always wear your cutest pair of undies to your best friend’s house; you never know when her cooler, hotter older brother is gonna want to fuck you ♡ and yes, he’ll be keeping your panties for later use, thank you very much ♡
don’t be stupid, manjirou laughs in your face when you shyly ask for them back, your palm curled around the knob of his bedroom door. these belong to him now. in fact, you better bring him an even prettier pair next time (and that’s an order, not a request—or else he isn’t going to give you a single drop of his cum!) ♡
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warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, drugging, noncon, blood, messy rough sex (slapping + biting), hint of mikey at the end, fem!reader
words: 650
i literally, genuinely cannot express how badly i want to get absolutely fucked up with bonten rindou + ran. like i am talking super sloppy fucked up, can barely fucking walk fucked up, slurring words in a single continuous stream only interrupted by little bubbles of giggles fucked up.
it’s become a voracious, all-consuming, downright intoxicating need.
you need them chuckling softly as they hoist you up between the two of them and drag you out to their sleek, souped up mercedes, sharing devious looks over your drooping head, so heavy and full of whatever the hell they’ve stuffed down your throat and shoved up your nose and shot into your veins that your pretty little neck just can’t seem to hold it up.
you need them shoving you in the backseat, a mess of limbs and sparkles, hem of your slutty little dress already bunched up around your hips and fraying stilettos, now ruined and bloody from being scraped against the concrete, slicing into their leather seats.
you need them cooing and pouting and spitting in your face because you’re so fucking dumb, you’re so fucking cute, you’re going to be so much fucking fun, aren’t you?
you need them fucking you raw for hours on end, until the sky turns from star-speckled onyx to strokes of lilac and corals, until their condo is smeared with the gold of the rising sun, as the world flips over then flops right side up again, more drugs tangling in your veins.
you need imprints of each of ran’s hands seared into your cheeks, all five fingers and both palms stinging and raised and etched into soft skin. you need all thirty-two of rindou’s teeth carved into the flesh of your ass, so deep they’ve left grotesque, purplish-grey gouges, so deep they’ve pierced through the skin and left the indents pooling with thick blood.
you need them stuffing you full of so much cum that it’s drooling from the corners of your mouth and oozing from your abused little hole, dribbling all over your neck and collarbone and chest in stringy dollops infused with your saliva, slathered all over your inner thighs in fat strokes of cream.
and then, when they’ve had their fun, when they’ve shattered you to bits and stained the shards with themselves, you need them to offer you to their boss, who takes a single look at you and considers just passing you off to his second-in-command, because christ she’s sloppy and you two really did a fucking number on her, who split her lip like that?
still, mikey’s grateful the terror twins reincarnate will share their spoils with him—real generous of them, you know, they could’ve kept this little doll to themselves and, really, you gotta give her a go, she’s a lot sturdier than she looks, and we just shot her up with another two ounces, and she’s got the prettiest moans i ever heard, mikey, swear to god, cross my heart, and mikey reconsiders.
because then you’re opening your eyes, bleary and blissed out and shimmering so beautifully in the harsh white light of the warehouse, and you’re reaching out for him, cute little grabby hands that claw at nothing as melty murmurs seep from your lips, and oh, he thinks he gets it now.
because then he’s jumping down from off his wooden crate and stalking toward you, rhythmic slaps of his flip-flops echoing throughout the dense space, and he’s taking your jaw between his thumb and his forefinger, squeezing hard enough to pucker your lips and elicit a sticky little squeal, and he’s leaning close, so close the stench of sugar stings your nose, mixed with something clean and brisk as his breath wafts across your face, and you wanna play with me, precious?
because precious things are meant to be used, after all, aren’t they?
character: bonten!mikey x fem!reader
notes: a day or two ago teddy and i were daydreaming about sucking on our Daddies’ fingers and i genuinely haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since!!!!
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, hair pulling, oral fixation (finger sucking), somnophilia + minimal prep, mention of drugs
words: 1.3k
If he’s being truthful, Mikey doesn’t really mind when you suck on his fingers—kind of likes it, actually; likes feeling useful, likes the way your tongue pulses and jumps just a bit as you draw him in a little further, suck around him a little harder, likes to pacify you—provided that it’s feasible.
You know when to ask, know that if Daddy’s busy cleaning his guns or cutting his drugs that he needs both hands, that his pretty girl can’t be greedy, now, just because she needs something to suck on. No, on those days you can usually be patient enough, can usually wait until Daddy’s finished with whatever important business he has to take care of. But sometimes, if you’re really needy, and you’ve been extra good, you might get lucky—he might let you stick his cock down your throat, let it sit all heavy and hard on your tongue as you kneel sloppily between his spread thighs, chin on the edge of his chair, hands planted between your folded knees and palms pressed flat to the floor, all conscious and intentional, since Daddy has a rule against touching during times like these, claims it distracts him, and we can’t have that, now, can we, sweetheart?
No, Daddy. Of course not, Daddy.
Daddy has a rule against sucking at times like these as well—this isn’t about getting him off or making him feel good, after all, he had told you. This is just about giving his whiny little baby something to fill her mouth with, something to fill her mouth up, to keep her occupied and quiet while Daddy works. If he feels your tongue start to curl around his shaft, if he feels your lips begin to pucker and your cheeks begin to hollow, he’ll be yanking you off his cock in one harsh, swift motion, with his knuckles rooted at your scalp and a growled curse spit through his teeth—and then you’ll be in real trouble, and you definitely don’t want that!
But it’s when Daddy’s sifting through boring paperwork and poring over mind-numbing files and notes—full of gruesome photographs and disturbing details—that the perfect opportunity arises to lend you his hand, to let you wrap both palms around his slim wrist and take his fingers into your mouth.
He knows that’s exactly what you want when you curl up next to him on his plush office couch, gazing at him with glittering eyes and your bottom lip siphoned between your teeth, but he won’t give it to you; not until you say it, of course, not until you explicitly ask for it—because good girls ask for what they want, don't they?—keen stare veiled by feathery lashes and voice trembling with a desperate sort of humiliation.
But he’s sweet as syrup when he nods and allows you to suck two of his fingers into your eager, waiting mouth, silky praises falling from between smirking lips. Because you’re so good for him, swallow so well for him, take his index and ring finger all the way in for him, right to the third knuckle, the edges of your teeth gently scraping the sharp protruding bones.
The metal of his rings clacks against the back of your teeth, platinum and white gold warming in the heat of your mouth as your tongue coils and curves around the bony digits, laves over the bumps and ridges of each knuckle and joint. Foamy saliva pools in all of the dips and crevices of the jewellery, coats the surfaces all slick and slimy and leaves the gems encrusted in the metal gleaming.
The underside of the rings feel smooth on your tongue, tip tracing around the arc of each one, slow and studious, almost as if committing them to memory. The metal has a slight tang to it, smearing the zest of sweat across your tastebuds, bitter and salty with a hint of the rusted blood still caked beneath his nails and lining his cuticles.
The pads of his fingers stroke your tongue in slow, rhythmic motions, petting the slippery little muscle in a tender caress—mindless, soothing, habitual—as tired onyx eyes skim the pages crumpled in his free hand. Delicate fingers hook around the bangles encircling his wrist and tug, begging for more and whimpering nonsensically around his flesh—more, Daddy, more, more, gimme more, pretty please.
And he does, of course, his sweet, greedy little girl, permits you to draw him further down your throat, copious amounts of drool oozing from the corners of your mouth as your lips tighten and your tongue squeezes—so much so that it’s trickling down your chin and dripping off your jaw in heavy, viscous cords, drizzling all over your chest and clavicle.
It leaves behind the prettiest streaks of shimmering spit, and Mikey can’t help but press down on the back of your tongue, enraptured as another tiny torrent of saliva seeps past his fingers to spill down his hand and collect in the lines of his palms.
The action earns him a pitchy yelp, sound vibrating around the tips of his fingers, and he snorts a little, fingers rubbing your tongue in a crude sort of apology.
Sorry, baby, sorry, he’s murmuring in response, though that smug, sadistic little smirk toying with the corners of his lips tells you that he’s not sorry at all.
His fingertips are pruned by the time he’s finished shuffling through his documents, soaked and soggy with your saliva. Your mouth’s finally gone slack, a telltale indicator that you’ve fallen asleep, dribbles of drool rolling down the side of his hand and his wrist as you breathe, calm and even and soft, around the digits lodged down your throat.
Your teeth have left cute little indents in his knuckles and the underside of his fingers, but he doesn’t mind, running the tip of his own tongue over the jagged little craters carved into his skin and humming softly to himself.
It always has his cock twitching in his trousers, straining against the thin material, and on the nights where he really needs it—when the day has been abundantly challenging, excruciatingly exhausting, full of collecting debts and deaths—he’ll rearrange your pliant body, push your head down and hips up and panties aside and use his already sopping hand to wet you just enough to comfortably take his cock, burying himself to the fucking hilt in one swift, sharp thrust and revelling in the gorgeous little gasp of surprise that claws its way past your sleepy lips.
Stay sleeping, sweetheart, he always tells you, murmured into the skin behind your ear and punctuated with a chaste kiss. Just let Daddy take what he needs.
And so you do, every single time, ever his good girl, his best girl, nodding into the corduroy couch cushions and mumbling out some garbled sentiment of affirmation.
It’s never graceful, always shameful, lacking his usual skill and subtlety as he pathetically ruts into your sweet cunt, flush hips grinding into your thighs gone sticky and slippery with desperation, humping away unevenly at you until his cock is pulsing viciously and he’s breathing out a curse against the damp nape of your neck, filling you with thick cream.
He always takes a moment to admire you after, too; to admire the mess he’s made of you, the masterpiece he’s made of you, calloused thumbs spreading your fucked-raw lips and watching as his cum cascades out of you slow and sticky, using the hardened pad to smear it across your cunt—glazing your clit and your slit and your inner thighs; painting you in him, pressing into the splotches of navy and grey those sharp hipbones carved into soft flesh—before he hoists you up, collects your boneless body in a heap in his arms and decides it’s time for bed, finally, for the both of you.
in an effort to get him to pay attention to you, you send bonten!mikey photo after photo of every single sweet you’ve eaten throughout the day (at an alarmingly increasing frequency) until he finally replies with ‘have you eaten anything other than sugar all day?’ to which you cheekily retort ‘have you?’
character: hanemiya kazutora x fem!reader
genre: smut
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudocest (step siblings), naughty photographs, mentions of naughty letters and phone calls, coercion/guilt tripping, just general ickiness
words: 1.3k
Your big brother is a sick, depraved man.
He always has been.
You’ve always known it, a truth buried deep at the very core of your soul where it has begun to rot, to infect—you knew it when he killed Shinichiro, knew it when he stabbed Baji, knew it when he beat the boy who had been picking on you in first grade to near death, only a few days after you and your dad had moved into his mother’s dilapidated little house.
It’s okay, you don’t have to be afraid anymore, he had said to you as his clumsy thumbs swiped through the streams of tears on your cheeks, leaving streaks of blood painted in their wake. I’m your big brother now, I’ll always keep you safe.
And keep you safe he did, until he got sent away, and then got sent away again, and you were all alone once more.
They shaved his head down to his scalp when he was incarcerated, but it’s been several years since he was arrested now, moved from the juvenile detention center to a real prison, and his hair has begun to grow out again, fluffy onyx tufts curling over the tips of his ears and around his cheeks.
He’s beginning to look like himself again.
“Hi,” he pants as you reach his table, the breath released from the confines of its lungs, where you’re sure it’s been festering since your last visit, exactly seven days ago.
“Hi, Tora-nii,” you nod politely, taking a seat across from him.
Your knees knock together, and he scoots closer to the edge of the bench, the chains adoring his ankles jingling delicately. Your toes overlap his own as he wedges them beneath the soles of your feet, wiggling a little in his slip-on shoes.
“I missed you,” the words surge from his mouth, as if he can’t spit them out fast enough, as if they need to be heard, immediately, clawed their way to freedom and left his throat raw. “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you, too,” your fingers interlace with his, palms pressing together tightly, the silver cuffs shackling his wrists scraping against the metal tabletop.
“It’s fucking hell in here without you,” he admits, eyes downcast, calloused fingers playing with your own, folding and unfolding them. “I keep thinking about the day I’ll finally get out of here, the day when I’ll finally be able to be with you, to have you, but then I remember...It’s still years away.”
He looks up, eyes suddenly bright, shining through a torrent of tears in that special way that is so uniquely him.
“But the photos help. The photos help a lot.” His voice is husky, bordering on a ragged whine, and his knees bump against yours again. “I’m sure they’re nothing compared to your body, but...”
“I’m glad I can help, Tora-nii,” you whisper, gazing at him through your lashes, his stare too brilliant to meet head-on, to hold for an extended period of time.
“Still so shy, my precious little sister,” a knuckle traces the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw, the bow of your lips, topaz eyes enraptured by its trajectory. “Will you still be this shy when I...”
And he can’t even say it, either—too vulgar, too naughty, too illicit to even be uttered in the breath between the two of you.
He swallows thickly, his words turned hoarse, raw, steeped in sick desire. “I hope you are.”
“Kazutora,” you whimper, sounding more like a plead to continue than an order to stop.
“Sorry, I'm sorry,” he clears the grit from his voice. “I—I can’t wait to see what you’ve got for me this week, baby.”
Pricks of heat ripple across your face and you duck your head, nodding to yourself as you pull a hand free from his, sifting through your bag for the small collection of polaroids tied prettily with a piece of silk ribbon.
You’d think, after doing this for so many years, that you’d be used to it by now, but it still feels just as grimy and gross as it did three years ago, when he had begged you for a few photos—nothing crazy, he had promised, nothing too wicked or sinful, just a bikini photo or two, that’s all.
That’s all he needs, he said, swore up and down, cross his heart, pinky promise.
You were fucking stupid to have believed him.
Because that’s never all he needs, when it comes to Kazutora.
Because it won’t ever be truly enough; no matter how much of yourself you give to him, no matter how many shards of your body and slivers of your soul he pries from you, he’ll always crave more, devouring piece after piece until he’s consumed you fully, made you whole, made you one.
Please, sweetheart, I’m going fuckin’ crazy in here, he had told you with tears in his eyes, hands grasping yours so tightly your knuckles cracked, only a few months later. I—I’m so lonely, and I miss you so much, and I’m just so sad and, really, this is the least you could do to make your big brother feel a bit better, isn’t it?
A few pairs of panties and a single naked picture—you could part with those, couldn’t you? You wouldn’t miss those too much, would you?
Of course not.
The panties were short-lived—they were too stringy to be considered safe, and someone had already stolen a pair and tried to strangle another inmate with them, but the polaroids were deemed harmless, and so the polaroids stayed.
And so the polaroids grew, in numbers and in frequency, until you were delivering up to ten in one visit, doing your best to take into account all of Kazutora’s requests, as outlined in his previous letter from the week before.
And even though nothing will ever truly be enough for him, you continue striving to please him anyway; diligent, dedicated, desperate.
Because you’re a good little sister, a kind little sister, an obedient little sister, the best little sister, he’s told you several times now—over this very table when you slip the polaroids across the scratched up metal surface; breathed out as a broken little whine into the phone receiver during his weekly two minute phone calls, when he inconspicuously stains the inside of his jumpsuit with thick, hot cum; in his letters, scrawled across the soiled page in his sloppy handwriting, when he details all of the things he wants to do to you, when he responds to all of the things you said you’d do to him.
The guards know, of course—you’re pretty sure they know all of it, all about the nasty, naughty pictures you routinely deliver to your nii-san every Monday, the grotesque phone calls the two of you have perfected, the devilish letters you send one another, filled with vile thoughts and foul promises.
You’re pretty sure they get off on it, too. They must; why else would they allow it to continue otherwise?
The notion inspires a rush of shameful thrills to shoot through you, leaving your blood tingling and your chest giddy and heat seeping through the floor of your tummy, and you know it does the same for Kazutora, too. He’d at least try to hide it better if it didn’t. You know he would.
And as perverted and nefarious as it all is, as horrible and sordid as you feel, it’d be a lie if you said you didn’t look forward to taking those photographs every week for him, if you said you didn’t feel a dizzying anticipation when coming up with new poses and angles, if you said you didn’t anxiously await his weekly letter, eager to know his thoughts, to read his praise.
Your big brother is a sick, depraved man.
He always has been.
You’ve always known it, because you are a sick, depraved little girl, too.
You may not share blood, but those family roots run deep, twisted and tangled at the pits of your souls, irrevocably knotted so long ago that they’ve fused into one mangled mass, unable to be undone.
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bonten!mikey x fem! reader ⋆ warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, public sex/exhibitionism, dom/sub dynamics, daddy kink, size difference, biting/marking, blood, minimal prep, rough sex, teasing, begging, dacryphilia, humiliation, a lil bit of degradation, drugs, toxic relationship ⋆ words: 8.6k
˚｡⋆♡ 𝐤𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐚 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 ♡⋆｡˚
all wrongs do me right
kawata souya x fem!reader x kawata nahoya ⋆ warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, souya is a nasty little virgin, traces of twincest if you can read between the lines, stuffy humping, masturbation, voyeurism aka jerking it to a poor unwitting couple (or are they? muahaha), implied rough sex, slight daddy kink with nahoya ⋆ words: 2.5k
˚｡⋆♡ 𝐤𝐚𝐳𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐲𝐚 ♡⋆｡˚
tora-nii is finally released from prison, and you can't wait to lose your virginity with him
big (step)brother!kazutora x reader ⋆ warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, stepcest/pseudocest (step siblings), rough sex, minimal prep, painful sex, both kazutora and reader are total virgins (unrealistic loss of virginity), dubcon/noncon, the tiniest hint of dacryphilia, cum eating/feeding, super messy kisses ⋆ words: 4k
⋅˚₊‧ 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 + 𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 ‧₊˚ ⋅
˚｡⋆♡ 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐢 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 ♡⋆｡˚
getting fucked up with the haitanis
rindou x reader x ran ⋆ warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, drugging, noncon, blood, messy rough sex (slapping + biting), hint of mikey at the end, fem!reader ⋆ words: 650
haitani bros fucking you awake and fucking you to sleep
ran x fem!reader x rindou ⋆ warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, consensual somnophilia, rough sex, implied poly relationship, minimal prep, lots of cum ⋆ words: 1.4k
˚｡⋆♡ 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐢 ♡⋆｡˚
rindou feeding you his cum
rindou x reader ⋆ warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, cum feeding + swallowing ⋆ words: 682
˚｡⋆♡ 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐣𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐮 ‘𝐦𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐲’ 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐨 ♡⋆｡˚
sucking on bonten!mikey’s fingers
mikey x reader ⋆ warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, hair pulling, oral fixation (finger sucking), somnophilia + minimal prep, mention of drugs ⋆ words: 1.3k
daddy mikey taking care of you when you’re sick
mikey x reader ⋆ warnings: no explicit smut but still 18+, daddy kink, fem!reader, possessive n obsessive mikey, clothes sharing + implied size difference ⋆ words: 511
i want custom made matching tracksuits with mikey! >:(
just a lil daydream ramble hehe
yakuza mikey rly doesn’t want his sex slave (you) to leave his mansion unattended and unsupervised
ask scribble! yandere behaviour!
˚｡⋆♡ 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐨 ♡⋆｡˚
shinichiro has the prettiest moans out of all the sanos
shinichiro x reader ⋆ warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, one use of the word Daddy, cum swallowing ⋆ words: 879
˚｡⋆♡ 𝐤𝐚𝐳𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐲𝐚 ♡⋆｡˚
visiting big brother tora-nii in prison with some naughty polaroids
big brother!kazutora x reader ⋆ warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudocest (step siblings), naughty photographs, mentions of naughty letters and phone calls, coercion/guilt tripping, just general ickiness ⋆ words: 1.3k
˚｡⋆♡ 𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐬𝐚 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢 ♡⋆｡˚
getting high with waka n sucking him off through his briefs
waka x reader ⋆ warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, drugs, sucking waka off through his undies, lots of cum + cum swallowing, clear hints of a toxic relationship, fem!reader ⋆ words: 1.3k
oh, to be yakuza mikey’s sex slave…he’ll never let you let him…or his house
why on earth would you ever want to leave his mammoth, monstrous mansion in the middle of nowhere? it has everything you could ever need, and then some, he’s absolutely sure of it—tennis courts and skating rinks and indoor pools and bowling alleys and state of the art appliances + electronics and a multi-acre garden complete with a greenhouse—what more could you possibly ask for, honestly? and all for the low, low price of allowing him to use you whenever he pleases, however he pleases, and wherever he pleases, no questions asked? all for the downright menial cost of belonging to him, solely and completely; of being owned by him—which is to say, of being taken care of by him, all of your needs met and all of your decisions made for you, none of that pesky thinking required? that’s not too high a price to pay, is it? that’s not a bad trade off at all, right? he certainly doesn’t think so.
nevertheless, yakuza mikey understands that you’re ‘bored’ all alone here—he does work such long, taxing hours, and there are some times where he doesn’t get to see you for a full forty-eight hours or so (those instances are always the worst, in his opinion)—so he agrees to let you out every once in a while, provided that you agree to some slight ‘modifications’ on your cell phone. it’s nothing major, nothing huge, he promises you. they’re so inconsequential, he claims you won’t even notice anything has changed at all.
his adjustments to your device are security related, safety related, or so he tells you, sternly insisting that you don’t need to know any information beyond that, for your own good, he says. that’s because they aren’t for you, they’re for him; tracking devices that alert him of your every minor movement and full access to your camera and microphone, so he can keep you monitored wholly and completely, in all ways, at all times.
does bonten get jealous when he knows how his associates think/look at reader??,
(i assume you mean bonten mikey!) he does, in a way, but he also really loves flaunting and showing off what is his. you’re his prettiest prize, his most precious possession, and all he wants to do is let everyone know that you belong to him. he gets a sort of rush from the thought of others coveting you—wanting you, thinking about you, yearning for you—and knowing that no matter what, they’ll never be able to have you in any way, shape, or form.
that’s why he outfits you in such pretty, girly, borderline indecent dresses; that’s why he spoils you with the most luxurious silk panties and sexy lace bras, knowing that when you twirl and prance and bend over, all of his men can see: see what they can’t have, see what they won’t touch, see what they’ll never get to fuck.
