#tw.unhealthy relationship

[snapxcracklexpoppy]

BYF + DNI <Stuff about Me>

a bourgeois degenerate who wants to see shitty despicable and violent relationships for their disgusting sense of entertainment

16+ Do not Interact if you’re just a discourse chaser.

About me.

- I’m 18 and I like writing about horror and disturbing themes. I’m a major crybaby Irl. Feel free to use any pronouns for me. I like games, books, and currently obsessed with unhealthy relationships and yanderes. I’m just here to write and have some fun with horror (especially hurt no comfort, body horror).

- I dump about my ideas and fic blurbs: Tag to hide/filter is lullaby.rambles

I mainly write concepts. Rarely requests. but feel free to share any ideas and maybe i’ll expand on it. I love rambling and feel free to dump any questions or suggestions., tag to block/filter my fics (just block me at this point 💀) is: MELODY.FICCEPT

- I am profic and anti-censorship. I don’t care about what you write, but there are consequences to your writing if you write with ill intentions.

- I don’t really care about ships, or fandom drama. however since i’m profic, im heavily aligned since i’m anti-censorship and consider my blog a proship & profic safe space.

- I write heavy dead dove. No nsfw. All of my fics and writings are for entertainment purposes. My purpose is completed if it disturbs you. Do not Interact if you’re just a discourse chaser.

Tags to hide/filter: Tw.incest, Tw.gore, Tw.yandere, Tw.age gap, Tw.abuse, Tw.death, Tw.suicide, Tw.self harm, Tw.kidnapping, Tw.unhealthy relationships, Tw.cheating, Tw.body horror, Tw.child abuse, Tw.horror, and i’ll add more if you ask me. feel free to tell me if i miss anything triggering.

For the age gap, I write the MC as 18 with a older partner (canon age or aged up)— or i usally combine it with the tropes: born yesterday, power imbalance, amnesia, living puppet or recently created clone. or similiar ones.

If this makes you uncomfortable do not interact with it or simply filter and block the tag.

Please filter any tags you dislike. I’m not here to nurture you, nor is if my job to take care of what you read or interact with. Stay safe and don’t read interact with stuff that harms you. Your mental wellbeing is far more important than a piece of fiction.

DNI

- Racists, Anti-lgbtq+, people who can’t differentiate between reality and fiction. Just don’t be asshole or a bigot. Why is that so hard nowadays? Also people who’s main writing thing is extremely only nsfw. Also if you’re under 16, this is a 16+ blog. it just makes me uncomfortable with people who are far younger than me interacting with my more darker works.

[shorkbrian]

Kirishima is a chubby chaser, what can I say.

The moment he sets eyes on you he’s hooked, practically salivating as you giggle and walk with your friends down the sidewalk, so much skin bared to the hot hot sun and his wandering gaze.

Would it be creepy for Kirishima to do a 180 and follow you? Yeah, but luckily the man has confidence to cross the street, march right up and start flirting instead. 

It’s such a bold, creepy move, the big man crossing into your path and flashing you a smile and a wink, a “Hi cutie!” being the first thing out of his mouth. If your friend wasn’t with you, you’d feel threatened by the man. Even now, in broad daylight on a busy street, you’re quite intimidated. 

He just wants to take you home, right then and there, something wrong with that?

Somehow his boldness makes you agree to a coffee date, and then a picnic, then a movie. More and more dates until you know him well enough to call him your boyfriend, and he calls you sugar and baby and puddin’ and anything sweet that he can think of.

It makes him weak in the knees when you wear clothes that show off your skin, even if it’s just a little bit of shoulder or little shorts that make him want to grab you and start biting at your thighs until they’re covered in marks. 

The man acts on his impulses sometimes, jaw dropping when you come out of your house wearing something attractive. He can’t stop himself from circling an arm around your waist, letting a hand wander to fall on your ass and squeeze, chuckling when you squeak and bat him away with hands smaller than his.

When he gets you in his car, he’s leaning over to face-plant onto your thighs, growling and sucking on them like they’re covered in his favorite sauce while you shriek and pull at his hair.

“Kiri! Stop it, that’s-! Too much, we’re-we’re in public!”

“Lemme eat baby, just want a quick snack.” He’ll joke, mouth still brushing against your thighs. It’s a good thing you’re old enough to not live with your parents, explaining why it looks like your legs are bruised and littered with bite-marks would be difficult.

The first time you build up the courage to say “yes” when the man breathlessly asks to fuck you, Kirishima lights up like the literal sun. He bounces off the bed where he’d been holding you to his side, kissing all over your neck and collarbones, idly rubbing himself off against the softness of your thigh as you let your hands wander over his muscles, his biceps.

“I-.......I’m nervous...” You admit hesitantly. What if the redhead sees your bare skin and doesn’t like it’s shape? What if he thinks you’re ugly, or gross, or he gets soft the moment you slide off your shorts? You can’t stand the thought of rejection, not now, not from Kiri.

But the man coos, strides back over with long, athletic steps to grab your face, squishing your cheeks so he can steal a kiss. “We’ll take it slow, yeah?”

Lube is fetched, lights are turned off, Kiri shucks off his clothes and bundles under the covers while you watches, nerves eating your insides, flushing your cheeks, twisting your stomach and making you feel tingly and strung-out.

As soon as you push down your shorts, Kiri’s hooking your leg over his hip, lube-covered fingers coming to stroke flesh hidden by your panties while he distracts you with more kisses, words of praise.

“You’re so hot.”

“God, you’re so soft all over, makes me wanna eat you up, grab you ‘n never let go.”

“Just know you’re gonna make me feel so good, you’re so pretty and all warm.”

He preps you well, enough to have your head swirling and toes curling before he deigns to shift closer, let you feel the drooling tip of his cock.

“Deep breaths baby, relax.” And then he’s sinking inside, inch by torturous inch. It doesn’t burn, it doesn’t hurt, just feels.... uncomfortable. Unusual. 

But not bad.

Soft and sweet, that’s how he makes love to you, gentle kisses and hands filled with strength. You’re often insecure - what if he’s turned off by your inexperience? Would he be happier with someone that was fit like him? Are you even good enough to be sleeping with him? but Kiri never stops, insatiable when it comes to your body.

God, you’re just so plush and fuckable, Kiri can’t stop himself from gettin’ all hard just thinking about you, how you’d feel so good in his hands all squishy and soft.

He gets so excited even just making out with you, kisses turning sloppy and messy as he pants into your mouth, desperate and wanting. He’ll drag your hand down to rub at his bulge between his legs, pushing his hips up into your hand while you blush and squirm in embarrassment. 

You’re embarrassed and maybe a bit uncomfortable, but it’s hard to focus on that when Kirishima’s whining like a needy baby, pressing your hand down even harder on his cock, wet spots forming through his underwear, soaking the fabric. You can feel how big he is, feel every twitch and every throb of blood as his dick pulses underneath your hand.

Kirishima’s other hand will be tracing groping at your ass, struggling to ground himself as he ruts against your fingers.

Or he’s wrapping his arms around you from behind, kissing at the side of your neck and pressing real close to rub his hardness against you, make it clear what he wants, what he needs.

But he always tries his hardest to stay gentle in his thrusts, even though it’s clear that he has experience, hips that are used to this movement, used to sex and driving into a warm little hole again and again while he growls and nips at plump flesh.

He’s not gentle after he snoops through your computer, through your phone, checking your texts, reassuring himself that he’s the only one you’re talking to. Kirishima didn’t find anything to make him doubt your loyalty, but what he did find made his blood boil straight down to his dick.

“You been holdin’ out on me.” Comes his thick words as he swings his hips, pounding into your gushy, overworked cunt.

Little cries escape your mouth on each thrust, thighs struggling to snap shut around his bulk, but only succeeding in trapping him closer against your heat. 

“Don’t try ‘n run, you ain’t gonna get far.” Kirishima grins, sweat dripping off his brow.

The way you moan out teary pleads make his cock pulse inside you and fuck, Kiri’s never thought that he’d be into this kind of thing, but seeing it on your computer browser worked him up into a frenzy.

“Who would’ve known that such a sweet little thing - fuck - is actually a nasty little - unh - freak?” 

The words cause your tears to overflow - that and the brutal way Kiri’s bullying his cock into you, even though you’ve already cum, body shaking and trembling  while you gasp and choke through the sensation. 

There’s no relief, no respite. Kirishima’s found the porn you like, the sites you visit late at night and blush over, idly wondering how it’d feel to have someone treat you like the fucked-out girls and cock-drunk boys moaning before your eyes.

He’ll edge you, again and again with his tongue and fingers until you’re sobbing, begging him to let you cum, all shame and dignity removed as the single thought of getting release remains. Kiri’ll fuck you then, pushing in slow and steady, tease you until you’re practically clawing at him in desperation, wailing for him to go faster, to make you cum. The only thing that’ll get him to break is when you cry that he’s not taking care of you. 

Then he’s making you cum so much that your body goes numb, no longer buzzy and electric and twitchy from riding the edge of orgasm for so long. No, now you’re shaking and struggling to form words, mind as mushy as your soft little cunt.

Kirishima is buying you clothes - skimpy little outfits that you’re far too ashamed and insecure to wear, but he forces you into them anyway. “Just for a second, you’ll look so good!”

It truly is just for a second, because then the clothes are getting shredded as Kiri pushes you up against the mirror, little groans falling from his lips and against your throat as he slides home, deep into your pussy.

Now that he knows he doesn’t have to be gentle with you, Kirishima isn’t afraid to indulge himself a little. After all, you can take it, right?

[idhanbin-blog]

where there’s smoke

archive, character building series -- on first love.

for the unique sensation of yearning for the first time. for realizing you’re not always who you want to be. for the good, the bad and the memories.

when he falls in love, it burns him whole. hanbin doesn’t know how to take it in moderation when it feels good, he wants his cup running over, he wants to go all the way. she teaches him that when she ignites the flicker of fire under his skin that night. one glance, one second too long, and he would have doused himself in gasoline for her.

he’ll sit for hours in a car, temple pressed to the window to feel the engine vibrating against his skull, songs of undying love and bitter separations looping in his earphones as countryside trees blur into cityscapes, and sometimes he thinks of her.

the memories of her are peppermint, red lipstick and hip bones jutting out against smooth skin. cherry cola flavored, tobacco scented. he doesn’t remember everything, but he remembers how she would slip his jacket on when they met after his practice, and how the rough denim of her jeans scratched his skin when their legs would tangle and his shirt would skirt up.

the older he grows, the less significant her presence in his life becomes, the shorter his mild weeks by her side seem amid the long, busy years. but she’s the thin trace of an old scratch that shouldn’t have scarred. she still lingers, still resurfaces.

they start off wrong. hanbin trespasses a number of limits: his curfew, the strained promise not to leave his friend’s house, the bar’s age restriction. with the right influence, which always means the wrong one in this kind of story, he breaks through each of those limits without pause of second thoughts. he has a match in two days and he shouldn’t be drinking - maybe he reaches for another to become stupid enough to forget that.

she’s hard to miss even through the liquor clouding his judgement, and the smoke clouding his sight. he sees her first, and something about the way she glows under dim lights is so otherworldly he doesn’t expect her to notice him. her eyes are sharp and heavy, something sad about them even as they glint purple and pink. he doesn’t hold his breath for her to cross his path.

yet, she does.

his lack of experience is glaring in the way he rests hands on her waist at her command, their youth even more obvious in their awkward touch of lips. neither of them really belongs in the grungy club tucked away in the shades of hot busan nights, but her farce is a perfect one to his impressionable eyes. her fishnets and well worn converse shoes would look desperate to anyone who knows better, but hanbin is still a true innocent. he doesn’t know girls like her.

they never warn boys not to go around seeking bad girls, do they?

they find each other when they can’t go back home. he understands how deafening silence is, she understands how suffocating your own bedroom feels three hours into a fight that seeps through the door. they run into each other again and again when there is nowhere else to go, and they have to stop calling it a coincidence at a certain point.

loitering around convenience stores becomes a habit, learning about one another over empty instant ramen bowls comes as a natural follow up. no one asks what two kids like them are doing out at this hour. they step in and out of the lights on the streets near home without question.

he fixes the strands of hair that always curtain over her eyes, tucking them behind her ear. she flinches -- it’s apparent she feels exposed because it’s the first time he can take all of her face in, no barriers. at the edge of a giggle, she tells him he has the saddest eyes she has ever seen. he smiles, not finding the words for an answer.

she lifts the hem of her shirt enough for him to see the old, pale stripes sitting on skin, reaching the small of her back. “when i was little, mama didn’t like it when i answered back,” she says with a smile when he doesn’t fill the silence, peering at his unblinking face with lips parted around a question that he doesn’t know how to ask. “she never liked me much, i guess. i don’t like her either.” she adds that hasn’t happened again since she grew up, like it’s an explanation.

the anger haunting her veins is familiar enough that he finds it easy to lean closer.

he becomes aware of the differences between them, little by little. they stand on a common ground but it becomes easy to see where his baggage ends and hers begins, bigger, deeper. but he doesn’t understand how the disparities come between them, doesn’t yet see that, while his fury burns white hot, hers is stone cold, petrified.

impenetrable.

there’s sweet with the bitter. this is foreshadowing, but he’d been glad to gloss over all those red flags in rearview.

her fingertip runs up the bridge of his nose, ghosts under his eye to rest at the peak of his cheekbone. he’s all poured out under her gaze, finding that he enjoys the way she bares him with her eyes, clothes and skin and pretenses, all at the floor.

it’s easy to drink in that smile, full of gums and fluttering lashes, that she only has for him. he feels light-headed when she puts her eyes on him, and their usual weariness gives place to something softer, honey-colored. the shivers crawl up his skin almost to the point his chest tightens and his spine quivers.

instinct crawling, foreboding. something ancient in his body has survived through the millennia and knows something he’s yet to learn.

all he knows is the novel excitement of her skin on his, the electricity, the orange pinks behind his eyelids. all he wonders is what he looks like in the frame of her own eyes, what colors she paints him that she’ll never tell him about.

he feels himself become rough, his skin dies after the sting of her sharp edges. she told him once things are only real if they hurt, and it still sounds like bullshit to him.

she’s half drunk on a tuesday, and he isn’t supposed to be here. she watches him light up his third cigarette, lips twitching a the sight of him coughing into a fist. he doesn’t catch her stare, exhaling slow to feel the rawness of his throat ache around thin air.

“who are you trying to impress?”

he catches her eyes for the first time in a while. he’s aware of how heavy his muscles feel, the stiffness in his bones. sedentary, like he hasn’t moved in years. bound to her.

“no one.” he is defensive. anyone would be, young like that, worn to the bone like that. when his coach gets his hands on him, he’ll be sore for weeks. if his father found out he had been sneaking out of practice -- he can’t even imagine a consequence. he always expects the worst, and it goes to show how bad it gets when he can’t picture what that looks like. he doesn’t think about them. “no one.”

“hm.” when she curls her lips with a huff of chuckle, it’s a shell of the smiles she struggled to wipe off her face when he was around. “thought you’d say it was me.”

it didn’t occur to him when eviscerating himself to escape his parents’ expectations that he would wind up trapped under hers

he watches the tip of the cigarette burn red, then yellow, then the flame weakens. the smoke thins out in the outside air as they share a tight spot on the porch, sitting on the wooden steps with their feet over the grass below -- his covered, hers bare. his mother asks him if there’s something he wants to tell her for the second time after a week since the breakup, and eight days since hanbin’s father became aware of his habit of skipping rehearsals. she nods when he shakes his head.

she mentions girls anyway, because she knows him better than he can conceive. she understands he doesn’t have to tell her everything, but she still wants him to open up to her. it becomes apparent she is getting the idea the guilt following him like a black cloud everywhere comes from skipping practice, or casual misbehavior in a relationship.

he’s heard of friends cheating on their girlfriends and he knows how parents feel about premarital sex, he understands what the assumptions are.

“don’t assume i’m talking about you ruining a poor girl’s reputation, or breaking her heart.” the last few words were drawled out in scathing sarcasm, and she took the cigarette off her lips to smile. sometimes his mother would look at him strange, a fog clearing from her eyes as though she was seeing him for the first time. “don’t even assume i’m talking about that stupid training, i wouldn’t care if you never set place into that gym ever again.”

he pulls his knees up and sighs. she explains she expects him to know better than to screw someone over like that. he remains silent this time, lids drooping under her stare, refusing to meet it.

“girls aren’t mysterious, they aren’t pure.” her tone becomes lighter, almost apologetic. she isn’t there to grill him, she doesn’t want to add to the pile his father is stacking day after day since everything came tumbling down. it’s just concern, it’s just her role as a mother. he would like to say he understands. “girls are just girls. they love and hate as much as you do.”

hanbin eyes her, at last.

“they aren’t any more dangerous than you are.” her lips are curling up, but her eyebrows curve with hesitation. he realizes now that the moonlight turns her face a pale blue how sad her eyes look. “but you are dangerous, hanbin.”

when his mother’s hand brushes down his hair, fingers smoothing over the strands and scalp, pausing at his nape with a squeeze only to then lift away, leaving behind the shape of their warmth, he thinks about how foreign her description of a mother’s touch had sounded to his ears.

“you’re my child, baby. i want you to take care of yourself.”

her memory is heavy, bitter, synonymous with regret. he doesn’t remember anything but the what ifs and the maybes. a part of him had always known it was on him to pull her out of her slump, a part of him had always understood his cowardice. over the years, it’s hard not to think over the many things he should have said and done, the many things that should have remained unspoken. no one could reach her like he could then, and all he did was claw away, heart left at the door like it was an inconvenience.

the older he grows, the deeper the dent she etched digs into him. lingering, resurfacing.