.

you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.

“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”

he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”

you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”

“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”

you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”

he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.

you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.

“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”

he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.

“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”

he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.

“i know.”

a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.

“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.

“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.

“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”

you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”

he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.

and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.

“mine.”

you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.

especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.

friday’s going to be filthy.

[absinthehyuk]

love galore

pairing. ex boyfriend seungcheol + afab reader

summary. when you meet your ex at a charity event, you like to imagine that the universe just wants to kill you. luckily, the mysterious forces of nature have other plans.

w.c 0.9k

warnings. porn with very little plot, car sex, backseat shenanigans, riding, minor tit play, BIG DICK CHEOL!!!! steamy sex, skin slapping, petnames: hers baby, slut his cheol, cheollie — 18+ MINORS DNI!

a/n. exam szn testing my fucking patience. maybe i’m back. maybe i’m not. based off of the song love galore by sza but not rlly 🫶 also wtf we are at 800 followers?? thank you???!!!! also, i surived nnn ;)

this was supposed to be a relaxed evening for you, visiting the charity event in Gwangju just to look at some cute animals and donating for a good cause.

it was supposed to be a few hours that you didn’t spend moping about in your apartment after breaking up with someone who you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with.

well, the word ‘suppose’ doesn’t even cross your mind at the moment.

how could it, when his hands grab at your hips, his lips parted in a groan? when his mouth says your name so beautifully?

you’d not noticed seungcheol at first. not until you were on your knees stroking a moody ginger cat when suddenly someone’s fingers brushed against your own.

at first glance, you wanted to cuss him out. scream, yell, clock him in the jaw, commit arson– every crime under the sun.

but all you could do was helplessly moan like a desperate whore.

seungcheol hastily led you to his car, mouth melding with yours, opening the back door and practically throwing you inside. he tasted like mint and a hint of coffee. just the taste you liked.

nothing about the moment is soft. all that can be heard is his groans, your soft breaths and the lewd dance of your tongues.

“take your pants off,” seungcheol heaves, sitting upright in the backseat as he tugs you into his lap. one of his hands pushes his hair back, eyes dark as he scrutinizes you.

you follow his orders without batting an eye, unbuttoning your jeans with much difficulty in the cramped space and sliding them off.

seungcheol yanks your tank top down, spitting on your nipple as he spares it a lick. “missed you,” he mumbled, teething on your peak as if you hadn’t lost all train of thought the second his lips had met yours.

“missed you, missed these gorgeous tits, and of course, this needy pussy,” his fingers slide between your legs, prodding at your folds. “she’s still mine, right? or did you find someone else?”

you shake your head with a whine when his fingers enter you, feeling your tight walls contract around him. with the pad of his thumb on your engorged clit, seungcheol thrusts his fingers in, a pace that has your mind fogging.

“c-cheollie,” you hiccup, but he shushes you with a bite on your left nipple. “shush baby, just enjoy it,” his words are hoarse, as his tongue lavs over and over your perky mounds.

you can feel the impending telltale of your orgasm the second his fingers curl and they hit that spot inside of you. seungcheol feels a gush of arousal from you, not letting you cum, but just about there to silently remove his fingers and suck them into his mouth.

his cock replaces his fingers, and you just about lose the air from your lungs. no matter how many times you’ve had sex with him, it always feels like the first.

the fat tip pushes past your folds, slowly sinking you down on him. he hisses at the contact. “still so tight f’me... you’ve been a good girl, haven’t you? didn’t let anyone touch what’s mine, hm?”

he knows he’s blabbering, but when he notices the tears spring up to your eyes, seungcheol’s fingers, slightly wet from his saliva wipe them away.

“it’s okay, baby. i love you. i still do.”

you lean into his touch, relishing in the soft moment inside the steamy car when the bastard ruins it.

seungcheol bottoms out inside you, eliciting a moan that sounds so pornographic, you wonder why you’ve not switched careers yet.

the one thrust is enough for you to grab onto his shoulders, lips crashing against his with the power of a sea storm as you begin to ride him.

your tongue swirls with his, squelching noises coming from down below as he meets your thrusts halfway, hands planted on your hips. he sets the pace, your ass bouncing on his thighs, a noise that he has thoroughly yearned for.

“such a good little slut for me,” he whispers against your lips as you lean back, tits bouncing in his face as your thighs start to ache.

but you couldn’t care. not now anyway.

“so big inside me cheol... filling me up all the way,” you moan, eyes rolling as your lower stomach tightens slightly.

the stretch of his cock is too much, splitting your pussy into two in the best way possible. you feel every ridge and vein of his cock, twitching inside you as you praise his size. god, the man’s ego was almost as huge as his dick.

“gonna make me cum like that, baby,” seungcheol whispers, one of his hands leaving your hips to come up and squeeze your mounds. “want me to pull out?” he asks, flicking your nipple with a finger.

“fuck– hah! yes, pull out, pull out!”

with one last thrust and impeccable timing, you feel yourself cum, as he pulls out and releases all over your stomach. the white paints your skin and manages to land a few specks on your tank top.

seungcheol’s breathing is unsteady, as is yours. the sex induced fog seems to fade slightly, as you come down from the incredible high you’ve just experienced.

“stop looking like you regret this, y/n. i know you wanna come back to my place,” seungcheol pushes a strand of damp hair behind your ear, pressing a soft kiss to the sweaty skin of your jaw.

the moment is soft, a rare gem among the monstrous haze that the demon of lust had bestowed upon the two of you.

“what do you think, baby? wanna fuck on the couch like usual?”

oh, how you could you refuse that offer?

© absinthehyuk, 2024

[lilliankoo]

play you like a game, boy 🗡️ jeon jungkook.

chapter 3/8

genre: antagonist tribe leader jk x princess reader.

word count: 4.9k

previous chapter links- chapter 2 next chapter 4

synopsis: he looks like an angel but is a devil- well that's what your kingdom thinks. he is also the blessed leader of tribe "lav"; even a leaf cannot move without his permission but here he was in-front of you on his knees. while the whole tribe bows to him- he only bows to you. now, there are two paths presented to you- marry him & return his love or refuse & watch him conquer your father's kingdom. power is an evil yet a tempting apple-and now its in your hands- are you going to take a bite; taste the sweet poison or will you use it to tempt others? its an evil world with evil options.. do you think you can handle him?

warnings: emotional manipulation, power dynamics, forced marriage, mystical elements, manipulation, secrets, made-up culture and traditions, jealousy and possessiveness, mysticism and divine Intervention. made up goddess, tribe etc. calling the leader “mother” (clears throat), i made the reader a french princess caus…im french :D aayyyyyeeee, let me know if i should anything else

———————————-

You pass through the long hallways, heading toward the chambers you now share with Jungkook. The steady hum of the villagers' voices and the overwhelming weight of the day's rituals still echo in your head, leaving your mind dizzy and disoriented. The palace feels too grand, too foreign, and every step you take only adds to the suffocating sense of being trapped in a gilded cage.

But as you walk deeper into this side of the palace, something shifts. The air seems to change. The space opens up, revealing a vast courtyard that stretches out before you, bathed in the soft glow of the fading evening sun. The scent of lilies—your favorite flowers—floats in the air, and you pause, blinking in surprise. Could Jungkook have known? But no, that's impossible. You dismiss the thought with a shake of your head.

A gentle breeze lifts the soft pink curtains that adorn the arched windows, making them flow like ribbons in the wind. The sight makes you smile, a small, fleeting moment of peace in an otherwise overwhelming day.

“We are here, Mother Y/N,” one of the helpers says, pulling you from your thoughts.

You blink, confused. You’ve heard this word far too many times today. "Mother?" you repeat, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. "Why is everyone calling me that? I’m not a mother."

You yank at the ribbons tied around your wrists, frustration bubbling inside you. The bracelets, delicate and intricate, unravel with a soft rattle, scattering beads across the floor. The helpers gasp, rushing to gather them, but your focus remains on the older woman who spoke to you.

She stands with quiet composure, the first person besides Jungkook who dares to meet your gaze instead of staring at the ground. Her eyes hold something; calm yet unwavering.

“There are things only Jungkook can explain to you,” she says, her voice steady.

You straighten, the defiance in you rising. "So bring him here," you challenge.

The helpers freeze, the air thick with tension. You take a few determined steps toward the older woman, now standing face-to-face with her. The distance between you feels like the space between two opposing forces and you refuse to back down.

“If there are things only Jungkook can tell me," you insist, your voice firm, "then bring him here.”

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver. "We cannot do that," she responds calmly. "The men are celebrating. They’ll be drinking tonight. There is a reason why all the women are kept here, away from the common ground. It can get dangerous."

For a moment, you consider backing down. You’ve never wanted to trouble others you're not that cruel. But everything about this marriage, these rituals, this forced life, weighs on you. You can't ignore the way you've been shoved into this new world, without answers or choice.

“I won’t enter the chambers until Jungkook comes here,” you declare, folding your arms across your chest.

The helpers insist again, but you stand firm. As they begin to leave, you turn away, frustrated and exhausted. The door to the balcony stands before you, an open escape from the chaos inside. You walk toward it, your thoughts swirling with questions. You gaze at the now visible moon, a silent witness to the mess of your life.

You close your eyes, a prayer escaping your lips, soft and desperate.

“Do you hear me?”

A voice behind you breaks the silence, and you whirl around, heart skipping a beat. Jungkook stands there, but he’s different now. No jewels. No elaborate mantle. His hair, usually tied back with precision, flows freely around his shoulders. He’s dressed simply; a vest and pants, casual and unadorned. He looks more human, less like the grand tribe leader from the ceremony.

Your heart races, and for a moment, you forget to speak. You square your shoulders, trying to steady yourself, and finally ask the question that’s been gnawing at you since you first stepped into this palace.

"Why does everyone keep calling me 'mother'?" you ask, the words slipping out in a mixture of frustration and confusion.

Jungkook’s eyes meet yours, but he says nothing. He simply stands there, admiring you with a gaze that lingers, like he’s memorizing every detail. You’re taken aback by the intensity of his stare. His silence feels like a puzzle you're not sure how to solve.

You wait for him to respond, but when the seconds stretch on, you can't help but snap, the tension in you breaking. “What? Drank too much already?” you ask, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

Jungkook’s lips curl into a small, amused smile. Without warning, he steps toward you and pulls you into him, his hands settling at your waist. His touch is confident, almost possessive, as he meets your gaze with that same quiet smile.

“I know you don’t like men who drink,” he says, his voice low and steady. “I gave up drinking a year ago.”

The words hit you like a cold wave. A year ago. He’s been plotting this for longer than you thought—since before you ever met him. Now you are sure that He knows about the lilies. He knows everything. And that realization sends a chill down your spine.

Before you can say anything, Jungkook takes your hands, leading you toward the chambers with quiet determination. You’re too stunned to speak, the weight of the situation settling around you like a heavy cloak. There’s so much you don’t know, and for the first time, you wonder; what else has he planned? What else does he know?

You can feel the walls closing in, but for now, you're too scared to ask any more questions.

—----------------------------------

The door closes softly behind you, the faint echo of it clicking into place still reverberating in the quiet chambers. The room feels warmer now, more intimate, with the fading light of dusk casting long shadows across the stone walls. Without a word, he gestures for you to sit on the bed. The silken covers shimmer in the low light, soft and inviting. You comply, though your mind still churns with the many questions Jungkook left unanswered. As you settle on the bed, he stands before you, his eyes dark with an intensity that makes your heart flutter nervously.

Without hesitation, he begins untying the delicate ribbons of the bracelets on your wrists. His fingers are surprisingly gentle as they work through the knots, each movement slow, purposeful, almost reverent. The bracelets fall away, beads scattering across the floor like tiny fragments of your old life. You can’t help but notice how his touch lingers, just a moment longer than necessary, before his hands move to your shoulders.

“Let me help you,” he murmurs, his voice low and calming.

Before you can respond, he guides your arms out of the intricate layers of clothing, leaving you in the delicate chemise that clings to your form. The thin fabric feels cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the room and his presence. You suddenly feel exposed, both physically and emotionally, as his eyes scan you, though there’s no judgment in them; just an unspoken understanding.

His hands move to yours, gently cupping them, "I cannot tell you much just yet,” he begins, his voice soothing but laced with something else, something you can't quite place. “You will start to understand with time. This forest is blessed by a goddess, even though I am the leader, it is she who watches over us. She gave me this role, but she works with women. It is a woman’s power that sustains everything here.”

You listen carefully, though the words don't entirely make sense. Your mind reels with the implications. He continues, unaware of the storm of thoughts brewing inside you.“I am the leader, and you are my wife,” he says, his grip tightening on your hands ever so slightly. “People call you ‘mother’ in respect and because your presence will… fix everything.”

You blink, confused, your mind struggling to make sense of what he’s saying. The idea of being a 'mother' here, in this strange place, feels completely uncomfortable to you. But there's something about the way he says it—an undeniable weight to his words—that makes you wonder if there’s more to this than you understand. Still, you’re glad he’s finally spoken, giving you a sliver of an answer, even if it only raises more questions.

“I don’t understand," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t offer further explanation. Instead, his expression softens, and he tilts his head slightly. "In time, you will."

You’re still processing everything when a wave of exhaustion hits you, the weight of the day finally catching up to you. You rub your temples, your body suddenly craving rest.

“I’m tired,” you murmur, your voice heavy with the need to retreat from the storm of emotions inside you. “Where can I take a bath?”

Jungkook’s eyes soften at your words, his expression a mixture of understanding and something deeper you can’t yet read. He gives you a small nod and stands, his movements fluid as he gestures to a nearby door.

“There,” he says simply, leading you toward a door that opens into a private bathing area. The sight that meets your eyes is breathtaking—soft light from hanging lanterns spills over a marble tub filled with steaming water. The air is infused with the scent of lavender and eucalyptus, and you feel the tension in your muscles begin to loosen just by the sight of it.

Before you step into the bath, Jungkook pauses, his gaze shifting to a large wardrobe standing against one of the walls.

“Before you rest,” he says, a slight smile tugging at his lips, “let me show you something.”

You follow him over, and he opens the doors inside, you find an array of clothes—dresses, corsets, and fine fabrics, each one more beautiful than the last. In colours of deep emeralds, soft pinks, and silvery blues. The gowns are intricate, rich with embroidery and lace, while the corsets are designed with a delicacy that suggests they were made specifically for you. It’s clear that every item here has been chosen with care, each one fitting with the taste you’ve never even shared with him.

You run your fingers over the fabrics, astonished at how perfectly they seem to suit you. It feels like he’s known your preferences before you even had a chance to voice them.

“I know this is what your women wear…I mean back at your kingdom,” Jungkook says quietly, watching you with a hint of pride, “I made sure everything here was to your liking.”

You can’t help but feel a mixture of gratitude and unease. How much does he know about me? The question lingers in the back of your mind, but you push it aside for now. This isn’t the moment for doubts.

Instead, you turn back to the bathing area. “I’ll bathe now,” you say softly.

Jungkook doesn’t respond with words, only a quiet nod as he exits the room, leaving you in the privacy of the sanctuary he’s created for you. The bathwater envelops you in warmth, soothing your tired body. The tension slowly melts away as you sink deeper into the water, your mind drifting as you close your eyes.

But just before you can fully lose yourself in the bath, the door to the room opens again. You start, but it’s only Jungkook, now standing in the doorway. He walks toward you, and this time, there’s no command in his step, only an undeniable warmth. his eyes softening as he cups your jaw with his hand, the touch gentle but firm. He holds you there, looking at you as though he’s memorizing every part of you. Then, without a word, he leans in, pressing his lips to yours in a slow tender kiss. His warmth lingers, a contrast to the coolness of the bathwater. You can feel his breath against your skin, steady and calm, and in that moment, you almost forget the weight of the world outside this room.

He pulls away just slightly, still holding your face in his hands, and his voice is low, almost intimate. "You have a long day tomorrow, Y/N. I’ll be here to help you settle in—make sure everything is alright. I’ll make sure you feel at ease here."

His words carry a sincerity that catches you off guard, but the quiet reassurance settles something deep inside you. He doesn’t wait for a reply before stepping back, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he turns to leave.

—--------------------------------

The soft rustling of the curtains drags you from sleep. Sunlight filters through the delicate fabric, casting a warm, golden glow across the room. You stretch, feeling the lingering weight of yesterday’s emotions, but the restfulness of the night brings a brief sense of peace.

Then, a gentle knock on the door interrupts the quiet.

“Come in,” you murmur, not entirely awake.

The door creaks open, and one of the helpers enters, a polite smile on her face as she approaches you. Her presence feels like an invitation to begin the day, though you’re not sure you're ready for it just yet.

"Good morning, mother Y/N," the helper says softly, her voice carrying a hint of reverence. "It’s time to get you ready for the day."

You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes as the helper begins to assist you, bringing you fresh clothing that seems to shimmer under the soft light. The gown she presents to you is stunning—something that would be seen during Marie Antoinette's time: a dress with a fitted bodice, flowing skirts, and delicate lace trim. The pale blue silk contrasts beautifully with your skin, and the fabric feels like a dream against you.

The gown is unlike anything the women in the tribe wear, and the realization fills you with quiet relief. Jungkook, despite his power, respected your wishes. He didn’t force you into tribal attire, the way most of the other women in the village wear. Instead, he gave you the freedom to wear something that resonates with your own heritage, something that speaks of who you are, not just where you are.

As the helper adjusts the delicate lace around your neckline, you notice that your hair is left loose. The lightness of the fabric and the freedom in your appearance feel like a small rebellion against the rigid rules of the tribe, though you know this could all change in time.

Once you’re fully dressed, the helper nods approvingly and gestures toward the door. “It’s time to meet with the council. Jungkook is expecting you.”

The thought of seeing Jungkook again after yesterday’s revelation fills you with a mixture of dread and curiosity. You follow the helper through the winding halls of the palace, your footsteps echoing against the stone floors. As you reach the entrance of the common ground, you take a deep breath, bracing yourself for whatever comes next.

—-------------------------------------

The common ground is bustling, filled with various figures of importance. When you step in, you spot Jungkook immediately. He stands tall and composed, wearing traditional tribal clothing, but there's something different about his attire. The materials are exquisite embellished with intricate beadwork and luxurious furs, signaling that even though he embraces the tribe’s customs, his status is unmatched.

He turns when he sees you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. His eyes soften as they meet yours.

“Good morning, Y/N,” Jungkook greets you warmly, stepping forward. “You look beautiful.” You offer him a small smile, though it’s tight around the edges, and nod in acknowledgment. There’s an underlying tension between you, but for now, you don’t speak of it.

As you walk further into the gathering, your eyes scan the room. You notice a few familiar faces, a handful of the tribe’s elders, and someone holding a stack of papers and a quill. The man looks at you and Jungkook, motioning for both of you to sit at the long table in the center of the room. There’s an air of formality to this meeting, and as you sit down, the weight of the situation presses down on your shoulders.

The man speaks first, addressing you with a calm, measured tone.

“Miss Y/N," he says, his words laced with an odd mix of politeness and condescension. "You are an outsider, I mean even though you are Jungkook's wife. You are still the daughter of a French king. Unlike us, you have strong connections with the people outside of this forest. You must want to stay in contact with them. Even though women hold superiority here, it is still the husband’s decision if he will allow you to leave the forest.”

The words hang in the air, and your stomach tightens. Your heart races, and you glance at Jungkook, but he’s looking straight ahead, his expression unreadable. The man turns his gaze to Jungkook, his next set of questions directed at him, his voice official and blunt.

“Do you allow your wife to visit her kingdom?” he asks.

Jungkook glances at you, and for a split second, you think you see a flicker of something—maybe hesitation, maybe understanding—but it’s gone before you can fully grasp it.

“Yes,” Jungkook says, his voice unwavering. “But only once a month, and I will accompany her.”

You blink, surprised by his words, but something inside you stirs. He still intends to control even that, though the small concession feels like a victory. For now, anyway.

The man doesn’t hesitate. “Do you allow her to stay overnight in her kingdom?”

“No,” Jungkook responds firmly, his eyes still on you, but the words feel like a physical blow.

A cold anger coils in your chest. The thought of never being able to visit your family without his watchful eye is suffocating. You never wanted this. Never asked for it.

The man pauses before asking, “Do you allow her parents to visit here?”

The question feels like a punch to the gut. You hadn’t even thought about that possibility, but now it feels like another sharp cut into your already wounded heart.

“No,” Jungkook says, without hesitation.

The room grows silent, the weight of the conversation pressing down on you. You can feel the anger building within you, the frustration at being trapped in a place that feels more and more like a gilded cage.

The meeting wraps up quickly after that, and without a word to Jungkook, you stand and make your way toward the door, your legs moving on their own accord. Your heart beats faster, every step toward your chambers feeling heavier than the last. The cool air outside is a welcome relief, but it doesn’t quiet the storm raging inside you.

Just as you’re about to step into the privacy of your chambers, Jungkook catches up with you, his hand gently grasping your arm.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice calm, though there’s a hint of frustration beneath the surface. “Like I said, you’ll understand with time. I still allowed you to visit, even though the forest forbids it. I’ve done more than what was required of me.”

You look at him, and for a moment, it feels like your heart might shatter. Tears threaten to spill, but you swallow them down, biting your lip as your frustration boils over.

With a short, bitter laugh, you turn away from him, your voice thick with emotion as you mutter, “Understand? I don’t think I’ll ever understand.”

—------------------------------------------------

You don’t go to your chambers.

Instead, you walk past the familiar halls and the rooms that have become a cage, pushing yourself deeper into the forest. The tall trees stand like silent sentinels, their shadows stretching across the ground, offering the solitude you desperately crave. you find yourself outside, near a quiet lake, the ripples of the water mirroring the turbulence inside you.

You stand there, staring at the still water, and allow yourself a moment to breathe. What now? You don’t know the answer. But you do know one thing: you won’t stay here quietly. You won’t let this place swallow you whole.

The peaceful stillness of the lake settles around you as you sit by its edge, lost in thought. The air is cool and calming, and the ripples of the water are the only sounds that fill the space.

Then, a voice breaks the silence.

"Ah, look at this angel."

You blink, snapping out of your thoughts, and instinctively turn your head toward the source of the voice. Across the lake, standing on the opposite bank, is a woman. Unlike anyone you’ve seen before, her presence is both serene and striking.

She has two earthen pots resting at her feet, their earthy tones contrasting with the pale blue of the lake. Her beauty is ethereal, almost otherworldly, and it draws you in. Her long, dark hair is partially hidden by a delicate veil that drapes around her head, but unlike the veils of the women in the tribe, this one doesn’t cover her face. Instead, it simply rests gently on her head, flowing with a soft elegance.

You can’t help but stare, captivated by her. Her green eyes—bright and vivid like the heart of the forest itself—hold your gaze, steady and unwavering.

She bends down gracefully, her movements fluid, like a dancer. You watch as she fills one of the pots with water from the lake, her hands steady and sure. The way she moves seems effortless, as though the world around her is just an extension of her being. The tension you’d felt earlier seems to ease just by watching her, and for a brief moment, you forget about the complications of your new life here. Her presence is so calming, so completely different from the chaos you’ve been swept into.

The air between you two feels thick with something unspoken, a connection you can’t quite place. As she fills the second pot, she never breaks eye contact with you, her gaze never faltering. There’s a quiet understanding between the two of you, as though she sees more than just your outward appearance.

A soft breeze moves through the trees, rustling the leaves, but still, the woman stands perfectly still, her green eyes locked with yours. You want to speak, but the words catch in your throat. There’s a strange pull in the air, a magnetism that makes your heart race in a way you didn’t expect.

The silence stretches, and you wait for her to speak, for her to break the connection. But she doesn’t. She simply looks at you, her expression unreadable yet full of something profound, as if she understands your confusion, your turmoil, perhaps even more than you do. After a long moment, she turns her gaze toward the water once more, adjusting the pots, as though nothing unusual had passed between you two. But the moment lingers in the air, settling in your chest, as if she’s left a mark on your soul.

The air is thick with the unspoken tension between you and the mysterious woman, As she adjusts the earthen pots on the ground, you finally gather enough courage to break the silence.

“Who are you?” you ask, your voice steady but curious.

She lifts her gaze to meet yours, and a soft, musical laugh escapes her lips. It’s not mocking, but rather a gentle, knowing sound. “I am not from here,” she says simply, her tone calm and smooth. “I am merely here to fetch fresh water.”

You nod slowly, taking in her words, but there’s something in her manner that makes you feel there’s more to her than she’s letting on.

“Is he troubling you?” she asks, her voice low but pointed.

Your brows furrow, a twinge of confusion passing through you. “Who?” you ask, not sure if you’re hearing her correctly.

Her lips curl into a faint, knowing smile. “Your man,” she replies, her gaze unwavering. She watches you carefully, as though reading the turmoil in your eyes. There’s a silent understanding between you two, though neither of you speaks it aloud. She doesn’t press further, instead turning her attention back to the pots she’s preparing to carry.

“You think you are defenseless here," she says, her voice low and cryptic. "But it’s him. He is at your mercy, not the other way around. He cannot hurt you like you can hurt him, he worships you."

Her words hang in the air, each one heavy with unspoken meaning. You try to make sense of them, but they only leave you more confused than before. There’s something about the way she says it—something in her eyes—that makes your skin prickle.

Before you can ask more questions, you hear a voice calling out your name. You freeze, and your heart skips a beat. It’s Jungkook’s voice, unmistakable and close.

You quickly glance back toward the sound, your chest tightening. When you turn around to speak to the woman once more, to ask her to elaborate, she’s gone. she vanished without a trace. There’s no rustling of leaves, no footsteps to mark her departure. She’s simply gone, as though she was never there at all.

Your breath catches in your throat as a strange feeling settles in your gut. You stand frozen, staring out over the lake, the strange woman’s words still echoing in your mind. The stillness of the water reflects the cloudy sky, but inside, your thoughts are a storm. What did she mean? What did she know? Who was she?

Suddenly, you hear footsteps approaching, and your heart skips a beat. You turn just as you see Jungkook breaking through the bushes, his eyes searching the area for you. The look on his face is a mixture of relief and concern. Without a word, he reaches you and pulls you into his arms, enveloping you in his warmth.

"Are you okay?" His voice is low, thick with worry.

You nod, still lost in your thoughts, but he doesn’t release you. His hold tightens as he pulls back slightly to look at you, his eyes searching yours, trying to read what’s hidden there. He asks again, softer this time, "Are you sure you're okay?"

For a moment, you’re still, not knowing how to respond. You had run from him earlier, angry, confused, needing space but now, standing here in his arms, it feels like the fury is draining away, leaving behind a strange emptiness. Your thoughts linger on the woman by the lake, the cryptic things she had said. The words she’d spoken, they haunt you.

You suddenly forget why you ran. You forget the frustration and the anger. All you can focus on now is the unsettling feeling she left you with. You turn your gaze back to Jungkook, his steady, concerned gaze pulling you back to the present. Without realizing it, you reach for his hand, holding it as you ask, "How many other tribes live in the forest?"

Jungkook’s expression shifts, his brows furrowing slightly. His gaze locks onto yours, and for a moment, the world feels suspended between you two. He studies your face, his own expression unreadable. Finally, he answers, his voice steady.

"One. Only one." He pauses, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly. "The Devti goddess only blessed the Jeons, and we are the last ones standing."

You don’t know what to say to that, but something feels off. You look away, distracted by the thought of the woman. She had said she wasn’t from here, but she didn’t seem to fit with the tribe, either. She had a familiarity about her, but it was different from the others.

“I saw someone, a woman,” you finally speak, your voice hesitant.

At the mention of the woman, Jungkook visibly tenses. His body stiffens, and his eyes narrow with suspicion. He doesn’t say anything at first, but you can feel the change in his energy, the way his gaze sharpens.

You continue, your words slipping out before you can stop them. “She said she is not from here, she’s here to get water.”

Jungkook’s eyes darted around quickly, as though searching for something or someone. His hand immediately drops from yours as he reaches around to his back, pulling out a knife from the sheath hidden beneath his cloak. He doesn’t look at you as he holds it in his hand, but his voice comes out low, almost urgent.

"Sometimes we have neighboring tribes come through here," he says, still looking around, his attention divided. "Picking fruits, collecting water... The Lav Forest is blessed, but other tribes don’t have enough to eat or drink. It’s not safe, they’re not always friendly."

Jungkook doesn’t say more, his eyes still scanning the perimeter as he begins to move you back toward the palace. He walks with purpose, guiding you quickly, but gently, back toward the safety of the palace walls. As you move through the trees, you can’t help but feel the weight of the unknown pressing against you—what did Jungkook know that he wasn’t telling you?

The forest around you seems to grow darker, more ominous with every step. And for the first time, you feel the real weight of what it means to be a part of this forest. You don’t know what to expect next, but the feeling in the air has shifted.

You’re no longer just a “visitor” here. You’re entangled in something much bigger than you thought.

———————————————-

next chapter

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taglist 💌: @jincapableoflove @voitier @koocreampie @kookxin @mysticprincessstrawberry @imwutim @synamon @withmuchluv-tannie @taekritimin123 @somehowukook @jungshaking @junecat18 @ilyjhseok let me know if u would like to be added to the list.

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author’s note: thank u so much for the love on my silly fanfic, im glad so many people are enjoying it. due to the nature of the story i have to wait a little before i write smut, hope da freaks understand >_< muaaah.

[garoujo]

✩ ˛˚ . KAMO CHOSO — choso thinks he may be addicted to the feeling of your fingers in his hair.

ஜ ˖ ࣪࿐ྂ warnings! f!reader, face sitting, hair pulling (choso’s), pet names, questionable characterisation! ♡ ˖ ࣪࿐ྂ note! first time writing for choso so i am v sorry in advance <3

you hear choso growl from where he’s pressed underneath you, face shoved between your thighs as you grind down into the steady lav of his tongue. his cheeks and the lower half of his face are slick, soaked with your juices as they drip and pool onto the sheets beneath him.

you feel his fingers flex into the flesh of your hips, pulling you deeper— sure to leave a mark everytime your thighs tighten around his head, like he’d gladly take his last breath from between your legs as he groans.

“shit, keep doing that, princess.” you hear your dark haired lover gasp as he breathes deep before he buries himself back into you. but the low tone of choso’s voice still manages to send vibrations straight through your clit, making your hips twitch with the sudden jolt of pleasure as you press yourself down into his mouth.

your fingers tighten in his hair as you ride him, so greedily as your hole clenches around his tongue and he loves the way you pull at the messy hair style, musing it beneath your touch as you pull at the roots. “so good~ fuck!” you throw your head back at how greedily he devours you, like he’s been starved for eternity— pouring his soul between your folds as it burns through you.

“you know what comes next.” choso moans shakily, his words almost lost between his messy movements as you give him a doe-eyed, glassy look. you whimper when he pulls away momentarily, sliding his slender fingers between your folds before he’s spreading you lewdly and diving back in— slurping and smacking at the taste of you that has his cock twitching between his thighs.

if you were to look behind you, you’d see what your taste does to him— what you do to him as pre-cum gathers around his blunt tip. he pays no mind to it, not when he’s got you straddling him face, too focused on feeling you cream around his tongue.

“you’re gonna cum for me, okay?” he feels sticky, the air in the room heavy as he laps at your clit—he’s flushed from his cheeks to his chest and there’s a thin sheen of sweat over his toned torso but he needs more, messier. his palm comes down heavy against your ass as he sends you deeper into him, squeezing roughly at the skin—but it only allows him to push his tongue even further past your folds to dip into your hole, lewd squelches filling the room as he fucks you with the muscle.

choso feels lightheaded at the arousal pooling in his stomach, his cock aching for any sort of friction but he’s just so lost in you instead. wrapping his lips around your clit before sucking it into his mouth, allowing his tongue to roll the sensitive bud so he can feel you jerk in his hold, his large palms rocking you against his mouth as he groans against you once more.

“right there, ‘m gonna—ah!” you jolt slightly but his strong grip keeps you in place, forbidding you from moving as he holds you above him — fingers squeezing into your skin.

“use me—k-keep going.” he almost growls, his words breathless and needy and you feel the coil in your stomach tighten when you look behind you to watch his own hips twitch at the idea of you cumming on his face, paired with the pressure of you grinding down on tongue.

choso’s movements are almost desperate, your skin feels on fire when the pleasure races through you while you hear his own quiet moans against your cunt— lost between smacks and suckling noises. your thighs tremble either side of him and you babble, your clit knocking against his nose with every buck of your hips as you drag yourself along his mouth, your arousal drenching the sheets below you both.

“that’s it, give it to me, princess.”

© 2023 GAROUJO. please do not copy any of my layouts or writing and translate or repost onto any other sites.

[mysticallystilinski]

i just need the sappiest like nap with stiles he's such a baby i cannot

BABY LOVE

a stiles stilinski x fem!reader fic

— ౨ৎ masterlist

CW ! (literally only the most cutest fluff)

lav speaks.. i’m so tired and it’s 3 am! i listened to the feels by twice the entire time while making this fic; take that as it is :)

heading to the stilinski household after lacrosse practice was the highlight of your day. of course — stiles lacrosse practice. one day in particular, you had happened to head to his house a little bit later than normal.

going up the front porch steps, and knocking on his door to no response was a little confusing to you. usually with the 4 knocks, stiles and yours speciality, he would run down the stairs, knock into a few things, then quickly open the door.

nope, today it was an embodiment of silence. beacon hills was growing darker by the second. of course with the reputation of the supernatural, you had to either go home and explain to stiles later why you didn’t show up, or risk being hit by a baseball bat in self defense.

you chose the second option.

slowly creaking the door open, the lights were on, but sheriff stilinski was at work; meaning that stiles had to be somewhere. fear creeping within, you quickly ran up the stairs and towards stiles room. his door was ajar, meaning he was definitely home.

“sti?”, you questioned softly while opening his door. your face contorted into an awe once you saw he was sleeping on his bed, still in his lacrosse jersey. stiles shoes were on, his hair slightly sweaty, and he was hugging one of your blankets that you gave him tightly.

you slowly pulled out your phone, and snapped a photo of him, sending it to his phone for him to look at later. heading over to him, you quickly took off your shoes and jacket, and laid right next to him.

“stiles — wake up i’m here”, you giggle. stiles groaned, turning over while practically crushing you underneath him. he mumbled something incoherent, so you didn’t even bother trying to understand what he meant. “sti, you’re hurting me”.

his arms started to feel around, as if he was looking for something important. finally finding your warm body, he pulled you in closer making you breath in his musky scent. you practically died at the touching from him. even though he was your boyfriend, every experience felt new and never got old.

he embraced you, as you wrapped your arms around his torso. you felt his chest rise, slowly up and down. he was dead asleep, and there was no waking him up from this comfy position.

you gave up fighting it and actually gave in. making yourself comfortable, you wrapped your legs around stiles legs, interlocking each-others bodies. with being able to slightly use your hands, you connected your phone to his speaker and put on some soft music.

stiles woke up in a haze, trying to figure out his surroundings and who he was cuddling. once he realized it was you, a smile absorbed his face. “hey”, he spoke softly. you laughed at his expression, half-asleep, and practically dreaming.

“did lacrosse kick your ass?” you slight snickered. stiles just groaned at the thought of lacrosse, “yes — yes it definitely did.” without second thought, stiles pulled you closer to his sweaty body. you didn’t mind it though, you guys were just close like that.

besides, it was kind of a turn on.

stiles yawned, which caused you to yawn — complete chain reaction. “baby, are you tired?”, stiles asked in a compassionate voice. in a sleepy haze, your eyes started to droop and your thoughts wandered. “mm’ so tired sti.”

he smirked at your words, slightly rubbing your back to make you even more sleepy. “here, wear my jersey baby”, stiles spoke in a whisper. he stripped himself of the jersey, and slowly maneuvered it onto your body.

it had to be immediately after that action that you were out like a light, breathing in the comforting scent of his. stiles faced his back towards you and took your hand around his body. he needed to be comfortable too, and of course he was the little spoon, always.

minutes later, stiles was sound asleep in your arms. both dreaming of each-other, lovers became closer.

— ᡣ𐭩 LAV

[theodorenmyth]

Mattheo who has an introverted! Boyfriend, but when r is drunk they turn into a different person who is bold asf to just say shit and mattheo is just like “holy shit”

Bold Booze

Pairings ; Mattheo Riddle x M!Reader

Summary ; At a Slytherin party, you watch from the sidelines as Mattheo Riddle enjoys the festivities. When he convinces you to try firewhisky, the alcohol unlocks a bold side of you, leading to teasing and passionate moments with Mattheo. The night is filled with intense desire and stolen touches, and by morning, you wake up with the aftermath of your fiery escapades. Reflecting on the unexpected boldness from the firewhisky, you realize it's a night Mattheo will relish and remind you of for a long time.

A/N ; I LAV LAVVV THIS REWUEST 😻😻😻

warnings); slight smut, mentions of alcohol, bite marks

Word count ; 1k

You sit quietly in the corner of the Slytherin common room, nursing a butterbeer and observing the raucous party around you. Your boyfriend, Mattheo Riddle, is the center of attention as always, laughing and talking with his friends. You don’t mind, really. The noise and chaos of the party are a bit overwhelming, and you’re content to stay in your little corner, watching Mattheo from afar.

He catches your eye and smiles, making his way over to you. “Hey, love. Why don’t you join us?”

You shake your head, smiling shyly. “I’m good here, Mattheo.”

Mattheo sits beside you, his dark eyes twinkling mischievously. “How about a drink? Something stronger than butterbeer?”

You hesitate, but the warm, inviting look in his eyes makes you relent. “Alright, one drink.”

Mattheo returns with two glasses of firewhisky, handing one to you. “Cheers,” he says, clinking his glass against yours.

You take a tentative sip, the liquid burning its way down your throat. You cough slightly, but Mattheo’s encouraging smile makes you take another sip. Before long, the glass is empty, and Mattheo hands you another.

As the firewhisky works its way through your system, you start to feel more relaxed. The noise of the party fades into the background, and a new, bold feeling rises within you. You catch Mattheo’s eye, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“Matty,” you say, your voice low and husky. “Come here.”

Mattheo raises an eyebrow, intrigued by your sudden change in demeanor. He leans in, and you whisper in his ear, “You have no idea how badly I want you right now.”

His eyes widen in surprise, a flush creeping up his neck. “Y/N, are you drunk?”

“Maybe,” you reply with a mischievous grin. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re driving me crazy.”

Mattheo chuckles, his hand resting on your thigh. “You’re full of surprises tonight.”

You lean closer, your lips brushing against his ear. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Mattheo’s eyes darken with desire, but he tries to maintain his composure. “Maybe we should get you some water.”

You shake your head, placing a hand on his chest to stop him. “I don’t want water. I want you.”

He looks around, noting the curious glances from his friends. “You’re going to make a scene, love.”

You smirk, enjoying the way his breath hitches as you trail your fingers up his chest. “Isn’t that what you like? Being the center of attention?”

Mattheo bites his lip, clearly torn between his desire and his need to keep up appearances. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Y/N.”

You lean in, your lips brushing against his. “I like living dangerously.”

The rest of the night is a blur of teasing whispers and stolen touches. You can see the effect you’re having on Mattheo, the way his breath hitches and his eyes darken with desire. You revel in it, pushing the boundaries further with each passing minute.

“Matty,” you purr, your lips ghosting over his neck. “Let’s get out of here.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Mattheo grabs your hand, practically dragging you up the stairs to his dormitory. As soon as the door closes behind you, his lips are on yours, hungry and demanding. You respond with equal fervor, your hands roaming over his body, tugging at his clothes. “I need you,” you whisper against his lips. “Now.”

Mattheo growls low in his throat, lifting you and tossing you onto the bed. “You’re going to regret teasing me all night,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire.

You shiver at his words, anticipation coursing through you. “I doubt that,” you challenge, your eyes glinting with mischief.

The night continues with an intensity you’ve never experienced before. Mattheo’s hands and lips explore every inch of your body, and you respond with equal fervor. The boundaries between you blur, and all that exists is the fire between you, burning hotter and brighter with every touch, every kiss, every whispered word.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You wake up the next morning with a pounding headache and a multitude of aches and pains. Your back is sore, and your skin is marked with hickeys, bite marks, and bruises. You groan, burying your face in the pillow as memories of the previous night flood back.

Mattheo is already awake, leaning against the headboard with a smug grin on his face. “Good morning, love.”

You glare at him, though it lacks any real heat. “Morning.”

He chuckles, brushing a hand through your hair. “You were practically screaming my name last night.”

You blush furiously, pulling the blanket over your head. “Oh, fuck off. Don’t remind me.”

Mattheo laughs, pulling the blanket away and leaning down to kiss you. “You were so cute, begging for my touch.”

You groan again, hiding your face in your hands. “Ugh, I can’t believe I did that.”

Mattheo nips at your ear, his voice a teasing whisper. “I loved every second of it. And so did you.”

Despite your embarrassment, you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “Maybe I did.”

Mattheo’s grin widens, and he pulls you into his arms, holding you close. “Good. Because I plan on making you scream my name again very soon.”

You laugh, resting your head against his chest. “I’m not sure my back can handle it.”

He smirks, his hand tracing patterns on your skin. “I’ll go easy on you next time. Maybe.”

You roll your eyes, but the fondness in your gaze is unmistakable. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” Mattheo replies, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You sigh, content despite the lingering aches and pains. “Yeah, I do.”

Mattheo’s arms tighten around you, and you know that despite the teasing, he cares for you deeply. As you drift back to sleep, you can’t help but feel grateful for the unexpected boldness that the firewhisky brought out in you. It’s a night you’ll never forget, and one you’re sure Mattheo won’t let you live down anytime soon.

[seraphdreams]

No cause Choso is stepbro coded 🤤

he is !

he’s so sweet stepbro that checks up on you late at night when you’re supposed to be sleeping but you’re wide awake due to the nimble fingers stuffed in your achy cunt . . . you’ve been wanting to get off for a while now, rutting those same lithe digits into your hole for the past thirty minutes, but your fingers just don’t reach those places that choso’s do — he’d be so willing to help you out when you ask too, why wouldn’t he? you’re his cute little sister after all n he’s a great big bro !! his thick fingers, nails painted an inky black, pumping in and out of your greedy hole while he kisses you nice n sloppy, letting his tongue lav around yours in a way that has your breath bitching n mind spinning, taking in your sweet moans . . . he knows it’s wrong but he can’t stop himself from giving you what you want, what you need. for now he’ll keep it on the low, he’ll convince you that this is just what big brothers do . . .

[nikipuff]

Lav... I'm legit crying from that angst prompt. God, can we all let Ronin be happy for 5 mins!?

(Lovely work BTW, ya did a great job with it, it's pulling at my heartstrings at the moment...)

Would it be alright to ask for a counter prompt for the angst? In where Ronin DOES save his darling from their injury and help take care of them? I'm a sucker for someone realizing their mistakes and trying to fix it so it doesn't happen again trope.

Thanks for reading! And once again, fantastic job.

🔍-anon. :)

Thank you so much 🔍 anon!! (You're too kind I swear-) I can't tell if you're joking about the crying thing 😭 But I'll count it for the writing goals!

You Didn't Leave Me

Warnings: Descriptions of beating someone to death with a crowbar, bit shorter than I wanted it to be, Angel mention!!

“Don’t . . . don’t you dare leave me, darlin’.” Ronin doubled down on his efforts, keeping the cloth pressed against the wound. Sounds of your labored breathing echoed throughout the alleyway, yet Ronin didn’t dare shush you. The noise kept him focused, helped him remember what was at stake. 

Your life.

“Didn’t plan on it.” Gritting your teeth, you fought the urge to scream as Ronin attempted to stabilize you. He had long since called Angel, asking, no, begging that she come and help you both. He didn’t trust the police enough to handle finding your attacker and bringing them to justice, so instead, he called for Angel to come and help him hunt them down and give them the fate they deserved.

Frantic footsteps were heard as Angel arrived, a first aid kit in hand. “Ronin, (User)!” Crouching beside you, she nudged Ronin out of the way, cursing as she saw your wound. Ronin stumbled back, but nodded as he understood what to do next.

Revenge.

You were his Darling, his fallen angel that he was adamant on keeping. He couldn't lose you- not like he had with Ther.

Grabbing his crowbar, he gave you a crooked grin before disappearing into the night to deliver justice for you.

. . . 

It wasn’t pretty.

The man hadn’t gotten far, his body not fit for this situation. 

Had the old man even hid a body before?

Ronin doubted it.

“Hey, you.” The man turned, his eyes wide as he saw the red stain on Ronin’s shirt. Your blood, spreading and spreading until it covered him completely while he worked to save you. And now, it was the very thing etched into your attacker’s mind.

Falling backwards onto the cold alley floor, the man played his final card- desperation. Begging for Ronin to spare him, to let him go free. That he would pay for your hospital treatment, do anything to help you heal. And as much as Ronin wanted to bash his skull in, he obliged. 

“Money. Now.” Grateful words tumbled from the man’s mouth as he grabbed his wallet, thrusting it before Ronin as if his life depended on it. And well . . . it did.

Shuffling through the money, Ronin grunted in response, shoving it in his pocket. He looked back at the man, a cruel smile spreading across his features. “You know . . . I think I’ve changed my mind.”

. . .

The screaming had stopped after the third hit.

His crowbar was splattered, ruined by the blood of such a rotten man. 

But nonetheless, justice had been served, Even V could approve of how he dealt with the situation. No innocents were harmed, with only the blood of a guilty man staining him that night.

Checking his phone, Ronin found Angel calling him. He answered, pressing the device against his ear.

“They okay?”

“Yeah. We’re at my house now if you want to come by.”

Ronin laughed, amused that she would suggest that he didn’t want to visit you. “Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’. Gotta apologize to my darlin’ for putting her there.”

“Is the great Ronin Beaufort going to apologize for once?”

Hearing the amusement and feigned disbelief in Angel’s tone, he decided to play along.

“I suppose I will.”

[loupy-mongoose]

Once more, Lavender woke into the white void that had become a familiar comfort to her.

She looked around, soon spotting him. She smiled and called out.

Nico!

The tall Mewtwo met her eyes and smiled back to her. Hey, Lav!

She floated over to close the gap, her mind swirling with how she wanted to go about her desired conversation.

Nico had a gleam in his eyes. I was thinking, if you want, I can teach you how to make visions too! I'm sure it's possible. This is a shared mindscape, after all.

Lav smiled at him, but her expression must have signaled him to stop, as he looked at her expectantly. So she spoke up.

Actually, Nico... I... wanted to ask you something...s, maybe... Uh...

His ears perked up, ready to hear but not pushing her.

Um.... M-my dad, uh... He--

She was cut off by a sudden alertness from her companion, and he butt in. What? Did he do something? Are you alright??

Lav reeled at his outburst. Wh--No no, nothing! I'm fine! She felt a pang. No, he didn't... She recomposed her thoughts. He's... He's afraid of you... I thought by now he would be used to it, but when I bring you up, he... gets really anxious. He tries to hide it, but... I can feel it on him.

A spark of concern hit her. Nico feels the same about him...

Nico shrugged a little. Well, you have to consider that you're meeting with an adult stranger where he can't keep an eye on you. His eyes glanced sideways in discomfort. And a powerful one, at that...

Lav crossed her arms, mulling it over. Sure... but I asked him if I could, and he said okay... But honestly, I can understand...

He and I... don't really know much about you.

Nico's ear flicked thoughtfully. He seemed to shrink a little bit.

I...

Here I go....

I wanted to ask... Can you tell me about your past?

A concerned light entered his eyes. My past?

Lav took a quiet breath. It was clear he didn't want to talk about it. But... she needed reassurance that he wasn't what her dad thought he was.

And she needed to enlighten the other way around, too.

When we first connected, you, uh... said something to me about not being a weapon... Was that...

~~~~~~

PREVIOUS NEXT

ARC START | CHRONO

Giovanni fans, don't get excited. He's not going to be a lasting part of this story. X3

[thehusbandoden]

"Imoto" Alternative Ending -In love!Bakugo Katsuki x Heartbroken!Reader

A/n: it doesn't have a clear ending so call it how you'd like.

General info:

Genre: angst, comfort \\ wc: 442 \\ posted: 04/08/24

Summary:

Alternative ending, Izuku rejects you, leaving Bakugo to comfort you.

Tags: @garfieldthomas; @lemon-lav

Warnings!: rejection, unreciprocated love, unclear ending, oblivious reader, reader loves Izuku, Izuku loves Uraraka, Bakugo loves reader, jealousy, anger, possessiveness, a bit of Izucho, idk what else. Lmk if I miss any. <3

"Imoto" -Inlove!Bakugo Katsuki x Oblivious!Reader

“Are you sure this is going to work?” You whisper nervously, staring at the green-haired boy in the next room. He was talking to Uraraka, smiling shyly as he rambled about some new pro hero.  

“Of course it will, now go.” Bakugo grunted, gently pushing you forward. You glance back at him hesitantly. He gives you a small smile, giving you the courage to proceed. You take a deep breath before walking into the next room.  

You feel Bakugo’s crimson eyes boring into your back as you walk over to your childhood crush, Midoriya Izuku. He didn’t even notice you, continuing to ramble to the brunette. She had a bright blush on her cheeks, causing jealousy to stir in your stomach.  

You mentally berate yourself for being ridiculous as you tap Izuku’s shoulder. 

~ 

Bakugo’s pov:  

Bakugo’s eyes narrow as he sees Deku chatting to round cheeks, his eyes lit up in joy. He clenches his fist as he realizes that your heart is about to be torn to shreds. He thinks about stopping you but knows that you need to find out... the hard way.  

His eyes are lit up in rage as he watches you nervously tap his shoulder, shyly mumbling under your breath. After a few moments, Izuku seems to realize what’s happening, and quickly starts to backtrack.  

After another minute, you slowly start to walk back towards Bakugo. His jaw is clenched as he meets you halfway, placing a hand on your shoulder to lead you out of sight. Once you’re away from everyone, you collapse into his arms.

He looks down at you protectively, wrapping his arms around you as he brings you to his chest, caressing your hair gently. “Shh it’s alright. He wasn’t worth your time anyways...” he gruffly whispers.  

You don’t speak relying on him to support you- which he does. His mind races as he thinks of all the ways he’s going to get at the idiotic Izuku for breaking your precious heart.  

“Shhh, it’s alright. I’m here, I’ll protect you. My y/n..”  

~~~~~

Bakugo's Masterlist | Masterlist | Navigation | You can tip me here<3

Reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated <33

~~~~~

Do not copy, repost, nor plagiarize my work. Ask before you translate or use my work in any way, minus reblogging.

[jaxfromthatcircus]

Hey, it's me and this is my blog

SO guess what? I found acess to one of those funky computers that Caine keeps in secret... And made this! Isn't it cool? Eh, not like I have anything better to do anyways.

So I guess you people from the interneet can send me some cool asks about how things are going here, I just won't spill secrets okay?

...Who am I kidding, of course I will.

Warnings!

Be aware that the person behind this blog IS AN ADULT and so is the character, mod is 19 and Jax is 22. Do NOT send me anything sexual if you're a minor. This blog may contain sexual or suggestive jokes and is considered 16+.

Be mindful that this blog is both based in canon AND headcanons, so some stuff might not be completely "in character". If you see something that you dislike, remember that the character IS an asshole but also the mod's just having fun with it lol don't need to harass anyone because of a silly gag.

This blog may contain mentions of drug and alcohol use as well as heavy topics like mental breakdowns, panic, and similar. Suicidal topics will be kept to a minimum but may always happen, so viewer discretion is advised.

Meet the crew!

You can check out other blogs that I mainly interact with here! Amazing masterlist by yours @ask-abstracted-kaufmo truly, go give em some love!!

Why did you not answer me?

If I did not answer your ask yet, there might be a reason:

- I'm sleeping or working

- I am searching for a more appropriate answer to the question (if it relates to canon stuff)

- There was an exactly same ask sooner so I'm killing two birds with one stone

- I'm editing an image for the ask

- I'm not following the order or the asks for a funny reason

- Too many asks, mod is sorry for this one-

- Update March 24: hhhh not great era, I'm sorry if I may take long but managing life has been crazy rn

The children!

So far we have 9 kid anons that Jax is caring for

That doesn't mean you can't make your own silly anons to interact too, bring your ocs, it's fine! This is just a list of adopted children.

[Last update on 22/04/2024]

So far, we got:

cool anon

foreheadkisser

clown

lav

sleepy

strawberry

patchwork

pastel

phoenix

Roleplaying

"This is how Jax talks! Hi darlin' ;)"

This is how we're gona describe actions and anything that is not to be said out loud.

[mod coffee: and this is how yours truly, mod coffee, will appear here once in a while! hello ;) ]

Extras!

Other blogs also ran by me are @jaxrabbitoid-thehuman, @dogday-shines-bright and @ask-theredcrown check it out if you feel like it!

I made a mod blog where you can reach out to me! It's @mod-coffee-is-here!

[dittolicous]

I guess if I'm never going to draw it I might as well share my Centaurworld x Submas comic idea, based on two different songs, Fragile Things (Reprise) and Who is She (Reprise)

The idea for Fragile Things (Reprise) is a look at PLA and a possible happy ending for our two displaced travelers

For we are all just fragile things, Soft and small - Ingo and a newly hatched Sneasle

And oh, I know, That life is full of suffering and pain - Protag/Akari being kicked out and alone with the Shinx

But - scene break

All the broken can find hope in, The most unexpected places - Laventon and Rei coming for/worrying over Akari, Cylleen in the background

Love still finds us - Akari (or Irida) alerting/calling out to Ingo

Family finds us, Even if we can't make out their faces - Two blurry face that clear up to reveal Emmet and Elesa (and Celebi?) who came to Hisui to find him

Even an orphaned baby girl, Can find a new herd of her own - Akari laying in a field of flowers with Rei, Lav in the backgroud trying to impress Cyllene but actually scaring her with a bug type Pokemon

And a warrior from a different world, Can find love so far from home - Ingo hugging/reuniting with Emmet and Elesa, introducing them to Sneasler, Akari, and Irida/Pearl Clan

Hello, hello - scene break

It's nice to meet you - Arceus and Akari silhouettes

versus Who is She (Reprise) which is more of a look into PLA Ingo’s mindset

Help me, I think I’m far too gone - Ingo, alone in the Icelands

And my reflection has become, An unfamiliar someone - Looking at his reflection in ice, looks away unhappily

So close, But I think I’m stuck in place - Walking alone, aimlessly

I don’t deserve you, Now that I forgot your face - Thinking sadly about Emmet, who he can't fully recall, face all blurry

Who is she? She’s the ghost of the girl I used to know - The memory fades away to leave him alone

Who is she? She’s the echo I’m chasing - Sees a small group of Zoroark and Zorua happily together, the colors and shapes making him long, jealous of the clear joy in the family unit

Who is she? Oh, I swore that I’d never let her go - Travels on alone as the memories fade completely

And now the one I held so dear, My mind’s erasing - Aggravated and grips at his head trying to recall more memories

It takes a little boldness - Seems to come to a decision

And a little bit of magic - Sees the spark of a distortion in the distance

I went on my own - Rushes towards it

But now I’m alone - Running alone through the snow

I’m lost and I am panicked - Clearly not thinking straight, making a rash decision but pushing forward

I think I should go into the unknown - Stands before the distortion/portal

So say bye, To the old - Hesitates for a moment before walking into the distortion

The end? Lol.

But yeah, I've had these in my head for years now and could never get myself to draw them, so I'll just put it out this way. And if anyone wants to draw omit or do their own take, hell yeah, please do!

[lilliankoo]

play you like a game, boy || chapter 2.

🗡️ antagonist jungkook x princess reader

trope: "he's mean to everyone but worships the ground you walk on", will absolutely do anything for you, strangers to lovers.

word count: 2.1k

chapter 1 chapter 3

synopsis: he looks like an angel but is a devil- well that's what your kingdom thinks. he is also the blessed leader of tribe "lav"; even a leaf cannot move without his permission but here he was in-front of you on his knees. while the whole tribe bows to him- he only bows to you. now, there are two paths presented to you- marry him & return his love or refuse & watch him conquer your father's kingdom. power is an evil yet a tempting apple-and now its in your hands- are you going to take a bite; taste the sweet poison or will you use it to tempt others? its an evil world with evil options.. do you think you can handle him?

chapter warnings: mention of blood, machete. rituals, mentions of sacrifices, kissing, possessive jungkook, slightly jealous jungkook, simp jungkook, calling the reader “mother”.

————————————————————————

You are confused, and so are your parents. You can tell by the way they both look at you, then at Jungkook.

"Ritual?" your father asks, his voice filled with uncertainty.

Jungkook gives a slight smile, looking around, and you can't quite read the expression on his face. Whatever is going on inside his mind, you're sure it's not good. He sighs and takes a few steps back.

"Here in Lav, we don't believe in marriages. We perform a soul-tying ritual," he says.

The words sound foreign, almost alien to your ears. Your brows furrow instinctively, a wave of confusion washing over you. You’re too scared to look at your parents right now. You glance at Jungkook instead, noticing the way his eyes seem to drink you in—too much adoration, compassion, care... love. Your mother had been right; Jungkook is indeed in love with you.

You gulp, trying to steady your racing heart, and look at your father, standing next to you. He meets your gaze and, without a word, intertwines his hand with yours. You find solace in the familiar gesture. Growing up, you’d always been closer to your father than your mother, but what you don’t notice is the way Jungkook’s jaw clenches, the silent fury in his gaze as he looks at your father.

Jungkook clears his throat, his tone soft but firm as he extends his hand toward you. “Come,” he murmurs.

You hesitate, unsure of what to do. But your father squeezes your hand in reassurance. It’s unspoken, but you understand the message: don’t ruin this. Slowly, you take Jungkook’s hand and follow him up the stairs toward the platform. He leads you to stand in front of two chairs, centered on the stage, while your parents stand by the side with the villagers.

You turn back to glance at them when, suddenly, an elderly man approaches, draping a large mantle made of fur and leather over your shoulders. As he does, he mutters a prayer in a language you don't understand. The mantle is identical to Jungkook's, except for one difference—his mantle bears a tiger’s head perched on top. The sight unsettles you, but you try not to dwell on it.

At the stage with you and Jungkook, besides the old man, stand two women and the man who brought you here earlier. One of the women, dressed in brown leather, steps forward, smiling warmly. She speaks to Jungkook, and he nods. He motions for you to sit. You comply, but the tight corset and heavy mantle make it difficult. You try to fold the dress by your feet, but the corset gives you little room to move.

Without hesitation, Jungkook kneels before you, adjusting your dress with surprising tenderness. A strange, unfamiliar sensation tugs at your chest. As he does so, you notice the shocked expressions of the onlookers—the elderly man’s mouth hangs open, the women exchange bewildered glances, and the crowd murmurs amongst themselves. Your parents stand frozen, your father’s mouth agape while your mother wears a knowing smirk, her eyes gleaming with the unspoken words: “I told you.”

"Is it okay?" Jungkook’s voice pulls you from your trance, and you nod absentmindedly. His smile returns, a faint glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes, before he stands, sitting back in his chair.

As time passes, preparations for the ritual continue. Everything happening around you feels utterly foreign. A man drums in the corner, another blows into a shell-like instrument, and yet another makes guttural, animal-like sounds. It’s all too much for your senses.

A sharp, shrill noise cuts through the chaos, and your eyes are drawn to a pair of goats, tied to a post in the corner. You can’t shake the growing suspicion that they are here to be sacrificed. A chill runs down your spine at the thought.

As you survey the scene, another woman approaches with a bowl. From your sitting position, you can’t see the contents, but when she dips her fingers into the bowl and reaches for your face, you instinctively lean back. She steps back, waiting for Jungkook’s cue.

He exchanges a few words with her in their native language, then turns to you. “You don’t have to be scared. This is just fuller’s earth clay mixed with rosewater and coconut oil. It’s necessary, a vital part of the ritual.”

His voice is calm, almost too sweet, and for a moment, you doubt his intentions. He gestures to the woman, who begins applying the clay to his throat, drawing a half-moon symbol on his forehead and two parallel lines on his jaw. Once she finishes, she turns to you, and again you recoil.

But this time, you have a plan.

“I want you to apply it,” you say softly, a hint of challenge in your voice.

Jungkook’s eyes widened in surprise. The old man, who had draped your mantle, clears his throat and steps forward, perhaps to interject. From what you can gather, Jungkook isn’t supposed to do this. The man speaks, but Jungkook raises a hand, silencing him without even looking in his direction.

With a smile, Jungkook turns to you and nods. The crowd gasps as he cradles your face in his hands, his fingers gently applying the clay, mirroring the symbols on his own face. He tilts your head from side to side, admiring his work, and when his gaze locks with yours, he murmurs, “Pretty.”

Anger rises in you, burning hot. This wasn’t the way you wanted him to act. The ritual, his control, it’s all too much. You feel your jaw clench, your eyes sting with frustration. But you hold it in.

The ritual continues for a while longer, with more strange and uncomfortable actions. You wear a crown-like headband made of peacock feathers, bracelets, threads, and bangles are tied to your wrists, and you’re made to recite several prayers.

Finally, the old man steps forward once more, nodding toward Jungkook.

“The ritual is complete,” the man says. “But one thing remains. To seal it fully, there is still one step left.”

Jungkook turned to you and gently intertwined his hands with yours, making you stand. You both descend the few steps toward the post, but just before you reach it, Jungkook diverts your path toward your parents.

For the first time, your father smiles at you. Your mother, though, looks more relieved than anything. Just as you’re about to embrace them, Jungkook steps in front of you, pulling your father into a hug instead.

“Congratulations,” Jungkook says, his voice sincere.

Your mother echoes the sentiment.

“We would love to have you both stay, but the next ritual is only for the people of Lav,” Jungkook says, his gaze turning to your father. “The carriage is ready.” He gestures toward the vehicle in the distance.

A wave of dread washes over you as your father nods, though he quickly asks if they can speak with you privately. Jungkook denies the request, telling him to say whatever he wants in front of him.

“Take care. May the gods be with you,” your father says softly, caressing your head.

“You’ll be fine here, my baby. Jungkook will keep you safe,” your mother says, her eyes fixed on him.

The weight of their departure hits you like a ton of bricks. Tears slip down your face, and you throw your arms around your parents, desperate not to let go.

“I want to go with you,” you plead, but before your father can respond, Jungkook steps forward.

“You cannot,” he says, his voice low and firm.

Rage flares up inside you, and suddenly everything feels too tight. The mantle, the crown, the bracelets—all feel suffocating. You try to pull at them desperately, your jaw clenched, tears streaming down your face. Jungkook grabs your arms to steady you, forcing you to meet his gaze.

For the first time today, you see the real Jungkook. His brows are furrowed, his jaw clenched, and the love that once seemed to soften him is gone. “You are my woman now,” he breathes, his voice low and serious. “You are the mother of this forest and these people. If you leave, everyone will die—including the forest, the people, and me. We are tied to you.”

His words strike you silent. You stare at him, searching for something—anything—that might explain this. But he says nothing more.

When he lets go of your arms, he rubs them gently as if apologizing.

—------------------------------------------------------

You watch as the carriage pulls away, your parents leaving you behind in this strange village.

“Come,” Jungkook says, his voice gentle now as he takes your hand. You follow him, the energy drained from you.

“This is the last ritual,” Jungkook whispers in your ear. “After this, we will be each other’s forever.”

His words send a shiver through your spine. The thought of living here as his "wife" does not sit well with you.

“What will happen?” you ask quietly, your heart pounding.

Jungkook doesn’t respond immediately. He takes a deep breath and squeezes your hand. “We are going to gift our forest goddess, Devti. This day wouldn’t have been possible without her,” he says.

Before you can ask another question, a woman steps forward with a machete in hand. Your eyes widen in horror. The goats, the sacrifice—it's happening.

The woman’s voice booms through the clearing. “Everyone, the goddess Devti has blessed us once again. She has given our leader, Jeon Jungkook, another gift. For years, this forest has yearned for a mother, and here she is.”

Your mind reels at the mention of “mother.”

"Today, Jeon Jungkook and Y/N became one. Today, Lav and its people got their mother," she finishes, and the crowd erupts in deafening cheers.

“May Devti keep blessing the Lav, protect her people, and may Devti bless our leader Jungkook and mother Y/N with a prosperous future,” the woman concludes.

The crowd chants, “No man can defeat him, for he is blessed by the Devti.”

You are trembling. The weight of the machete in your hand feels too heavy. The goats cry in terror, and for a moment, you wonder if they know what’s coming. You look at Jungkook, but his smile only intensifies your fear.

"Go on," he urges softly. "Give her blood."

You shake your head, your breath quickening. You cannot bring yourself to kill innocent creatures. With trembling hands, you pass the machete back to Jungkook.

"I can't," you whisper. "I can't kill them."

Jungkook’s eyes soften, and he places a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Y/N, my love, this isn’t killing. It’s offering blood to the goddess."

But nothing he says helps. You are suffocating, your mind reeling, when a sudden idea flashes across your mind.

“Jungkook,” you say, your voice shaking but resolute. “Your goddess needs blood, right?”

He nods, sensing your change of tone.

“Well,” you continue, looking directly at him, “I don't want to kill the goats. They're babies, they should be with their mother. But... if she wants blood...” You pause, wiping your tears. “Then give her yours.”

You place your head against his chest, allowing yourself a moment of quiet satisfaction as his eyes widen.

But before he can react, one of the villagers steps forward, his voice protesting.

“That’s against the ritual,” he says.

You don’t give him a chance to finish. You step in front of him and snap, “Do not interfere while I’m speaking to my husband.”

The man immediately bows, a look of fear crossing his face.

Jungkook steps forward, his hand on your back, as he pushes the man away. “Only talk to my wife like that if you want to become one with the fire,” he warns, his voice cold.

You stand there, momentarily taken aback by his response. You suppress a smirk.

In a sudden motion, Jungkook grabs the machete, surprising the crowd when he slides the blade across his palm. Blood drips from his hand as he walks toward the stone statue of the goddess Devti. He wipes the blood over the stone, breathing heavily as the air grows thick with tension.

The crowd stands frozen in place, too afraid to make a sound. The silence is suffocating, and for reasons you cannot explain, you suddenly find yourself walking toward him.

In that moment, something inside you shifts. You grab his face and kiss him.

For a brief second, he is caught off guard, but then his hands find their place around you, pulling you closer. He cradles your jaw with his blood covered hand, he moans into the kiss. You break the kiss, suddenly aware of your surroundings.

Before anything else can happen, the old man steps forward, taking the machete from Jungkook and casting it aside.

He pats Jungkook on the back, his voice booming across the gathering.

“May the goddess approve of this,” he says. “May she bless the mother as she has blessed this village. From this day, till the very end, Mother Y/N and Jeon Jungkook shall be together.”

The crowd erupts in cheers, and your future here begins to solidify.

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next chapter

taglist: @jincapableoflove @voitier @koocreampie @kookxin @mysticprincessstrawberry @imwutim @synamon @withmuchluv-tannie @taekritimin123 let me know if u would like to be added.

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thank you so much for the love on this fic, im happy that you guys are enjoying it :) i have so many more cool ideas, once i finish this series i will start posting them.

[skiitter]

Sometimes I feel crazy when people say that Lav should be a beacon of understanding and forgiveness for Solas at all times. Girl what???? She CHALLENGED him at every turn. Fought him on his wackass hatred of the Dalish, fought him in Trespasser no matter the disposition/choice, fought him when he gave that weak reason for leaving her. She constantly has him on his toes because she does not defer to him when she disagrees with him. Solas is SO single minded (something something he’s a spirit) and his POV is very narrow and Lav is out here like “No bitch!!! Open your fucking eyes babe!!!” She’s not a yes-man. She loves him of course but love is NOT an unequivocal acceptance of someone. She challenges him to be the best version of himself. That’s why she was so good at convincing him thus him leaving her behind. Because she sees through his bullshit attempts to justify things and loves him enough to make him pick the better path. ITS WHY SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ABLE TO CONVINCE HIM IN THE END. Because SHE knows who Solas is better than anyone alive and that is an impossibly intimate and vulnerable thing.

[mysticallystilinski]

Can we get more high stiles content? Also love your work its genuinely makes my day 🫶🫶

faded on the beach

stiles stilinski x fem!reader

content : p n v sexual intercourse, no protection, underage (below 21) intoxication, public sex, slightly experienced stiles stoner

lav speaks: < hi! thank you much for loving my work; you’re too sweet! request as much as you want! more 🍃 stiles content ahead >

masterlist + taglist

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lying on the blanket, you turned to face stiles as he applied his sunscreen to himself. he began to struggle as his back was the section needing lotion. stiles, baby, do you need help?, you giggled. no — i’m good, he grunted. it was funny to see him struggle at such a simple task.

ignoring his stubbornness, you dug in your bag for your weed. pulling out the blunt, and lighter, you placed both upon the towel. stiles eyes directed to the items on the ground, and slowly moved his eyes from there to yours.

are you thinking what i’m thinking?, he questioned.

you already know it. from then on, you took the blunt in your fingers, and slowly began to rotate it while evenly lighting the end. stiles eyes burned into your body as you burned the fire into the tip. he couldn’t deny it, stiles would fuck you anywhere he would if he could. the swim suit already left an impression on him as soon as you walked out of the house.

hey, y/n, when you’re done with that do you need me to help you with your sunscreen, he smirked. you couldn’t see his demeanor, but practically felt it pulse into you after those words came out of him. “yes stiles, only if you don’t mind”.

the tip was lit, and ready to be smoked. you shifted the weed from your position to your open lips, and took a long rip. it wasn’t your first time getting high, so you knew how much you could handle. stiles, on the other hand, could not really handle his weed.

after taking a few more hits, you handed the wood to stiles. without hesitation, he grabbed it from your fingers and took a puff.

stiles started to cough, all while not being able to handle the sensation in his lungs. god damn’ it, he managed to choke out. you giggled as your breathing started to become staggered. the feeling was a little hazey, but would soon intensify.

do you wanna take another? he offered. you slyly nodded as he passed the blunt back over into your direction. taking another hit, you locked eyes with stiles. an idea popped into your head.

you sat up onto your knees, and motioned for stiles to sit in front of you. stiles gave you a look of confusion before you filled your mouth with smoke and connected your lips together. blowing the smoke into his mouth, he pulled you closer.

stiles inhaled most of the sweet mixture of your lips and the weed, and delved into the kiss. pulling you onto his lap, you wrapped your arms around his neck, being careful not to drop the blunt. he pulled away to exhale, almost immediately out of breath.

god — you taste so good y/n

you blushed, stiles could make you feel that way with a snap of his fingers. those fingers have made you feel good so many times. let’s make it once more. you tugged upon stiles hair, interlocking your fingers within it with one hand.

you threw the roach upon the ground and placed the other hand on his back. your fingers traced circles, lines, anything you could think of all while he was thinking of fucking you. stiles mind was filled with thoughts of taking you right there on the beach. so why wouldn’t he?

stiles hand made his way from your back, to the hem of your swim suit bottoms. sti, stop teasing please, you groaned out. your head was already pounding with thoughts and waves of pleasure. you felt stiles long fingers make his way under the lace of the fabric, and quickly find your throbbing clit.

he didn’t hesitate.

the boy began to slowly rub his way through your folds, finding all the perfect spots in all the right places. you couldn’t tell if it was the intoxication, or just his fingers that made it this pleasurable. does it feel good? he slurred. you moaned out in a giggly response, giving a quick answer.

while delving through your folds, stiles took his other hand and brought it upon your chin. look at me baby. his eyes were low, and so were yours. it almost seemed as though they were glowing a passionate red. seeing the expression from your pleasure made stiles smirk. he got horny quickly, a bulge appearing through his swim trunks.

you know, you make me feel so good y/n, stiles groaned as he stuck a finger into you. blissfully aware, this caused your high to heighten. your mind was boggling from the fingers deep inside your pussy, plus the weed making it’s way into your system. please just fuck me already stiles.

stiles thought you looked so cute begging for his cock right then and there. you couldn’t tell from your eyes being closed in pleasure, but stiles was staring at every inch of you. your clothed tits, your beautiful body, your gorgeous face. he loved absolutely everything about you.

sticking another finger in you, stiles began to go faster as you continued begging him to fuck you. please, please, please, you repeatedly whimpered. abruptly, stiles removed both fingers from your soaked heat. tilting your head in confusion, you were about to protest until you saw stiles pumping his cock through his shorts.

baby — can i help you with that?, you pleaded. stiles eyes met yours as he slowly tilted his head back with his mouth open. incoherent moans slipped out of his mouth just before you decided to help him out. you moved closer to him, and pulled the slip of your bottoms off to the side.

aligning yourself with his dick, you slowly lowered down. a gasp came out from both of your mouths. stiles was still inaudible as the high kicked up a notch, and you couldn’t believe the blissful feeling. stiles was making you so slap-happy to the point of no return.

stiles grabbed the sides of your hips with his hands. knuckles white, he bounced you up and down on his cock. it was a mutual feeling of success and attraction. you couldn’t get enough of eachother. your eyes flickered from the back of your head, to make contact with his. to your surprise, he was already staring at you.

mouth open, heavy breathing, stiles was a moaning mess. the way you clenched around his cock made him closer than he ever was before. he was as deep as he could get, trying to fit all of himself inside of you. he swore he could see stars floating around your body – or maybe that was just the drugs.

i’m gonna cum stiles, you whimpered. his eyes pierced almost into your skull as you said those words. igniting a flame inside him, he proceeded to go deeper and faster. not to mention the pleasure on his end was incredible. he felt a wetness quickly approaching his covered cock as you covered your mouth to stifle your moans.

let me hear you princess.

you cried louder and louder. your eyes felt heavy as he practically pounded into you. you felt him release shortly after your orgasm was finished. streams of cum filled inside your pussy. feeling filled to the brim, you got off of stiles in a stupor.

your high slowly faded as you were placed on the blanket by stiles. he covered you up with a clean towel, and proceeded to start to pack up. stopping in his tracks, he asked:

so – do you still need that sunscreen put on?