STAYS

REBLOG IF YOU LOVE OTHER MEMBERS AS MUCH AS YOUR BIAS

i sent that reader baby trapping jake ask and saw someone ask abt the other way around and what if,,,they both had the intention of doing it to each other and it's just a rlly fucked up relationship ya know (giving netflix you vibes)

pairings: jake sim x f! reader

warnings: babytrapping + breeding + manipulation + stalking + dubcon + jealousy + panty sniffing + panty stealing + pregnancy ment + cervix fucking + daddy kink

💌: this has got to be my favorite idea yet omg???

the relationship you had with jake was confusing. it started off as the two of you fucking whenever you were horny, simple enough right? wrong. so wrong. the longer you two continued messing around, the deeper your infatuation with him grew, wanting nothing more than to be an official couple. but you couldn’t tell him, after all you were the one who told jake you didn’t want a relationship. he respected your wishes but every time he found himself in your bed, he couldn’t help but wonder what you’d do if he fucked you raw without warning. would you let him cum inside you? or make him pull out?

he was obsessed with you, scarily so, breaking into your apartment when you were out, seeking out your hamper and sniffing your dirty panties before ultimately deciding to stuff them in his pocket to take home. he was also constantly following you around at parties and scaring off any guys that tried their luck with you, hiding his anger behind kind eyes and a sweet smile thrown your way, asking if you wanted to head back to his house.

you knew, of course. how could you not? you were just as obsessed with jake, purposely leaving your panties on top of the rest of your clothes in the hamper, blushing when you realized they were missing because that meant jake had dropped by for a visit when you weren’t home. he was so focused on keeping other guys away he didn’t realize you had also been watching him at parties, subconsciously squeezing your thighs together while your eyes were locked on his clenched jaw, your pussy growing wetter by the second.

the two of you had snuck away from jay’s party, jake leading you to one of the guest bedrooms and locking the door behind you. “did you see the way sunghoon was looking at you tonight? fuck, i could kill him. who does he think he is?” he seethed, pushing you on the bed roughly. you could cum just from seeing how angry he was, “don’t worry ‘bout him jakey, ‘m only yours, promise. i’ll even let you fuck me without a condom this time.” the look on his face was comical, almost causing you to giggle at his reaction. “really? you’d let me do that?” he questioned. “mhm! just gotta pull out before you cum, ‘kay? don’t wanna get me pregnant right?” jake couldn’t believe this was happening, he had no intention of pulling out but he couldn’t tell you that so he just nodded, unable to voice his thoughts.

you were just as excited as jake, for weeks you’d stopped taking your birth control, planning to let him fuck you raw sometime soon and now that the time has come you needed to feel his bare cock inside of you. “please put it in, jakey. can’t wait anymore.” he wasted no time, coating his cock in your arousal and sliding deep inside, the two of you moaning as his lengthy cock hit your cervix. it wouldn’t be long before he came but he wanted to savor the feeling of your walls gripping his dick without a condom in the way, fucking you slowly, making sure you could feel every inch of him battering your cunt.

“you feel so good ‘round my cock, think you were made for me. made to take my cum, shit, i wanna fill you up so bad, sweetheart. can i?” he babbled, too pussydrunk to notice you’d already locked your legs around his hips in an effort to force his cock even deeper. “yeah jakey, you can cum. ‘m on the pill,” you lied, hiding your face in the crook of his neck as you felt your orgasm approaching. he sped up the pace, angling his cock in a way that made the tip hit the opening of your womb each time causing you to squeal, pussy creaming around him.

jake was already so close and the way your cunt was squeezing him drove him crazy, hips stilling as his cock spurted globs of thick, creamy cum so deep inside you, you thought there was no way he wasn’t successful in knocking you up. his mind was reeling after his own orgasm and all he could think of was how much he wanted you two to be exclusive, wishing somehow your birth control wouldn’t stop him from impregnating you.

you kept your legs around him even after he’d stopped moving, his cock keeping the obscene amount of cum from spilling out. “gonna make you a daddy, jakey, you can’t leave me now. ‘m so full, it has to work!” you couldn’t stop yourself from revealing your sick plan, muttering about how you weren’t on birth control anymore and how he’d be such a good daddy. jake wasn’t upset though, his cock hardening again inside of you, after all he had to make sure his girl was properly bred.

lee felix from stray kids is so offensively pretty it should be illegal

“Work-out Buddies ”𓆪

⚠︎ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ, ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴅᴏᴠᴇ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇᴀᴛ⚠︎

—𝑮𝑬𝑵𝑹𝑬 ! * nsfw. Smut, drabble/scenario

—𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑺 ! *size kink/difference, baby trapping, creampie, struggling, dacryphilia, overstimulation, slight choking, cunnilingus, suggestive thoughts, dub-con, pinning, overprotective, slight blood, reader implied small, virgin reader, scratching, marking, slight age gape(26-31), unprotected sex, fingering, pretty sure i missed one, bad smut

𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒊’𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆 !* Credit to @smuthospital since they have a problem of me forgetting(and i don't wanna start drama at all)

--

💌Yandere! Male work out buddy who absolutely loves your body. Rather you'd be insecure about it, he still loves your body. He glares at any men that dares to spare a glance at you while you exercise since you have short shorts that keep riding up your thighs.

🎀Yandere! Male work out buddy who gets boners every time you greet him. You're just so shorter than him he has to constantly look down when you get his attention.

💌Yandere! Male work out buddy wishes you aren't seeing lovers when you leave the gym. He wants you all for himself, to protect you from the world.

🎀Yandere! Male work out buddy who daydreams about you on his cock 24/7. Just to see you struggle to take his big girthy, long cock into your sopping cunt.

💌Yandere! Male work out buddy gets off to you when you wear those short shorts again. You can barely maintain eye contact when you talk to him. He could see the visible sweat running down your forehead. He also loves that about you.

~~~Quick drabble

You were currently a little late to the meeting you had with your work out buddy. You stumbled through the automatic doors of the gymnasium and ran to the occupied area of where your work out buddy was.

He was listening to music through he wireless headphones, not paying attention to any surrounding noises or people. You sat your stuff down on a bench next to his stuff and got yourself ready by doing quick stretches.

You jogged over to him while he was bench pressing with a relaxed face. You lightly tapped him on his bulky shoulders that were exposed due to him wearing a black muscle shirt.

He opened one eye to see your small figure staring at him. You quickly looked away while red stared to burn your cheeks. He internally chuckled and placed the weights back in position.

"Hey Y/n, are you ready?" He asked. You asked him if he could help you lift weights since you are getting there to lift. You nodded quickly still not giving a single glance.

He wants you to look at him. "Are you sure?" You nodded again this time fiddling with your fingers. He smiled at you and walked off signaling you to follow him.

He took you to the weights that weren't as heavy and could support your body structure.

You got under the weights with him behind you in case you drop the weights on you. He was vigorously close to you. So close that you could feel the bulge of his cock rubbing against your ass.

You both got into position and squatted down. He didn't want to take control over your body. You squatted down fully but he was mostly down to your lower back.

"I-it's a bit m-much.." you trailed off your voice.

"We could stop if you don't wanna go too far." He replied.

"Nhh.. No it's fine." You groaned.

You managed to squat down almost close to the floor but let out a deepened breath. "O-okay, can we stop now?" You panted.

He nodded and put the weights back in place. You went over and sat over at a bench, panting as hard as a dog that ran a mile.

"Here," he said handing you a water bottle. You grabbed it and took a big sip.

Sweat was dripping down your body and he wanted to take advantage of that. He wipped the sweat off your forehead which made you pause in your tracks. You felt yourself getting warmer and just looked down at the low carpeted floor.

He audibly chuckled at your antics. He got up and went over to pack up for the day, grabbing his and your bags, "Wanna come over to my house to make a protein shake?" He asked looking over his shoulder at you.

"I-I don't k-know. I d-don't wanna be a bother.." you trailed off while shakily playing with your fingers.

He grabbed you by your wrist. "Don't worry, it won't be." He gave you a calming smirk but you didn't know the true intentions behind it.

You nodded and let him drag you off to automatic doors leading outside of the gymnasium. You both walked into the parking lot and went over to his car. He has a nice car surprisingly.

He went over to the passenger side and opened the door for you. You oblige and gave him a nervous smile.

He shut the door and went over to the driver's side.

A few minutes passed and you arrived at a luxurious apartment complex. You stared in awe at the minimalist apartment.

"Wow, you live here?" You looked at him with your doe eyes which made his heart jump. "Yeah, it's not much." Your jaw dropped but quickly closed it.

You both got out of the car and you grabbed the bags of gym equipment. He ran to your side and took the bags out of your grasp. You gave a look of concern but shook it off.

You both arrived at his apartment door and he unlocked it. He had a simple color theme: Beige, darker beiges, and black.

He told you to make yourself at home. You walked towards the kitchen and sat on one of the barstool chairs.

He didn't want to make a protein shake with you. He wanted you, to breed you to the brim. Some way somehow he'd get you to have sex with him. Even if he has to manipulate you into saying sex is a better exercise.

"Hey, you still wanna make them?" You asked glancing away from your phone. "We'll do that later. C'mere," he said motioning you to follow him.

"U-uhh, sure." You said placing your phone face down on the counter top.

You followed him to his room with a king sized bed for a single guy. "H-hey, are you single?" You asked. "Why? Are you interested?" He had a smirk in his voice.

You started to panic. "N-no! It's b-because you have a king- s-sized bed.." you replied shyly. "Don't worry your pretty little head, I live alone." You let out a relieved sigh.

"So what are we gonna do?" You asked.

"There's one thing I wanna do." You tilted your head waiting for him to continue. "Theres this exercise that helps with stamina and helps it build up quickly." He said.

"W-what's it called?" You kept your head tilted.

"It's called 'sex'." He said with a poker face. Your face went up into flames(not fire), you were pretty sure intercourse wasn't for exercise purposes, maybe for practicing but not that.

"I-if it helps w-with my stamina they y-yeah.." you said. You felt the lower part of your body throbbing at the thought of that.

You noticed he had a big bulge in his pants that stuck up.

He grabbed you by the wrist and slammed you on the bed. You yelped as he ripped your sports bra off exposing your tits. The cool air brushed against your nipples which made them harden.

"I'll buy you new ones." His voice was laced with lust and need. His eyes were glowing a lighter shade.

He ripped off your shorts and tossed them somewhere on the carpeted floor. "I don't think you need preparation due to how wet you are, hmm?" He said while rubbing your clit. Your breathing got faster and your eyes were half lidded. You were squirming a bit much which made him grip your waist tightly which caused a yelp to leave your mouth.

He stuffed two fingers inside your cunt which you moaned loudly at.

He fingered you at a steady pace and you were already close to coming. Your panting got more faster as you were now close. He pulled out his fingers before you could come.

"W-why'd you st-" you got cut off by feeling his long, girthy cock tap your thigh. Your eyes widen at the sight.

You gulped and whined as he aligned the tip of his cock against your pussy. He slowly pushed in, being addicted to you squeezing around his cock. It felt as if he was splitting you into two.

You screamed loudly and he had to place his hand on your throat. "Do you want the neighbors to think I'm killing someone?" He gave you a very serious look. You shook your head quickly and he picked up the pace of rocking his hips back and forth.

Your juices were webbed around his cock. A prominent bulge appeared in your stomach as he rammed into your cervix.

His thrust got faster which startled you a bit and caused you to scratch him. You scratched him hard it was easy enough to draw blood which it did.

He let out a pained groan and leaned down to your neck to place a bite mark on your neck. You were sure people could see it if you didn't cover it.

His thrust got sloppier and you came for the nth time.

You let out a loud moan which caused him to release sticky ropes of cum into you which reached your cervix.

You were both on edge of panting. He was still letting loads of cum into your hole. You were sure to get pregnant and thats what he wanted.

Violent Delights

for my very dearest best friend (wife) @iwaasfairy i'm sorry it's super late, but august and april both start with 'a' which basically means they're the same month <33 iwaizumi hajime x female reader w.c 4.4k tw: yandere themes, non-con, drugged reader, blood/gore, murder, incest, sorta smut (nsfw)

M I N E

It’s funny in a way. Amidst the wreckage, the blood, what was left of your friends and the cooling puddle of cum splattered across your naked stomach, four letters carved into your bedroom wall seemed almost… harmless. Or at least the easiest to digest. Fixate on.

The detective asked about your ex partners, the dates you’d been on recently, whether or not you’d noticed anyone in your day-to-day paying you too much attention, if anyone made you feel uncomfortable, or said anything that seemed out of place.

But your exes don’t care enough to kill, and the two dates you’ve been on in the last six months never bothered to text you back. No one’s left weird, unsettling gifts, or stared too long in line at the coffee shop. There’s nothing. No precursor or warning, no giant red flag waving in front of you.

Mine. 

Hovering on the edge of numbness, blind hysteria just out of reach, you stare at the beige walls of the hotel room they’d put you up in, the angry gouges flickering in and out of existence with every blink. 

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

Kaori was the one obsessed with all the true crime stuff. She’d be the first to tell you psychopaths and nutjobs – they don’t jump straight into drugging and triple homicide. There’s a pattern of behaviour. Escalation. 

Something you missed. 

Then again, considering it’s her blood still caked under your fingernails, there’s a strong possibility she wouldn’t be all that enthusiastic about the whole thing to begin with. 

You need a shower, a proper one – not the glorified sponging off they’d given you at the hospital. Enough to get you out the door, not nearly enough to scrub away the grime and rid yourself of what he did to you–

The others had it worse. You survived. He barely touched you.

Mine. 

The thought of scalding water, of scrubbing yourself raw does hold a certain appeal, yet hunched over atop starched white sheets, those same bloody fingernails sink into the flesh of your arms instead, grounding you in the tiny bite of pain. 

Minutes tick past and you don’t so much as twitch. Not until a sharp knock sounds at the door and a gruff voice calls out your name. 

You wait half a beat, but when nothing more is forthcoming, you slowly edge yourself off the bed, making your way to the door. Through the peephole you spy a dark haired officer, different to the one who’d dropped you off, staring back at you. 

They did tell you there’d be an officer with you the whole time, at least for the next twenty four hours. 

“Miss?” he calls again, and you distantly realise that while your hand is poised over the deadlock, you haven’t moved to undo it. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, your forehead meeting the wooden door with a muted thud, you curse that stupid, tremulous fluttering in your chest. They’re here for you, protecting you. You’re safe.

Open the damn door. 

“Y-yeah?”

Coward.

“Brought some food for you. Dinner.” There’s a rustling on the other side, and you raise your head to peer back through the glass in time to see him lift up a paper carry bag to the peephole. The idea of eating anything right now has your stomach roiling in protest. “Nothing fancy, but it’s good, I swear,” he says. Then, gentler, like he’s talking down a spooked animal, adds, “You need to eat.”

Still, you hesitate. All you need to do is open the door, grab the food and then at least it’s there if you want it later. Easy. 

Too quick, too jerky to be natural, you twist at the handle and yank the door open a scant few inches, enough for you to reach out an arm expectantly for the food. “Thank you,” you pre-empt, because hungry or not, you’re not completely without manners.

The officer lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah, no. I’m not taking heat from the Cap when the guys on the next shift find you passed out ‘cause you haven’t eaten anything,” he scoffs. “C’mon, we can talk while you eat.” Not a suggestion – you barely have time to stumble back before he’s pushing his way inside and kicking the door closed behind him. The second he takes to flick the lock somehow simultaneously eases the knots in your stomach and sends your heartrate ratcheting.

It’s halfway to a miracle that you’re still standing at all. 

“Eat,” he tells you, his deep voice brooking no disagreement as he shoves the bag of food your way and grabs the lone chair in the room, dragging it closer to the edge of the bed and settling himself down. Clearly he has no intention of going anywhere until he’s satisfied you’ve eaten your fill.

With little else for it, you do as you’re told, reaching into the bag to find steamed buns at your fingertips, still warm as you pry open the wrapper– and wince. The familiar scent of pork, ginger and chives wafts through the air, unwittingly digging at old wounds. 

Suddenly you’re a kid again, strolling down the hill with your family, one hand tucked safely within your brother’s, the other grasping a steaming hot bun. You’re happy and whole and so, so young–

“Something wrong? You don’t like meat buns?” 

Not the time. Ignoring the bitter ache the memory conjures, you’re quick to shake your head, “No. No, thank you. It’s great.” You doubt he buys it, but then again you also doubt he cares so long as you get something in your stomach. 

One bite, chew, swallow. Another, chew, swallow – mechanical until it isn’t. The first bun disappears and you reach for the second.

“How’s your head?” he asks.

You swallow down another mouthful. “Fuzzy. Sore. I still can’t remember anything,” you  admit, in case that’s where this line of questioning is going. Nothing beyond waking up in your bed covered in blood and a stranger’s cum at any rate.

The blood work they did at the hospital confirmed you were drugged along with the others, the detective mentioning the near-empty bottle of wine they’d found, which they were in the process of testing too. He’d also pointed out the lack of evidence indicating any kind of forced entry, which paired with the former is something you’ve been trying not to dwell on. 

The officer gives a considering nod, “That’s to be expected, don’t worry about it. I still think it’s worth asking a few more questions if you’re feeling up to it?” Again, it’s phrased like a question, but already he’s pulling out a voice recorder, setting down on the mattress between you. 

“Um, sure. Yeah,” you croak. 

A small smile, “Good.” He leans forward to switch on the recorder. “We’ll start with the other victims – your friends. Tell me about them.”

“Kaori, she’s– she was my best friend. We worked at the same grocer when I first moved out of my parents’ place, when I got a job here she made the decision to move with me. That was about six months ago.” 

“And the other two?” 

“Her brother Koji and another friend of ours Takashi. They came up to visit; Kaori’s been back once or twice since we left, but I hadn’t seen them–” tears blur at your vision and your voice just… gives out. 

They’re gone. 

You drag a shuddering breath in and it hurts. 

Blindly, your hand reaches across the bed, blood tipped fingers sprawling over pristine white, and when they meet warmth – an open palm outstretched – you seize it and cling on with everything you have. You’ll unravel if you don’t.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you chant, each syllable shakier than the last.

He dips his chin, just barely, and squeezes your hand, “You invited them?”

A wordless, wide eyed nod. 

“You were close.” Not a question. He sounds like he’s mulling over the thought, though his expression is inscrutable. “Were you involved with any of them?”

This time, there’s the slightest hesitation before you shake your head. The officer frowns, “I need the truth. Your friends were attacked for a reason. Lying to me won’t help bring their families peace.”

The blood drains from your face, your heart lurching on a sickening thud. 

Your fault. 

Instinctively, you yank back your hand, or try to at least, but his grip tightens – enough to keep you from drawing away, not enough to hurt. Though neither his tone nor his expression hold any condemnation, it doesn’t change the truth of the matter. 

You didn’t drug them or pick up the knife and swing. You didn’t invite this psycho into your life, but the fact remains that they’re dead because of you. 

“I– it wasn’t like that. We weren’t… I didn’t–” 

MINE.

Tears threaten to spill and your bottom lip trembles. 

For a long, drawn out moment, he simply stares. There’s a twitch at his jaw and he sighs – more of a grunt, really – leaning back and pulling his hand from yours to rake through his dark hair. 

(Stupid, you think, how some part of you mourns the loss.) 

“Okay, alright. Fine. We’ll come back to that,” he concedes. “What about other friends? Coworkers you were close with?”

“No, I– I already told the detective I wasn’t seeing anyone.”

An irritated flash darkens his gaze. “I didn’t ask if you were fucking them.” And you must make a truly pathetic picture then, flinching like a kicked puppy, because he lets out another huff, closing his eyes for a beat and visibly working to soften the harsh lines of his expression. “Shit, okay– I’m sorry. It’s been a long day for us both,” he makes an odd noise, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, the sound entirely devoid of humour. “The guy who did this, he either already knows about the people precious to you, or he’s gonna do his damn best to find out, and if he thinks they’re threats, he’ll hurt them, or worse – he’ll use them to hurt you. I need you to tell me everything.”

And so, feeling the exhaustion of the day creeping over you, you do.

You tell him about the small group from work you occasionally go out for Friday drinks with, your old friends from uni, right down to the neighbour two floors below, who’d seen you hauling boxes the day you’d moved in and immediately offered to help. When you’d christened the kitchen baking you’d made sure to bring him some, and just last week you’d had tea with him and his grandma.

“What about school? Anyone you still keep in contact with?”

You try for a laugh but it sounds all wrong. “I wasn’t exactly popular back then,” 

His eyes narrow. They flit across your face like he’s searching for… something. You feel like a bug, pinned in place, squirming and uncomfortable, your face too hot. 

“Bullied?” he probes. 

Another nod. 

“How ‘bout family?”

Your mouth dries.

“My parents… I haven’t spoken to them in months. We don’t really get along.” The last conversation you’d had with them, if you could call it as much, lasted all of five minutes. Dry pleasantries and thinly veiled criticisms, wrapped up in yet another pointed reminder that things didn’t have to be this way – you were the one adamant on shutting them out. 

You doubt it’d raise a single eyebrow between them if you went the same again without contact. 

“Siblings?”

Another tear slips from your lashes and you swallow against the tight lump in your throat. The weight of his gaze feels oppressive, you’re too bare, too vulnerable, you don’t want to talk about this, so you shift your line of sight to the paper delivery bag, half crumpled now, and let your fingernails sink into the skin of your palms. 

Still, the words don’t come straight away, and when they do, they’re strained. Choked. Painted so thick is grief that you wonder if he understands them at all.

“No. I uh, I had a brother– a twin brother. He died.” 

You don’t talk about your brother, ever.

Kaori knew the bare bones of it. Koji and Takashi too – you had a twin brother, he died, and it fucked you up. Without ever uttering a word, they’d known not to press, that the wounds left behind weren’t quite as healed as the scar tissue led to believe. 

“How old were you?”

Seven, when you lost him. Twelve, when the letters stopped coming. 

“Fourteen,” you whisper, curling in on yourself. “He was sick.”

Stop asking, stop talking, stop, stop, stop. 

When you risk a look in the officer’s direction, his features are hewn granite, eyes set in a hard, angry glare that steals the very breath from your lungs. “Yeah?” he grunts, rising to his feet. “You stopped writing long before that.”

There’s just enough time for understanding to crash over you, for your lips to part, a feather light gasp of “Hajime?” to slip out before you’re flat on your back, wrists pinned to the mattress above your head, the officer– a ghost– Hajime looming over you. 

“What did I fucking tell you?”  

—

‘Sweetie, make sure you hold your brother’s hand.’

They’d meant when you were walking home from the bus stop, or crossing the road. When there was a buddy system so no one got separated or left behind. 

Hajime was always holding your hand. Not because your parents told him to, but because that’s how it was supposed to be. You were twins, he’d been born first (by all of six minutes) and you had followed. You were always following Hajime, and he was always going to look after you. 

Until he gets put into the Otter class with Mr Inagaki, and you go into Dugong with Miss Ino. 

Hajime’s nothing short of enraged. He throws chairs and yells and tries to kick the Principal, but it doesn’t change anything.

It would be good for you, they said, to have a chance to make other friends. ‘You can’t keep using your brother as a crutch, honey,’ your mother gently admonishes. 

Hajime scowls at that. Later, when it’s just the two of you hiding away in his room, he tells you she’s an idiot and a liar. ‘You don’t need anyone else. You have me.’

You knew that. You’d always have Hajime, but the other kids in your class weren’t as awful as he made them sound. Some of them were actually kind of cool, and they liked you, too.

For a while, you began to believe you could have both; Hajime and your new friends. 

Until one day you’re waiting for him at lunch when a boy from your class tugs on your braids and with a wide, toothy grin, loudly proclaims to the whole playground that even though you were a girl, and girls have cooties, it’d probably be okay if you wanted to be his girlfriend. 

You didn’t see Hajime coming up behind you. You’ve no idea where he found the scissors. The only warning either of you get is a sudden, splitting roar before he’s throwing himself at the smaller boy, tackling him to the ground. 

‘She’s MINE!’

Silver glints, flashing in the sunlight, and a high pitched shriek rips through the playground as he brings the scissors down on the poor, struggling boy. 

With a viciousness you’d never known of your brother, he swings again and again. It’s chaos. The other kids scatter and the teachers run to intervene. Hajime, spitting and snarling, red in the face and half-feral, doesn’t stop for them.

He stops for you. 

At the sound of a sharp little gasp, a line of red slashed along your forearm, Hajime stops dead, wide, horrified eyes fixed on yours.

—

‘Sweetie, what have I told you about snooping? I raised you better than that.’

‘But they’re addressed to me. Hajime wrote to me.’

‘Your brother’s not well, those letters– they’ll only upset you. I don’t want you reading them.’

‘… He says he misses me.’

‘I know, but he’s where he belongs, getting help. You want that for him, don’t you? To get the help he needs?’

‘I want to write back to him.’

—

There’s another letter waiting for you when you get home from school.

You hang your backpack near the door, still damp from being tossed in the pool, and eye the opened envelope sitting by your father. He doesn’t look up from his laptop when you reach for it, doesn’t lift a finger to stop you. Nevertheless, the displeasure radiates from him clear as day. 

“You shouldn’t encourage him. He’s not well.”

You’d scoff if it wouldn’t get you in trouble. Nothing you said could ever be taken as ‘encouragement’, and you’re under no illusions about who and what your brother is. 

The violence terrifies you. Sometimes he says things in the letters he writes that make your stomach all twisty and your palms sweat, but Hajime could be a monster, and you think you’d love him anyway. You wouldn’t have a choice. 

So you pluck at the envelope and tuck it close, making your way to your room without another glance at either of your parents. Sitting cross legged atop your bed, you eagerly scan the contents;

He hates the new therapist. They had a movie night planned, but some asshole started a fight and the whole thing got cancelled. The food’s still shit. He’s fed up and pissed off, whether he behaves or not, they won’t let him out and they won’t give him what he wants, so what’s the point in pretending?

The both of you turn twelve in ten days time – you owe it to him to come spend it together. 

—

‘Maybe it’s for the best, sweetheart.’

Dismissive. She’s always dismissive. Your hands curl in response, tightening before you force yourself to flex them out and bite your tongue. It’s not worth the fight. Neither one of them actually care, and nothing you say will ever change that. 

He’s angry at you. Or hurt. Both, probably. 

They wouldn’t let you visit. You’d begged – cried, even – and it hadn’t swayed them. The rules are that you aren’t allowed to go and see Hajime and you aren’t allowed to talk to him on the phone. The letters are the only communication you have, and when your twelfth birthday comes and goes, those stop too.

You’ve sent four letters since, no response. 

He’s shut you out entirely and while you can’t blame him for it, it’s painful.

You’ve always had Hajime, through everything. Him shutting you out feels like losing a limb– 

No, it’s more than that. It’s like slowly losing some vital function inside of you. Like your lungs are shutting down and you can’t breathe properly and your heart isn’t pumping the way it should. You feel guilty and horrible and at least twice, you debate trying to find a way to sneak out and make the two hour journey on your own, just so you can see him.

It’s a stupid idea, they wouldn’t even let you through the front door, but it’s the only idea you have and so you cling to it.

You keep writing to him– panicked. Desperate. Begging his forgiveness. 

He never writes back.

—

They sit you down at breakfast three months after your fourteenth birthday and tell you Hajime’s gone.

There was another fight, someone pushed him–

You don’t want to hear the details. They don’t matter and your ears are ringing too loud to make sense of them anyway.

Hajime is gone.

The cord between you was stretched and fraying already. He hadn’t written in over two years and probably hated you towards the end but he– he was–

Yours. A part of you. 

Gone.

And your mother’s asking about the English test you have second period. 

—

“What. Did. I. Say?” Each word is slowly enunciated, a quiet growl that drags an unwilling shiver down your spine. 

He smells of wood – of cedar, spice and musk, the notes melding, coiling with the dizzying body heat, the solid weight of him, bracing himself above you.

His lips are mere inches from yours. 

Not dead. 

Here.

There’s a thousand thoughts racing through your head, connections that light up, clicking into place like pieces of a puzzle, painting a deeply unsettling picture – all of which are drowned out by the revelation that Hajime is here.

You burst into tears–

and Hajime – your brother, very much alive and glaring at you from above – surges down to swallow them in a vicious kiss.

The moment your lips touch, all the tension in his body just… bleeds out. Hajime groans, low and heated, his hips rocking, grinding along your stomach, and if you weren’t too preoccupied short circuiting, dangling on the precipice of a panic attack, you’d feel the twitch of his mouth, curling into a small but no less satisfied smirk.

He relaxes, like he’s coming home rather than returning from the dead to land the killing blow.

“Mine,” he answers his own question, breath heavy and ragged as his teeth nip at your jaw. “I told you you’re fucking mine.”

The scratches on the wall. Kaori and Koji and Takashi, asleep in a sea of red. The viscous mess spilled over your belly. Your mother’s hushed voice, carrying down the hallway, ‘– only a phase. The books all say he’ll grow out of it before long.’

She hadn’t sounded convinced. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, desperate to block it all out as more tears spill into your hairline. Hajime won’t let you. He groans your name into the shell of your ear and licks at the tears as they fall. “Don’t,” he warns, fingers pressing tightly around your wrists ‘til they shoot back open with a gasp, “don’t you dare check out.”

When he rucks up your shirt to find you sans bra and a warm palm slides up to grope the soft, supple skin, a fresh burst of panic spurs you into action. Pinned under his weight as you are, you can’t move, and the idea of trying to physically fight him off is as laughable as it is terrifying – but when you were younger, you were the one – the only one – who could coax Hajime back from the edge, your hand in his.

Until he leapt from it entirely, and they took him away.

“H-Hajime?” A trembling, hiccuping whimper, thick with tears.  

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even pause – shuffling down your body to mouth at them instead – but hooded, simmering pools of green flick back up to your face, a hum of acknowledgement rumbling in his chest as he nips and sucks pretty, burgundy blooms across your breasts.

“I-if you ever loved me, even a little… Please, Haji– don’t hurt me like this–” you choke on another sob, pathetic mess that you are.

Hajime goes preternaturally still, eyes boring into you. 

You stare right back, fighting the urge to cower and flinch, to turn your cheek and stare at the discarded dumpling wrappers, letting him take what he wants. Praying that he won’t hurt you too badly if you give it to him without a fight.

Because it will hurt, you think. It’ll break you entirely. 

(Are you not already broken?)

When his head drops, you can’t help it – the sharp, terrified hitch in your breath – but his lips meet your forehead, then each cheek, before finally they brush over your lips with a tenderness he has no right to. “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he vows, cradling the side of your jaw, “I won’t hurt you, ever.”

But that’s a lie, too.

“I love you more than anything.”

He kisses you again, soft and sweet and gentle, as if those promises weren’t sewn from violence and legitimised in blood. As if he isn’t breaking your heart with every sweep of his tongue, plundering your mouth.

There’s no fight in you left when he reaches for the waistband of your sweats and slowly starts easing them down. You don’t claw and shove when the hold on your wrists loosens and then disappears entirely, both hands needed to strip away his clothes. 

The sound of his belt buckle clinking, the soft hiss of a zipper, they wash over you, white noise lost to the pounding in your ears. 

But you don’t look away.

He strokes his cock – long and thick and flushed to the tip –  crawling up the mattress to kneel between your legs like a supplicant before an altar of the divine. 

Devotion demands sacrifice. 

“It killed me,” he starts, dragging the mushroom head along the slit of your pussy. He frowns a little, leans back and spits – a fat glob of saliva landing dead centre, adding to the mess his weeping cock’s already made. “When the letters stopped coming. I was angry, so fucking angry, all the time. I’d lash out and they’d put me in another cage, and I’d do it again, and again. They tried convincing me you’d moved on,” his eyes flash darkly, “which was bullshit. They’d have to carve me out of you with a knife.”

What shocks you isn’t the violent imagery, but the truth of it settling into your bones, inescapable and undeniable; you’ll always love your brother, even if that very love destroys you.

“I didn’t–”

The first thrust rips a strangled yelp from your throat. 

He’s too big, you’re not prepared to take him – and Hajime doesn’t care. His head tips back, shuddering out a breathy laugh. 

There’s no pause, no period of grace, seated deep inside of you, the walls of your pussy hugging him tight, Hajime won’t allow you a second to catch your breath and wait for the burning sting to abate. His hips draw back until only the throbbing head of his cock remains inside, and, upon grabbing a leg to hitch over his shoulder, uses it as leverage to punch forward, stuffing your tight little cunt to the brim.

The pace he sets is brutal from the outset. Bruising. He licks at your tears between kisses and moans when you clench and shudder around him. “Never again,” he pants into your ear. “I’ll kill them all if you leave. Every last fucking one. You’re mine. Mine.”

And you’d think it cruel, a punishment, if not for the way those green eyes burn. 

When his fingers twine with yours, pressing you down into the mattress, holding you there, you wonder if this was always an inevitability. 

Hajime led and you followed, hand in bloody hand. 

He’d never allow anything less.

Let’s Play a Game!

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Father’s Friend! John Price Headcanons

Warnings: 18+, Forbidden Romance, Age Gap, Implied Smut, Brief Descriptions of Smut, Cock Warming, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Cum Inflation, Stomach Bulging, Teasing, Older Man/Younger Reader, Pet Names, Profanity, No Pronouns Used For Reader Except ‘You’.

He tells you to keep quiet when you’re being intimate; he silences you with a sibilant “Shhh,” when your moans get too loud, telling you to “Keep your voice down, Sweetheart. Wouldn’t want your dad to walk in on his precious little angel getting fucked by his best friend.”

He’s a tease, too. “Or, maybe that’s what you want. Want me to fill you up and send you out there with your belly pumped full of me. Show em all how much you like getting speared by an older man’s cock.”

And if he finds it you’re going on a date with someone who isn’t him — WHOO, that will NOT end well for you.

He’ll bend you over the nearest sirface and pound into you. Gently enough that you can still walk after the encounter, but hard enough to remind you who you belong to.

“Can he fuck you like this?” John pants, teeth gritted and eye twitching as he feels you clenching around him, speechless. Drooling onto the cover of your bed beneath you. His hand slides up your front. Presses into your stomach. He growls as he feels himself there, his tip throbbing inside you. “D’you think he can make you feel like this?”

And when your date arrives to pick you up, he watches you walk, a hand placed over your stomach to hide the bump formed there, your thighs together pressed together to try and stop John’s semen from leaking into your underwear. And John watches you, a thin, sly smile on his face as your gaze finds his. He waves you off, knowing you’ll back. For more. For him.

For the rest of the evening, all Price can think of is you trying to go about your business knowing that you harbour a secret in your stomach; namely his cum sloshing around inside you. He can just imagine the surprise on your date’s face if you decided to get intimate with him, only for him to tear your underwear off and find you already wet with another man’s cum oozing from your hole and rolling down your thighs in thick globs.

John’s life has been a series of high-action, adrenaline-filled moments. But none of those compare to when the two of you are hiding your forbidden relationship from everyone around you.

Price’s unwavering love of cock warming has almost led to the two of you being caught multiple times; namely when you’ve been sat on John’s lap, squirming as his dick lays nestled deep inside you, only for someone to come bursting through the door, making you jump, tighten around John. He has to try and stifle the guttural growl clawing up his throat you’re squeezing — milking — him in your moment of panic.

Luckily, John’s ridiculously large desk - the one you’d often remarked he only got to comfortably fuck you on - hides what lays beneath the surface of this particularly dark and colossal iceberg. It conceals the outline of John’s cock inside you, the material of your shirt seemingly too thin for the job.

John dismisses the person who rudely interrupted you. Sure, they gave the two of you a strange look upon seeing you sat in John’s lap, but as far as that person’s concerned, that’s all it is. Flirting at most.

John’s interest in you isn’t purely sexual, though. He cares for you. Truly and utterly. You remind him of the feeling of first love — the one he never got.

He takes you out to fancy restaurants, ones far enough out of town that nobody knows who either of you are, letting you act open with each other. Hand holding, forehead touches, fingers running up your thigh, quick kisses, slow kisses, kisses that stray into dark waters.

Speaking of a hand running up your thigh; John’s classic, default move whenever you’re at a crowded event together (especially in the presence of people you know). You and John always sit beside each other, which always leads to his hand slipping beneath the tablecloth and up your leg, stopping only when he reaches the warmest spot — the inside of your thigh.

And he does this all while maintaining conversations with other people while you’re left mute and wanting.

Of course, he always delivers.

He’ll pull your underwear to the side and start toying with you. Gently, at first, his pace slow as not to attract attention. Then, when your face starts to get red and your voice is but a string of whimpers, he leans in, closely, so you can smell his cologne that charges hundreds by the drop, feel his beard tickling the side of your face, and whispers: “Don’t get yourself all worked up, Love. We’re with guests, after all.”

John will never let you cum under these circumstances. He’ll take you to a nice and isolated room and have his way with you until you’re having to lean on him for the rest of the evening, his arm about your waist and his semen pooling in your underwear. Heavy. A mistaken gesture of friendship.

If anyone ever did get suspicious of your relationship, John would tell you immediately.

“I can’t risk losing you,” he’d say, stare solemn. “We’ll have to keep our distance — just for the time being.”

God forbid you start crying, otherwise he’s on his knees, taking your hand in his and pressing long, deep kisses to your knuckles, his breath nigh-frantic and hot against your skin.

“I promise, Darling, this is only temporary.”

It would have to be, because John can’t go two minutes without thinking of you, needing you.

He sees something that’s your favourite colour in a shop window ? There you are, in the forefront of his mind.

You still interact with each other, of course, but you can’t be as close to one another as you’re used to being. As you’d like to be.

John can only watch you as you fraternise with other guests, party-goers, your father’s lawn party a hit. And yet all he can think about is having you by his side, fingers interlocked and looking down at you with all the love he’s never been able to give to anyone else.

These avoidant periods usually always end with John coming to your door and knocking profusely, his visage that of a man who’s seen nothing but ghosts all his life. And he takes you in his arms, pressing kisses to every inch of your face, leaving the two of you gasping for breath by the end of it, his eyes filled with adoration he’s never known and will only ever know for you.

Usually, you can expect a mountain of gifts to be waiting for you after your suspicion avoidance era ends - a collage of everything John collected that reminded him of you in your absence.

Some of it he purchases solely for you to wear for him and him alone, to put on a show for him. Sure, it’ll get torn off shortly after, but John can’t deny that you look like a present wrapped up just for him to unravel, to ravage.

Clothes, jewellery, accessories, shoes; he watches you wear them out and about. Something about seeing you wearing things he’s bought for you sends him feral — the fact that you’re drenched in his wealth while nobody else knows what lies beneath the surface. Beneath the layers of satin and silk and silver are the remnants of the night before. Teethmarks, bruises, scratches; the etchings of hours of pure, uninterrupted love-making. Breathless confessions, promises of a life together where you don’t have to hide your love.

Every outfit, every coat, is the disguise for many a night more.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

bully tsukishima who shares the same university class as you. tsukishima complained when the new term started and saw you sitting there in his next class, refusing to make eye contact with him. he changed his tune when he was able to sit behind you everyday and make little distressed noises come out of you. he throws pens at you, hitting the back of your head, drawing attention to you both while you try to ignore the snickers from the people around. tsukishima much prefers getting as close as he can to you and pinching your sides, making you quietly yelp, it's the best when he's able to get close to you and squeeze your plush rolls on your stomach, all while you try and move away but he grips on too strong. sometimes he'll get so close he'll be able to smell your perfume and hear your heavy breathing. he'd be lying if he said it didn't turn him on to hear your sniffles and your breathing hitch while your body shakes. after the class ends you leave as quick as you can, not looking behind you and running away, it just makes tsukishima more determined to get you to look at him next time. for now though he smirks as he gets the best reactions out of you and tries to adjust himself so no one notices how hard he is.

141 x fem!reader

you’re “one of the guys” until you’re changing out of you’re uniform and they all see your spine tattoo and tramp stamp and now they’re all looking at you very differently. you don’t understand why they’re all rushing out of the locker room because they need to take care of these “mission reports” asap

I ALWAYS COME BACK

= JJK AND HOW HARD THEY FUCK YOU!

tags: smut. breeding kink, creampie, age gap, voyeurism, dacryphilia, dumbification, objectification, semi-public sex, praise kink, degradation kink, angry sex, mentions of cheating, unprotected sex…