decayandfanfics
Dusty fanfics
Hi!✨ G, 27, ENTP, esp/eng
this is a secondary account.
Here i'll be posting some anime fanfics, some are mine. Most aren't hehehe
362 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
Text
The Way Things Are
Summary
Featuring: Tomura Shigaraki x female reader
cw: 18+ minors do not interact, smut, unprotected sex, reader has a quirk, messy, loss of virginity
Word count: 4.5 k
AO3
∘₊✧─────────────✧₊∘
The days unfolded more as they passed. Blending like watercolors, transforming into a jumble of warm mornings, hazy afternoons, and cold nights A month passed, and it was hard to believe; however, the calendar on your phone couldn’t be lying, or maybe it could. After all, you didn’t have a recollection of ever using your quirk in this exhausting way.
Maybe it could mess with the internal clocks of phones too. Concealing your presence was an easy job—a hum that surrounded your life, making you almost indestructible and undetectable.
A cozy blanket that kept you safe well into your early adulthood Concealing others was a different story, though, having to synchronize with their heartbeats and breaths. The unwelcome familiarity of discovering the patterns of the league. You were the newest member; a few weeks didn’t make a significant difference, but facts are facts.
They already had a well-established dynamic; it’s not that they didn’t attempt to incorporate you. Making friends was simply not on your list of reasons for joining this organization in the first place. Allies were required to accomplish your end goal; the plan was to keep them safe with your quirk, and they would assist you in exacting your revenge.
You have to stay inside the tiny cabin. No , you thought this was hardly a cabin. It’s a shed not meant for staying for more than a night or to be used as temporary shelter, but the times were rough and the money was cut off many weeks ago. Getting used to the pungent smell of rotting wood was still an active project.
The wood panels that acted as walls provided minimal protection from the weather; if it rained, you knew because the water formed poodles on the already-molding hardwood flooring.
This was better than staying outside , you told yourself as you checked your ratty sleeping bag for ticks and other unwanted companions. Getting a bug bite-transmitted disease would be the cherry on top of this disadvantageous situation.
That night, it was only you and Tomura in the room; the other members decided to flee for liberty. The only night the leader decided to take a real break and not only a few hours to rest
Even Spinner excused himself; you didn’t have anywhere else to go, and your head pounded painfully behind your eyes like a second heartbeat with the uninterrupted use of your quirk. You might as well take the chance and turn it off for once.
Being a loner, even in a group of other outcasts, was funny in a way. The night was setting, and soon Tomura would enter the room, nod at you, and ignore you for the rest of the night until the sun rose again.
The only change in the routine was that tonight he would sleep in, which made you nervous. You were used to the others being here, coming and going, murmuring greetings, and asking if suddenly food decided to manifest itself in the pantry.
You didn’t realize you had fallen asleep until the soft noises of Tomura setting his sleeping bag woke you up. You didn’t mean to pry into his nightly routine, but you couldn’t help it. The dim lighting provided by the sad portable light cast shadows on his face, making his dark undereyes more noticeable and deeper. The crazy rhythm he set for himself was starting to wear him down. Suddenly, he looked five years older in the span of a few weeks.
He was down to his t-shirt, but the night was so cold , you thought. Maybe it was your people-pleasing personality or the fact that you wanted to talk to someone about anything. You left the warm cocoon of your sleeping bag to go look into your things for a spare hoodie, sweater, or anything warm.
He lifted his eyes and did the usual thing he did: he nodded at you, and you nodded back in silent acknowledgment. This time, though, you offered him a hoodie.
“It’s cold” You haven’t used your voice in hours, so it came like a hoarse whisper. His gaze went from your face to the hand offering the garment.
“It doesn’t bother me.”
“Your hands are shaking.” You were talking in whispers, the same tone you would use when talking to a feral cat. “I’ll leave it here.” You crouched slowly. Again, he looked tired and easy to piss off, and he was already easy to provoke when he was in a good mood, so it was better not to poke at him.
“Whatever,” he sighed.
You stayed there a little. Listening to the sounds from outside the walls. Letting your hands grow colder so you can warm them up later inside your sack. Watching your nails turn purple with poor blood circulation and then returning to a healthy pink. Pretending you were on a camping excursion with friends and not on a terrorist mission with people you barely spoke to, your thoughts made you giggle. The absurdity of it all
“What’s so funny?” He sounded more annoyed than tired, so maybe he did want to talk.
“I’ve never been camping.” And with that, you got up and crawled back to your small personal space.
“Me neither,” he said after a long pause.
Just above a whisper from his mouth, it felt like a small win to get him to speak about other things that weren’t his plans for the league or video games. You let the moment go too far; the opportunity to converse was halted. Soon, his steady breathing told you he was asleep. Good for him; you knew he needed the sleep.
You couldn’t make yourself sleep tossing and turning for what you felt were hours. The cold claimed your body, and your breath was visible in front of you in wisps of steam. How much did the temperature drop? It was hard to know for sure, but the bites from the bitter cold were eating your fingers, leaving flushed cheeks, stiff toes, and clattering teeth behind for you to endure.
It never crossed your mind that you could miss having all the members of the league around to provide human heat, but here you were shivering inside a thin sleeping bag in the middle of nowhere.
You wondered if Tomura was doing better, so you tuned in to check on him. To see his half-lidded eyes already staring at you. You noticed he was wearing your hoodie—another win for your small record. No, like you were keeping a record.
“Y/n” He broke the silence, his voice husky and tired.
“Yeah?”
“Can you turn on your quirk?”
You were not expecting that at all. You sat slowly, warming your hands with your breath.
“The buzz sound—I got used to hearing it.”
You could accept his petition, but you could also get something from him—a mutual favor: he wanted the side effect of your quirk, and you wanted a source of heat.
“Sure, but can I move closer to you?” The words left your mouth, and they turned into ribbons wrapping themselves around your neck, too accustomed to never asking for anything from anyone. To want was to desire, and desire was why you ended up as a stray on the edges of society.
“You don’t need to be close.” He replied, stating the knowledge he had of the way your quirk worked. It tasted too much like rejection—the oily, sour aftertaste setting in the back of your throat.
“That is true.” You shrugged, letting your quirk wrap around him. His heartbeat joined the sounds inside your head, along with the palpitation of your headache. He was upset; probably his pulse was faster than it should be considering he was lying down.
“Is it easier to use if you’re close?”
“No.” You sighed, shaking your head. “I’m cold, that’s all.”
He kept his eyes on you, actually taking notice of your presence for the first time since you joined the league. You wanted to be out of this situation. A wave of stress settled on your shoulders, and the tightness of your chest made it harder to breathe. You didn’t like being noticed; it was easier to be in the background, taking little space.
“I smell!" Tomura snorted, almost chuckling. Almost. It's another win for the record.
“We all do.” You let a chunk of your stress be dissolved by a short laugh. “We all should bathe and soak there for a few hours”.
He chuckled this time. You joined him. It felt delicious. You felt normal for once in a while.
“You can move closer.” He whispered reluctantly, his rapid heartbeat hammering the back of your head. Maybe it was invasive to get a glimpse of a clue to how he felt without disclosing it, but no one asked, and you were not about to go. Hey, just letting you know that I can hear and feel your heartbeats inside my head. Sorry about that.
You rose, your steps muffled by your socks. He was already making space for you. You lay beside him on your side, facing him. The sleeping bag was slightly bigger than yours, but still, your knees were touching, and suddenly you gained awareness of all your limbs and their positions. The way you bent at uncomfortable angles to avoid touching him more than what was inevitably necessary. It was warmer and nicer too, even if you were never going to voice such a thought; your fingers were finally allowed to regain blood flow.
You wanted more. You wanted to take more; the ache for human contact was tingling at your fingertips, so close to another human yet so far. You longed to be the one who takes, not the one who stays empty-handed, and god, you were as empty as you could be; nothing belonged to you.
So in a moment of impulsivity, with his heartbeat driving you insane and his knees touching yours, you decided to press your mouth on his closed lips—a peck. You waited for him to push you away to try and turn you into dust for the audacity of daring to kiss him. But he didn’t; he remained still. A muffled sound coming from his throat was the only acknowledgment you got.
You pushed it more; it was addicting—the heat from his body and the way he tasted the musky smell from him—making you wish you could get inside his clothes. You parted your lips, trying to deepen the kiss. His hands found their way to your upper arms, squeezing them in a fourth-finger grip, not pushing you away, not pulling you in either, just keeping you there. The guilt made you draw back.
Your mind was racing as your stomach tangled into tight knots. But then you saw his face, eyes closed, and brows furrowed together.
“I can’t touch you.” He murmured, his breath tickling your mouth. Letting go of your arms, he set his hands into fists on his sides.
Now his gaze was on your eyes, his pupils engulfing the red of his irises. He wanted to give in to physical pleasure; he never really let himself explore before. His life had always been about controlling decay, and he didn’t particularly like the fact that your quirk could potentially make you immune to his.
He used to indulge in fantasies where he met someone who he could touch and who would not squirm away from him in fear or disgust. Then he met you, gentle-faced and not quite made for a villain’s life but with a useful quirk he was not going to turn down.
He decided later on that not having the power to get rid of you if needed was not something he was fond of, contrary to what he initially thought. Still, he wanted to dig his fingers into the plumpness of your hips, knowing that you would stay whole. He could not afford the distraction though, so keeping you at arm’s length was necessary.
Tomura didn’t imagine you were going to be the one to close the distance he so carefully crafted. Even more so, he would let you effortlessly do it too, giving in so easily to a gentle gesture, a tender kiss, and a kind caress.
“I don’t want to.” He ran his hand through his hair, the pale locks stealing highlights from the faint portable light. “I should not want to.” He spoke to himself, attempting to assure himself that he had no special interest in you.
One of his hands moved to your nape, drawing you closer. He didn’t allow you the chance to flee and hide in your sack; the hand on your neck brought you back to his mouth. This time, he was the one who started it. Too quick, too eager, too hungry—his kiss was clumsy and inexperienced. You bit him softly, trying not to break his chapped lips any further, just enough to make him stop for a second.
He was perplexed.
“I thought you wanted”— I thought you wanted me , left unsaid. He whispered, tilting his head to get a better view of yours. “You kissed me first.”
“I do,” you said, attempting but failing to conceal your hesitation. “I did”
You fell into an awkward silence, peering into one another’s eyes but not daring to break it again.
“Why? He inquired. His glance flew to your lips, then up to your eyes, expecting to find the answer he was seeking.
“I felt like it.”
That was not what he was expecting, yet again. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear; for months, he had prevented his attention from wandering to you and your ridiculous quirk.
He was aware that he was not in love with you. That was not something he believed himself capable of; not even lust was something he frequently indulged in; usually, it concerned physical sensations, the twitch in his lower abdomen, and the slight relaxation that followed. That was a checkbox on the pyramid of needs that humans had to meet.
“Do it again?” He whispered, giving in. He could swear the buzzing of your quirk started to have a rapid heartbeat-like pattern.
The previous uncomfortable silence was preferable to this conversation. The consequences of your actions didn’t make themselves wait; they showed up barely minutes after kissing him.
“Do it again?” You echoed his words with an unsure voice.
“Don’t act like that now. I’m not the one who started this with the excuse of being cold.”
“It was not an excuse; I was cold,” you replied.
“Yeah, well. You certainly aren’t anymore." He trailed off, his gaze fixed on you. A frown formed on his brow.
“Should we talk about it?” You inquired shyly.
“What? Now you want to talk. You never say anything and have never actively participated in our missions! Now suddenly, you’re interested in discussing things? Acting like a damn NPC,” he retorted, his tone laced with skepticism.
“You never complained before.” You mumbled.
Successfully, you annoyed him in record time. He laughed wryly.
“Is this a fucking joke? Is this how you entertain yourself?” He leaned forward, his mouth close to your ear. The breath hitting your skin made you shiver. “You think that because I can’t use my quirk on you, you can just do anything you want to me without consequences?”
“Of course not. Look, I apologize for what I did. I’m leaving” You said to walk away like you often do when things become too difficult to handle. “Let’s pretend it never happened.”
You crawled out of his sleeping bag with all the dignity you could muster, shuddering when your calf accidentally brushed against his forearm. You didn’t get far; well, Tomura didn’t let you get far. He grabbed you by the ankle.
“You don’t get to just walk away from this.” He stated. “Not when we work together every day. And not after you just kissed me out of nowhere.”
The chill from the floor pierced your bare foot as your sock turned to dust. Your quirk buzzed around your body, repelling his.
“You thought you could get away with it? Just do whatever you want to me. It doesn’t work like that.”
“Then what do you want? I offered to talk, and you said no, but you also said no to me, leaving you alone. Yes, I shouldn’t have kissed you, but you kissed me back.” You huffed. “Just let it go.”
You were purposefully ignoring the fact that he did ask you to kiss him again, and you rejected him. It was terrifying to understand that the very first kiss was more than simply impulsiveness; perhaps you wished for a warm body to exchange body heat with, but not anyone you wanted his.
“You shouldn’t play with people’s feelings like that.” He definitely didn’t take it well. He yanked on your ankle, sending pain through your leg and forcing you to step forward. Your hands broke your fall; kicking him instinctively, your foot connected with his shoulder, causing him to hiss.
“What’s the matter with you? You yelled. He had already sat down when you turned your body to face him. “Why do you act like that over something as insignificant as a kiss?”
“It’s not about the kiss,” he said, sighing. Tiredness framed his face, and his skin was as irritated as ever. The faint sounds of nature outside flowed through the room as he sat there. This situation was entirely your own creation.
“Don’t kiss me and then reject me.” He mumbled. You knew that saying that cost him. “That’s cruel”
You gulped, drooling like an animal in captivity who had just been thrown a piece of meat after long weeks of starvation. Slowly, your finger brushed the shoulder that you were pretty sure you’d kicked.
He lifted his gaze, doubt written all over his face.
“So?”
He hesitated to answer. Licking his chapped lips before talking.
“Kiss me or leave.”
The bluntness of his statement left you frozen, but you couldn’t deny the pit of desire ignited in your body. The hand that was on his shoulder moved up to his face, cupping his cheek. His breath hitched, and you launched yourself forward, pressing your mouth to his lips.
Your tongue traced the outline of his scar. Tomura opened his mouth, capturing your tongue and licking it. He didn’t know where to put his hands; maybe you would not decay, but your clothes were another story. He settled for burying his hands in your hair.
Starting to feel lightheaded, you dropped your hand to his chest, not that you needed it to feel his heartbeat. You never retrieved your quirk effect from him; his pulse was hammering rapidly in your head, making you wonder where all that blood was traveling.
He quietly gasped, breaking the kiss. He glanced into your eyes, and that’s when he knew you were into this as much as he was. He kissed you on the neck, his breath caressing your sensitive skin and causing you to jolt when he nibbled the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, forcing a moan out of your mouth.
He stiffened; he could never have thought a little sound like that coming from your mouth could have such an effect on him as electricity rushing down to his groin, feeling himself grow harder. Self-conscious about the possibility of you noticing his erection, he pulled aside a little.
“What?” You muttered.
“Nothing,” he lied.
“Do you want to stop?” You asked.
“No”
“Can I touch you?” Your desire was palpable in your speech.
He nodded. And you ran away with the confirmation. You reached out to touch the rough lines that composed him, and as your hand went to his lap, he quickly wrapped his hand around your wrist, not with any real force.
“We can stop." You started, but he interrupted you.
“I already told you I don’t want to stop,” Tomura snarled. “I just need a moment.”
You chuckled under your breath.
“Why are you acting like a virgin? We are just making out!”
He looked dumbstruck, and his saliva-coated lips parted in an expression you didn’t think he was capable of. He coughed, wiping his face. The realization hit you like a fist to the nose. Of course, he didn’t have any experience in this department. It wasn’t even hard to guess.
You pushed the virgin too far. With a vice grip, he yanked your hair; the pain was registered later on by your nerves when he was already pushing you to the sleeping bag. He pinned your hands above your head, brutally stretching your shoulders, making you trash under him.
His narrowed eyes met yours. His lips were tugged down so deeply that you could see the specks of blood blooming from his chapped lips. Tomura was mad, tired, and aroused.
You inhaled deeply, allowing the air to fill your lungs. Hopefully, the newfound oxygen in your bloodstream could help you find a way out. Suddenly, he let go of your wrists, choosing to nuzzle your neck instead.
“I’m tired,” Tomura mumbled, sounding muffled and defeated.
On the other hand, you were restless. His hair was brushing your cheek, and his breath condensed on the skin of your neck, leaving a moist, warm feeling behind. You ran your hand through his hair; it was softer than you imagined, curling around your fingers.
He sighed, rolling off you to sit beside you, making the old wood flooring crack under him. The cold indignantly filtered through your body again, missing his body heat. Like a moth to a flame, you wrapped your arms around him and turned to bury your face in the crook of his neck. You could get used to his smell and the way his pulse quickens beneath your lips.
“Sorry.” He whispered.
“Just hug me back,” you replied.
He took advantage of the situation by slipping his hands under your sweater. Tomura's hands were warm, which was ironic given the destructive nature of his quirk. No one else was going to love the texture of his fingertips tracing lines on their backs except you.
There was no lust in his touch at the beginning, but that didn’t last long, with his contact growing hungry and desperate. You straddled him, his finger digging into the small of your waist and bringing you closer, encouraging you in. Tomura lifted his head to meet your eyes and opened his mouth, hesitating to speak.
There’s no need to speak, you thought. Kissing the corner of his mouth and licking the dry blood from his lips, the faint coppery taste only served to feed your desire for him. Your arousal would already be coating his lap if it weren't for the thick sweatpants you were wearing. You needed him to stop being so shy.
“Decay my clothes." Your speech was muffled against his mouth, but he heard every syllable, replaying it in his mind over and over.
“You’re insane,” he whispered back.
“Undress me then."
"Huh? I'm not going to strip you." For a split second, you assumed that meant he didn't want to go any further with you. You were gloriously incorrect. He gently pushed you on your back again, this time placing his palm on the back of your head to ensure you would not get hurt. “Not fully. You’re cold, remember?”
“Right”
A hasty hand slid down your pants, his thumb hooked in the waistband. You arched your back to help him undress you with the combination of his warm hands and the cold room. He mostly kept his word, only setting one leg free from your pants and underwear.
As eager as he was, you battled with the button of his jeans. Pulling it until his erection sprang free, you wish the room were thoughtfully illuminated so you could see all of him. This time, he didn't wrap his hand around your wrist to stop you.
Instead, he sank his finger into the swell of your hip, stealing a gasp from your mouth, encouraging him to touch you more as he pleased. Without losing any more time, you stroke his cock, slowly caressing his flushed tip with your thumb, smearing the precum down his length.
He jerked forward, biting down a whiny moan.
Your mouth was on his neck, kissing and licking him, down to his collarbones, tasting his salty skin. Tomura was on cloud nine; your hand was warm and soft around him, and you were doing this willingly.
“Please Y/n” He was not used to asking for permission; he was raised with the encouragement to take whatever he desired when he wanted. For some reason, he wanted you to give yourself to him without having to force you.
“Let me help you." You whispered Tomura jolted when you guided his cock to your entrance, wrapping your legs around his bony hips. Tomura grabbed you by the waist, burying himself in the inviting wetness of your cunt.
You heard yourself cry out a moan at the sudden stretch. Just like the first kiss, he was sloppy and rhythmless. No, that he cared at that very moment. You felt so good clenching around his cock.
"Tomura." You breathed out his name.
He grabbed your plushy thighs, parting your legs further. He wanted to be inside you so deeply that you would feel like something was missing when he pulled out.
You pulled his hair, sending delicious tingles down his neck. Tomura pressed his mouth to yours forcing his tongue inside your mouth as he began to set a pace sending waves of pleasure with each thrust
“I want you to cum with me. What should I do?” He asked, panting in a hoarse whisper.
“Touch my clit while you fuck me."
His thumb found the bundle of nerves, and a wave of pleasure invaded your body, making you breathless and gasping for air. You knew he was close when he started to moan in your ear. His hips rocked intensely. Tomura felt his abdomen clenching, and he gave in to your grip. The world stopped for a moment, and it was only him and you. Putting your hand behind his nape, you draw him closer, kissing him while you reach your peak.
Tomura plopped on top of you, still to the hilt inside you. The spasms, remnants of your orgasm, emptying him further inside you. Kissing your sweaty temple, he rolled off you.
You didn’t want to think you’d regret this so soon after it was over, occupying your mind with cleaning the mess before it dried in a sticky nightmare instead. You used your remaining sock to clean his cum that slid down your thighs.
After you fixed your clothes, you turned to see Tomura, who was already sleeping on his side, giving his back to you. Odd. Well, he did say he was tired. In one of many kind gestures, he wasn’t sure he hated or loved; you fixed his clothes by pulling his jeans back on.
He looked content with his usual scowl, relaxing to a neutral expression. Finally, you settled for letting him sleep alone in his sleeping bag; eventually, you’d have to talk with him; he owed you a pair of socks after all.
When you were seeking a shield from the cold in your sleeping bag, exhaustion had already claimed your body. You were drifting to dreamless sleep.
You will regret this.
∘₊✧─────────────✧₊∘
Chap 2.
209 notes
·
View notes
Text
Best friends older brother Choso finding you in the kitchen getting a glass of water in the middle of the night in nothing but your underwear and his oversized knit sweater you thought you stole from Yuuji (bc what younger sibling doesn’t take the eldest’s clothes) to sleep in. Staying the night because it was ‘already so late’ and that they’ll give you a ride to uni in the morning.
Catching you standing on your tiptoes to reach a glass cup in the cupboard stored too tall this time around and he gets a nice view of the cheeky pair you wear and his throat goes dry.
Already feeling like a fuckin creep for how he feels about you, the lewd thoughts he lets pass because he knows it’s natural at the very least. Your his little brothers best friend, basically family at this point with how often you visit and spend time with Yuuji. Never gone so far as to needing to lock himself away in the guest bathroom to stroke his hard cock to the scene that plays in his minds eye.
Of him being the kind man you know him as and reaching the cup for you. Fingers brushing over yours, pelvis pressing you into the rounded edge of the counter top while one hand grips firmly at your hip. Thinks of how maybe you’ll make that cute little gasp that always happens when you’re startled or surprised the moment you feel him against you.
Will you look up at him with those pleading eyes that every man in this house is weak to? So willing to give you everything you want even if you don’t really ask for it? Would you want him the way he wants you? Long lashes fluttering closed when Choso uses the hand at your hip to grind the fat of your ass against his rigid length.
He thinks of how maybe you’ll lean forward until your forearms rest against the countertop, standing on your tiptoes again so he could feel more of you through his baggy joggers and the thin cotton covering your warm slit.
Fuck it’s gotta be tighter than the grip of his fist right now. He’d want to go slower than the quick and frenzied pace he has now, the one that causes the rest of his body to warm and a light sheen of sweat to collect on the nap of his neck and temple. Biting his lip hard to keep from groaning and altering you to his presence in the bathroom.
Imagining your sweet calls of his name, breathy sighs laced with pleasure. You’d sound so cute he knows it, you already sound so sinful when you say his name in innocent situations.
“Choso Choso Choso” fuck you’d probably pitch when he’d rut his hips to nudge at your clit after pushing the band of his sleepwear down and your panties to the side. Slick clicking because he knows he can make you feel good, he already takes care of you as much as he can. Or fuck if you let him slip inside and feel that divine heat like he imagines now. Fevered ruts nearly lifting you off your feet because he’ll have to angle himself to take you comfortably. He’s sick from the thought of a sweet keen of “chos-oh” at the feel of him. What he can do for you.
So close, almost there. Just a little more.
Before you knock at the door, and you sound just as innocent as you always do. As the fantasy that plays in his head does before it shatters but still he pumps his cock in his fist, “Choso? That you? Everything okay?”
Fuck, no? Everything’s not okay because you’re so close. Just outside the door, within arms reach, and his sacs already tightening with the need to cum. He’s almost there he can’t fucking stop now even with you standing outside.
“Yeah,” it’s a husk through grit teeth, panting breath and he’s almost there. Close close close fuck.
“Are you sure? You sound like you’re sick..” You’re so sweet, do you know that? So caring always, he knows it. His younger brother keeps good people. A talent for it obviously when he found you, when he brought you to him. The way you smile, the way you shine, everything. He’s euphoric, he’s painting his tight fist in pearly ropes with a relieved sigh to the thought of you.
Head lolling back against the door behind him as his hips stutter through the pleasure Choso knows pales in comparison to what you could offer. But it’s relief for now.
Collecting himself to tuck away his spent cock and open the faucet for the sound of running water to fill the space and hopefully put you at ease.
“Yeah, I’m alright, just fine,” he’d say perfect but that’d only be if he could be with you
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
Shigaraki Tomura Canon Tidbits #1
Happy Halloween from this Shigaraki fan! 👻 I feel like this is an especially important time for us because, well, symbol of death and decay. He's the embodiment of spooky and I love him for it! ❤️❤️
Unfortunately, wrote smut for both of my other blogs for the time being and I'm a bit burned out. *Sigh* Will try to scribble down something but since I'm not sure I will manage to do it today...
Here's some canon Tomura tidbits! Helpful for writing, and very cute~✨
Prefers quiet atmosphere (MHUI)
Likes to be talked to with respect, despite the fact that he often doesn't return that courtesy (lol)
Surprisingly open-minded; Will listen to the point of view of others, even if he disagrees with it
Likes playing games where he can figure out the strategy and win, but will get bored if it's too easy (MHUI)
Very good at reading people
Short tempered but able to rationally think through the situation once he calms down
Obsessive about research. Kind of a workaholic if you think about it??
He itches less if he's in a situation he can control
Feeling out of control may cause him to experience traumatic flashbacks
Likes to go on walks around the city
Especially if agitated?? That's how he (sort of) deals with anger which is surprisingly healthy??
Despite that, he hated going on nature treks in Smash. May be because it was hot.
Also in Smash, Tomura seems to hate being perceived as "cute" (too bad~~)
Doesn't wear socks, as we all know
Seems to prefer verbally talking through his thinking process to sort his thoughts out, and to bounce the ideas off of someone
Likes Green Tea
Often thinks up his current philosophy on the run, and is able to argue its points without believing in it. Basically, a debate lord lmao.
Which also (along with his room being full of books) suggests that he's pretty well-read
Stays up to date with the current events (boomer newspaper Tomura supremacy)
Seems like some kind of movement helps him think - most often seen scratching himself, or just moving his fingers. Stimming Tomura confirmed??
Extremally high pain tolerance
130 notes
·
View notes
Text
I did and still do think Choso likes to be ridden. Flat on his back and holding the natural curve of your waist. Lips parted around choked breaths because you squeeze so sinfully with each bounce he helps guide. Slow in pace and grinding your clit against his pelvis and it makes his hands slide to your hips. Makes his fingers dig into the meat of them while he pushes you down so humid breaths can mingle in the minimal space between you. His nose brushing yours or your jaw depending on how he’s guiding you up and down his shaft.
Hips rutting into yours when he can calm himself enough to not plant his feet flat onto the mattress and drive so deeply you’ll jolt off of him. Make that cute sound he likes, something between a gasp and yelp, something softer but not quite yet a moan. A surprise to you and even himself since you’re the first one he’s been with like this. The first of many encounters that he hopes can be limited to you because he couldn’t imagine a single other could compare to you. Certain any and all would pale in comparison just how ethereal you look when you reach your climax.
When he delivers you sweet rapture and you reward him with the blessing to share in the euphoria. Arching himself as your slow your pace to a steady grind to prolong his high; and it’s with a guttural groan that he fills you full.
So full that pearly white leaks around his still hard cock while remaining nestled in your divine heat.
Shuddering delightfully in the aftershocks of your orgasm that has your walls spasming periodically. And even if it overstimulates him and you both he doesn’t dare withdraw. Not when he’s this close to the only heaven he wants to experience.
381 notes
·
View notes
Note
main list #11 with gojo (when you walk in the room)
11 — when you walk in the room
G. Satoru — さとる
NOTE : 🫡 omg this got buried in my drafts i'm so sorry !! but hope u likeyyy
It's you — you who makes the cocky, manspreading white-haired boy practically jump out of his seat when you walk into the room.
It's you who he gives up his seat to. No one else, even if he respects them.
No, it's just you. Only you who he's trying to impress with that posture; taught and broad shoulders, straight legs, full height shown off, chin lifted and nose a bit in the air, hands folded behind the back and all.
He can't stop looking you up and down, sometimes he'll peak up his blindfold or peer over the rim of his dark sunglasses to get a fuller look of you. By now he's mapped out your whole body in his mind, and discovered the smallest quirks in your behavior.
How you carry yourself — that's what he's taken by. Next it's your voice. He listens attentively, obviously leaning close sometimes just to fluster you. Throwing tasteful dirty jokes and compliments your way to see your reaction. Come the night, he replays the moments shared between the two of you and smiles to himself.
Satoru isn't a flirt with anyone except you. He's just not. You don't know it, but you're the only one on the receiving end of those winks or accidental hand touches. Light grazes between your bodies gives him such a rush, like a sugar rush, but more intense. Sometimes he gets goosebumps and shivers.
And poor Gojo when you leave the room. He misses you instantly and tries to refrain from following you like a puppy, but he just can't help it. So he slips out the meeting room even if the officials frown at him for leaving early, and shuts the shoji door with a smack. Those long legs quickly catch up with you at the end of the hall.
" Heyyy, you said you're headed out for coffee ? Mind if I tag along ? Yay ~ thank you, sweetheart. Let's make it a date — joking, joking ! "
© arminsumi
Do not plagiarize / repost / translate / copy layouts / etc.
Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.
2K notes
·
View notes
Note
if you read fic - do you have any fav Darcy POV stories?? those are my fav and its hard to find good ones
Love a good p&p fic, but I agree there aren’t many in Darcy’s POV! Here are a couple I found in my history:
Twenty Months - modern au, basically Lizzie gets knocked up and they fall in love for real. Very entertaining, goes back and forth on POV’s if I’m not mistaken.
Boots & Backpacks - *need a login*, modern au, will needs to escape media pressure and goes on a hike along the AT with Lizzie, sexiness ensues. very long but extremely well done! Darcy’s POV.
Breathe - regency au, what if instead of walking away after the *almost kiss* in the 2005 movie, they closed the distance? This is a very popular fic for a reason! Back and forth on POVs.
Cottage Fever - regency au, a classic what if they are snowed in together? au! Delightful! Back and forth POVs.
Fix You - regency au, Mr. Bennet falls ill, there is a misunderstanding, forced-ish marriage, Darcy’s POV
You, Me, and the Bourgeoisie - modern au, darcy basically transports into an alternate universe where he ended up with Lizzy and finds how happy they are, Darcy POV
A Slip of the Tongue - regency au, what if darcy accidentally asks for Lizzie’s hand in marriage instead of a dance and she accepts? Back and forth POV, but mostly Lizzie’s.
That’s all I have time to find right now, but I know there are plenty more!!! Anyone else have any to add? :)
659 notes
·
View notes
Text
—5:53 AM | GOJO SATORU
it's blue hour, but gojo satoru feels anything but blue.
content. slight angst but soo fluffy dw, softest gojo ive ever written + a bizarre amount of greek myth references
“how lonely are you, ‘toru?”
your boyfriend turns his head to you, his blue eyes looking at you with wonder and confusion.
“what do you mean?” you've always found blue eyes weird-looking on others, but maybe it's because you love gojo satoru, they look beautiful on him.
“it's gotta be lonely at the top, right?” you worry about him. he spaces out for random periods of time, in the less worrying situations, it's during dates. sometimes though, it's during missions. even if date nights are mildly annoying, when his life hangs in the balance of a second and a curse eating him whole, it's so much more stressful.
you lean your head on his shoulder, and he smiles, snuggling into you. he watches as you pick at the flowers surrounding you absentmindedly, drinking in the cool air, and he laughs.
“nah.” he flicks your cheek affectionately, “i got you. i got shoko, i got kento, even little ol’ megumi is warming up to me.”
you remember the way satoru cried when he watched the spider-man movie. it was revolutionary, you remember him saying as you walked out of the theater room, picking out an overpriced spider-man keychain for him at the merch store, and a gwen stacy keychain for you. he fiddles with that spider-man keychain now, as the two of you stare at the night sky.
uncle ben said that with great power comes great responsibility, but if you could help shoulder that responsibility with satoru, you would in a heartbeat. with his broad shoulders, he carries the brunt of the world’s evil like atlas, condemned to bear the heavens with his head high and arms without ache.
and yet, in the small park near the academy, he holds you without protest.
you think it’d be too much for you to bear, but satoru never complains (unless it’s about the fact that he has to beg you to wear his sweatshirts when you cuddle up to him in his bed—for that, he will run his mouth forever).
“i mean,” your mouth is dry, “you know you can talk to me, right?”
he laughs—it's light and airy, for no other reason than to keep the mood higher than it could be. he's struggling, fighting for survival under the pressurized waves of the techniques that made him strong in the first place, you don't need to have six-eyes or be a genius to see it.
“i know.” he affirms innocently, “everything's fine, don't worry!”
you feel a lump in your throat before you nod in acceptance, going back to pick at the small daisies that litter the field you're in. you like to tie them by the stems, making crude attempts of a crown because you've never actually watched tutorials, you don't have the time.
“is it hard being with me?” he asks out of the blue. you have to pause.
“yes,” you answer quietly, “but it's worth it. you're worth it.”
he hums, staring absentmindedly at the sky that's slowly beginning to change color. gojo knows he's lucky. he'd never thought that he could ever have someone like you in his life; he's blessed with every finger that you run through his hair, blessed with each meaningful kiss you place on his face, blessed with you.
with all of his strength, you make him feel weak.
“sometimes i can imagine us married and as an old couple,” you remark offhandedly, the occasional breeze blowing through your body, “we're too young to be married, but i like to think about it.”
he laughs again, but it's throatier this time, bitter even.
“bold of you to assume I'm making it past my thirties.” he tries to keep it light for you, he really does. being the strongest is a burden only he can carry; you signed up to date gojo satoru, not the honored one. you signed up to date a man who buys four boxes of häagen-dazs ice cream just because you eyed them a certain way, not a man who got harassed by the higher-ups and assassins every day.
he sometimes thinks that you deserve better than to be with him, but that's before you shut him up with a kiss and a playful pinch on the cheek (no matter how hard he tries, though, the insecurity still gnaws at his stomach).
you realize that comparing satoru to atlas was just a fleeting thought; sisyphus is a much better fit, you think. for eternity, the love of your life is cursed to push that damn boulder up a hill, only for it to roll again. it's an infinite cycle of torture that he must endure, and he alone. was it such a crime to be strong? if he's so honored by the gods, why must he be tortured the way he is?
in your heart, you know the reason: it's because gojo satoru is a good person. he could easily lie back and watch as the world gets corrupted with curses and selfish higher-ups fighting for power instead of providing support, but he doesn't. he’s everything he's too humble to admit; his strength doesn't make him satoru, his heart does.
uncle ben said that with great power comes great responsibility, but why did it have to be satoru? why couldn't it have been anyone else?
“let's get married soon, then. we can go through all that shit old couples do.” you smile, folding your fingers into his. you know there's more than a good chance satoru won't make it to a normal lifespan, but maybe, if he truly was blessed, he could try.
you like to think he'd try.
he accepts your warmth greedily, cupping his palm on yours and interlacing your fingers. he's always thought that you were made for him as he was for you, there's no way you couldn't be, not with how right it feels to be next to you all the time. not with how right it feels to be holding your hand.
he smiles sadly. “you don't need to do that for me.”
he doesn't want you to get him wrong, being married to you would singlehandedly be the greatest achievement of his life, even the ego of jason and his argonauts could compete once you had his ring on your finger and your ring on his. you were his golden fleece, you could cure his aches with a kiss, heal his wounds with your showers of love, you could mend him with a touch of your pointer finger. he can imagine it now, the domesticity he's always desired in his bones: coming home to you to ground him, even maybe starting a family.
“i want to, ‘toru.” you grasp his other hand tighter, shifting your body to lean on his chest, “let's get married and have a small wedding. let's go on vacation! i know you've always wanted to visit india!”
he does. he really does, but marriage scares him. vulnerabilities scare him. he can't imagine being married to anybody except for you, he can't imagine spending the rest of his short life with anybody else but you, nor can he can't imagine loving anybody else but you, and still, it scares him.
the last thing he'd ever want to do is tie you down. the thought of you being a widow before thirty sends spikes of fear up his spine and his eyes shift to the grass in insecurity, not to mention his duty to—
“stop thinking about other people, just do what you want to do for once.”
his mind feels twisted. just whose karma is he paying for? did strength come with the lack of feeling he feels in his soul?
he kisses you, his lips chapped and bruised, much like him but he doesn't want to think right now. he doesn't know if he can devote himself to you like the muse you are, if he can promise that he'll make it home every day, if he can love you the way you deserve, if he can't be anything less than perfect for you. he wants to be perfect for you.
so much so that it hurts him.
you shift your body again, straddling him on his lap as your hands move to cup his cheeks. he's crying, you realize, the tears hitting your thumb as you kiss his trembling lips. he hugs you tighter than he's ever hugged anyone, it's been so long since his heart has felt so full, and he's missed it. it's a bit overwhelming how much you love him and how much he loves you, but you make it hard for anything to rationally make sense with the way he's putty against your body, the way he molds his lips onto yours.
“you've done enough, ‘toru.” you whisper as you part from him, his blue eyes filled with the same soft tears that you wipe from his cheek, “i promise that no one will mind if you take a break.”
had he given enough?
hadn't he given enough?
“okay, let's get married.” he kisses you again through his watery eyes and breathless whispers, and you smile against your lips.
“and—?”
“have a big wedding.”
you wanted a small wedding, but if satoru wants a big one, you suppose it doesn't matter.
“and?”
“fucking finally go to india.” he murmurs the words in between kisses, he places each one carelessly on your mouth, your nose, your cheeks, your jaw. he doubts he can ever get enough of you.
“that's right.” you praise him, and that familiar thump of his heart beating starts again.
he kisses you like you're the psyche to his eros, because despite how hideous he feels, how he could never love the scars he bears nor the weight he carries, you do.
“it's blue hour, satoru, make a wish.”
that's the reason you were out here anyway: to finally be able to experience that special thirty minutes right before sunrise. the sun just barely peeks over the horizon, sending its light washing over the sky in a cool blue tone. there are bits of orange, red, and yellow scattered as dots and rays that toe the line, but even in blue light, satoru looks beautiful.
narcissus couldn't fucking compete even if he tried. there’s no moon to shine on his skin, no stars to sparkle as his eyes do, and barely any sun to reflect the light he radiates already, but he still looks beautiful. the air envelops him like you do.
“let's be together forever. for fucking infinity.” his fingers lace with yours again, and you feel warm again.
you smile.
“okay.”
it's blue hour, but as long as you're next to his side (and maybe if you'd put on one of his damn sweatshirts for once), gojo satoru feels anything but blue.
back on my gojo shit ‼️ (im coping so hard)
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Since we all feel like a widow after what happened to Gojo, I made this... 🥲
_____
"Don't worry I'll come back before you know it, I'm the strongest after all"
"Mommy, when is daddy going home", you blinks for a moment, hoping it shed the tears near your eyes before you pick up your 3 year old daughter, giving her a small smile.
"Daddy will be back later ok? Let us put you in bed for now I will wake you up when he returns", luckily, she's already very drowsy therefore lulling her into her sleep was a little bit easier.
Sky blue irises shut down as you put her into her bed which his father and her personally painted. You stared at your daughter again before planting a kiss on her forehead.
You brush her hair slightly which is very similar to her father, silver hair glistening like the shine of the moon.
You sigh before you then exit her room, sitting on the couch, staring at the clock while its arm continues to run.
Seconds turns to minutes, minutes turns to hours.
However, midnight came and no soul of your husband was knocking at your door. Slowly you bring your hand near your face and stare at the golden ring in your fingers.
"Satoru...you always say, you're the strongest and I never doubted it so please, please come home and erase this doubt in my heart already"...please come back to me...come back to us.
30 notes
·
View notes
Text
How do you welcome a husband from an unfinished war?
How would you patch his wounds knowing the battle is not yet done?
How would you hug him when his side is still aching from the finishing blow?
Your hands flew on your lips as your tears fell, seeing him standing amidst the battle field.
"He won..."
"Gojo Satoru defeated Sukuna!"
Someone murmured in the background and you couldn't care enough. Beneath your tears is a screaming heart begging for him to come out of the battle field so you could hide him away.
This is enough right? Satoru already did his part, didn't he?
"Hey, pretty..." Satoru grinned he tucks a strand of your hair at the back of your ear. He winces but waves it away in a blur. "Why's my Baby crying? I won."
Your lips tremble as you look at him all battered and bloody, never minding the gashes he sustained, your arms held his hand in all care you could muster and press it on your cheeks.
"Can we go home now, Satoru? Can I now take you back home?"
You couldn't look him in the eyes but you felt the exhausted arms wrap around you, and for what seems like forever, he let his weight fall into you, urging you to hold him up, finally letting himself have your help in shouldering what is on his shoulders.
Satoru inhaled your scent, it filtered into his nostrils, reminding him of home as he murmured to your ears.
"Just a second Baby, give me a few seconds with you, like this."
—Grey,
6K notes
·
View notes
Text
You & Choso Dating HC’s (1 of 2)
I need this man in a way that’s concerning to feminism
This man is a certified Latina lover (he told me himself. I’m very delusional)
Matching Doc Martens >>>>
Just like Geto, LOVES when you comb through his hair
Let’s you practice eyeliner on him
Fucking him till the eyeliner comes off (PAUSE)
You paint his nails for him
He is so shy with you in public
He’s not afraid to show you off, don’t get me wrong but homie is scared of PDA
He has a tongue piercing that you didn’t know about until he ate you out
(tehehehe)
He doesn’t sleep, he hibernates.
You will wake up with this man wrapped around you: legs, arms, fingers, toes, EVERYTHING
You steal his shirts all the time
Loves making things for you
Beaded bracelet? Never coming off
A crappy ceramic mug? Never using another cup AGAIN
Loves when you watch him play video games
Going to concerts with this man is other worldly
He will be buying merch, food, even more merch
Like where is the money coming out of?
Is scared of your dad
He in fact does not boosts your delusions
A/N
I want to say I’ve been busy, but that would be a lie 💀
Spending money on the JJK fortnite megumi skin? Who would ever do that (I did. Fourteen dollars down the drain. I don’t even know how to play fortnite on the computer)
I’m also starting college in like two weeks and the realization has started sinking in. I was thinking ‘I should fix my sleeping schedule’ (it’s almost 3 am)
343 notes
·
View notes
Note
AAAA YOUR WRITING IS SO GOOD AAA I LOVE IT!!! Could you write some fluffy soft mushy stuff about cuddling gojo? he deserves to be held and loved and appreciated
alone with the moon
FEATURING. gojo satoru x f!reader
— wc: 1.9k
CONTENTS: i accidentally added angst, but it's mostly cute! no spoilers, sfw!!! gojo comes home late from a mission!
You waited, pushing your ear against the phone as the line rang, once, twice, a third time.
When the voice of Satoru Gojo, leading you to his voicemail box, answered again, your confidence waned, concern only growing about his condition.
Your texts remained delivered, and a response bubble never once appeared, even though you willed it to. The last time you’d heard a word from him was this morning, when he was leaving for work, promising he’d be home before dinner. Satoru never went long without answering you, and the food sat cold on the table without a word.
In a rush of panic, you’d reached out to Shoko, Nanami, anyone you could possibly think of that he might contact in a pinch. Though, none of them had heard from him in days, and you started to doubt that he’d ask for backup, even if he really needed it.
A terrible image rooted inside your chest. Satoru was strong, but he wasn’t immortal, and you knew that he could be lying somewhere, alone, dying. If that was the case, you’d be none the wiser.
You worried your lip, feeling like you were slowly losing a grip on sanity. If he’d just send you a simple heart in return, a space, anything to let you know that he was okay, you could release the tight grip that squeezed every ounce of oxygen from your lungs. Instead, you sat in silence, holding your phone like a lifelong, incapable of thinking of anyone but the man who hadn’t even told you where he was going.
Finally, the door opened. It shut. You held your breath until the sound of heavy, recognizable footsteps padded down the hall, and you were to your feet in a flash, rushing around the corner.
Gojo’s shoulders were slumped as he slowly pulled the blindfold over his head, soft white hair falling onto his forehead. Before he’d had the chance to say a word, you’d thrown yourself into him, your tight embrace crushing his arms to his hips.
He relaxed immediately, holding you just as closely. “I missed you too, honey.”
Although you usually melted at the sound of his voice, the casual tone that he dared to use, to insinuate that nothing was wrong, was enough to irritate you. You shoved him away, lips drawn into a thin line. “Where the hell were you?”
Gojo blinked back, frosty eyelashes falling over wide crystal eyes. Then, he was rummaging through his pocket with a cheeky smile, pulling out the phone that had cracked, splintered, rendered completely unusable. “Sorry. I would’ve called you if I could.”
You inhaled. Released a shaky breath and tried to calm your nerves before you said something you didn’t actually mean.
Gojo’s smile quickly turned into a frown. “I didn’t mean to make you wait. You should’ve gone to bed.”
Though he was trying to comfort you, the comment only served to upset you more. “You think I could have just gone to sleep? You should’ve told me where you were going. No one had any idea where you were and I couldn’t get a hold of you, and—”
You stilled, burying your face in your hands before Gojo had come up around you, his tall frame hovering over you, enveloping you in a cocoon of safety. His fingers ran along your spine, stopping softly at every bone before he continued to the next notch, thinking. “I don’t want you to worry. You don’t need to worry.”
“I always worry.” The words were plain, offered to him without any dressing, no way to cover them up into anything but exactly what they were. “That’s the cruel reality of being a sorcerer.” You swallowed, burying your face into his chest, even though he smelled of dirt and sweat and the sickening smell that lingered from cursed spirits. “You may be Satoru Gojo, but with everything that’s been going on, I can’t help but wonder if each time you leave will be the last time that I see you.”
Satoru was quiet, contemplative. He stopped tracing your skin, instead letting his large palm rest still on your hip. “I’m okay, baby. Really.”
Leaning back in his arms, you scanned him. A gash cut across his cheek and grime had splattered all over his uniform. “Are you?” you asked in a soft voice, wiping your thumb against the wound. “You’re bleeding, Satoru.” The color stained your finger, revealing the outline of your thumbprint that had smeared against his skin.
Gojo pulled your hand away, gently grasping your wrist, as if to redirect your attention, even though you could focus on nothing but the crimson stain. “It wasn’t from the curse. I let my guard down a moment. Some debris hit me in the face, that’s all.” He smiled, though you couldn’t be sure he was telling the truth, his voice hushed. “It’s just a scratch.”
It looked like more than just a scratch, the droplets deep red as they flowed down to his chin. “You’re exhausting yourself,” you said, swallowing the wave of emotion that threated to drag you down. “You can’t keep doing this.”
“I have to—”
“Even you have your limits.” With a sigh, you untangled yourself from his embrace, taking his hand to lead him to the bathroom. “This is reckless, Satoru. If they need your help so bad, they should understand you’re no used to them dead.”
His lips curled, but the smile lacked any of the usual charm. “I’ll be okay.”
“You always say that, but lately, I’ve been finding it hard to believe.” There were bandages in the medicine cabinet, ointment, and you rummaged them, thinking. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”
Satoru was quiet as you pushed him onto the countertop, his legs long enough to reach the floor completely. You stood between them, wiping a warm cloth over his cheekbone, scrubbing harder where the blood had already crusted over.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” Satoru apologized again, his eyes soft under long lashes. “You know I would’ve called you if I could.”
“I know.” You swallowed, unable to hold his gaze for long. With shaky hands, you placed a ridiculously shaped bandage over his cheek, grateful that you could something, even something as small as this. “There,” you said in a tender voice, hating the way your lips quivered around the syllable. “All done.”
Satoru smiled and leaned forward, wrapping two strong arms around your shoulders. “Thank you. I didn’t realize I had my own little nurse.”
You rolled your eyes and kissed him on the cheek, right over the scratchy little band aid, exhaling a sharp laugh. “You don’t need a nurse. You need some sleep.”
He didn’t answer as you led him to the bedroom, the exhaustion on his face too evident for an objection.
The sheets were already pulled back from your earlier attempts at sleep, when you were too tense and worried to keep your eyes shut. Now, the blankets were too alluring to resist, warm and heavy, and you sunk easily into the mattress, exhaling relief.
When Satoru laid beside you, you rolled over, forcing him onto his side so that you could wrap your arms securely around him.
For half a moment, he tensed, surprised, but didn’t object to the change in your usual position. Instead, he held your hand tighter against his chest, letting you intertwine your legs with his own.
Satoru was warm, and he needed a shower, but you were too consumed by overwhelming relief that you didn’t care about anything but being near him.
“I’m okay, sweetie,” he said after a moment of unbroken silence, caressing your knuckles with rough fingertips. “Really, you don’t need to—”
Swallowing, you buried your forehead further into his neck, breathing in the cotton and detergent from the fresh shirt he’d changed into. Sweat lingered on his skin, and his hair was tangled, but the faint smell of his cologne remained. “Just let me hold you, Satoru.”
The moment was serene as he contemplated his next words.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, uncertain. The opposite of every adjective that most people would use to describe him.
It was not a question that could be so easily answered with a yes or no, and you wondered what you could say that wouldn’t upset him. Satoru was the sun, but he belonged to more than just you; one singular person couldn’t bottle up that light and threaten to hide it away from the rest of the world, just to keep it safe.
“I don’t want you to think you’re alone in this, because you’re not.” You hummed your words, maintaining every syllable on a single tone, hoping it wasn’t evident that your voice was near collapse. “Let everyone else think Satoru Gojo is invincible, but I know better.” The hum of the fan became your focus, his subtle breaths interrupting the white noise.
He squeezed your hand, silent once. Another minute passed. Sounds from outside cut through it, sharp. “I don’t have another choice.”
He never meant to scare you, but it happened anyway. It would always happen, so long as you harbored a shred of affection for the man who’d never had any other choice but to be a jujutsu sorcerer. You pressed a kiss to his neck, then, the skin warm and soft there.
“I know.” A sigh left your lips. You were grateful that you weren’t facing him. “The world needs you. Am I selfish for thinking I need you more?”
Satoru turned in one fluid movement, crushing you to his chest, burying his nose in your hair. His arms squeezed your stomach, so much tighter than you anticipated, but you were safe, warm, and he was sheltered there with you. “I could never think you’re selfish for that.” You clung to him. “I’m sorry I can’t be here with you more.”
Another wave of stillness hit the two of you, in which neither of you knew what to say next. His breath was cold against your ear. “It’s okay,” you said, even though sometimes it wasn’t, and you missed him every moment that he was away. “I’ll still be here every time you return.”
You ran your fingers through his hair, untangling the soft, white strands.
“I’m proud of you, Satoru. Sometimes, I just wish you’d let me take care of you. I wish I could do more.”
You felt him laugh, though there was little amusement in it, and you wondered if, maybe, he wished that too. But he was Satoru Gojo, and you were just a grade one sorcerer, and when it came to jujutsu, the gap of power is wide between you. There are missions he must take that no one else can, not even you, and you’ll have to live with that for the rest of your life.
“You don’t need to do more.” He kissed your temple and relinquished his position once more, flipping to his side. Your stomach was once again pressed to his chest as you hold him.
There were no words left to be said. Instead, you held his wrist loosely in your hand, swirling patterns into it with your thumb. For once, Satoru’s breathing evens out before your own, and you are left alone once more.
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
The King is But a Man Series Masterlist
in which crown prince gojo satoru, thought to be dead, returns to take back what’s rightfully his
the queen lets go of your hand for the first time since the captain of the guard had stormed into her room and told you all to flee. she orders her men to stand down; outnumbered as they are, it will be little more than a bloodbath. regally, she approaches, head held high, much to the amusement of the brute before her—his mouth stretches wide and he lifts a wicked sword, arm so long that he needn’t even step forward for the point to press beneath her chin.
“hello, auntie,” he says, grin flashing teeth sharp as the blade he points at your queen. “i hope you didn’t plan to run off before my coronation. we wouldn’t want to miss the festivities, now, would we?”
and you still want to disbelieve, yet with his free hand he reaches up, hooks his thumb beneath the cloth, and reveals a single brilliant blue eye—a gojo eye, the color of the sky and the sea, sign of the gods’ blessing, the physical marker of one born to rule. cold as steel and directed not at the queen but at you, stealing the breath from your lungs with the manic light within.
“not when everything i’ve wanted for so long is finally in reach.”
drabble
〉the reader and gojo spend years yearning/mourning while gojo is “dead”
drabble
〉usurper!gojo leads a coup
drabble
〉usurper!gojo finds the queen’s maid!reader after the coup
drabble
〉usurper!gojo sees the necklace reader still wears
one-shot
〉flower crowns: king!gojo and his attempts at courting
one-shot
〉shortcake crumbs: king!gojo is jealous of lord nanami
drabble
〉usurper!gojo doesn’t intend to have children
drabble
〉queen apparent!reader’s thoughts in the time between the coup and their marriage
one-shot
〉empty beds: king!gojo finds his bed empty after returning from a trip
drabble
〉a conspirator poisons queen!reader’s food
846 notes
·
View notes
Text
QUEST FOR YOUR HEART ┊ SHIGARAKI TOMURA
tags: GN reader, established relationship, fluffy fluff, gaming together, animal crossing!!!, cute aggression
wc: 1K+
A gentle whirring fills the room. The fan turns on its neck, blowing a soft breeze across the room, lit up mostly by the LED lights hung across the walls. You shy away from the chill by burrowing into Tomura’s hoodie, intentionally oversized and lined with fleece.
Your boyfriend is a warm, grounding weight at your back. You’re laid together on his bed, atop blankets and covers left unmade, consoles in hand. A quiet melodic tune carries through the speakers. Tomura turns to shape himself around your frame. You smile as he nuzzles the nape of your neck, lips brushing the skin there.
His words are muffled. Repeated, still unheard when he refuses to move even an inch. “Come to my island,” he mutters.
You make a soft, curious sound, too fixated on the mindless action of your little character digging hole after hole, planting new seedlings for your villagers. Frustrated, Tomura exhales out of his nose, and the short breath makes you shiver.
He tilts his head, “I said come to my island”.
“Oh,” you mumble, blinking into focus, “Okay baby”. The buttons click as your thumbs move, guiding your character towards the airport. “Are your gates already open?”
Tomura grunts an affirmative. You let your eyes flutter closed to the idle brush of his nose along the curve of your throat while the loading screen runs. When he moves away, presumably returning to his own device, you open them again. Your character ambles out into the airport, greeted by the dodo working the gates.
Tomura’s character waits outside. Their look is somewhat inspired by himself. Messy silvery blue hair, dark tattered clothes. A black mask covers the lower part of their face. You smile at the white bunny ears that sit on his head at your request. Cute.
You flick the right stick and begin to run circles around him excitedly, to which he hits you with his butterfly net. “Stop bein’ dumb and follow me,” Tomura mutters without malice, working his ankle between your legs beneath the covers. You hum and trail after him.
The island is… pristine. Not at all the way you remember it. Skilfully terraformed to resemble a Super Mario level, custom patterns and themed items laid across the land. Everything had been intentionally placed. His villagers were navigating the space happily—though he still stops to smack them all, and they spin in place, stunned.
You’re amazed. He’d only started playing alongside you a week ago after finally giving in to your pleas. Watching him play was nice and all, but you wanted something to share together. He protested that animal crossing was pointless, boring and a waste of precious time that could be otherwise spent farming. But while he might not admit it, Tomura is weak for you. A little besotted by you. A few days of whining could go a long way.
Though you can’t help feeling a twinge of petty regret. A pout pulls at your lips when you see the lily of the valley flower standing proud by the fenced entrance to the beach. You’d known he was good at video games but you hadn’t expected him to reach five stars this fast.
Just ahead, Tomura’s character skids to a stop and turns back. A musical note rings through the speakers as a blue question mark appears above their head. Tomura shifts behind you and curls in between your shoulder blades, insistently nudging his cheek to your spine.
“Hey,” his voice comes after a pregnant pause, gravely and hesitant. “You fall asleep or something?”
“No,” you mumble, tucking your face into his pillow. The mattress dips as he braces on his elbow to lean over you, crowding into your space, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you from squirming away. “Tomu—!” crimson eyes squint against his crooked grin, colour rising to his skin. He dips, snaggy teeth sinking around the swell of your cheek.
The light indentations left behind are soothed by the shameless swipe of his tongue. “Gross,” you grimace, only to be licked again. He sneers.
“I’ll lick you when I want,” he says. And then continues with some pride, “You’re sulking about my island”.
“Am not”.
“Are too,” Tomura’s forefinger pokes at your soft waist. In the dim light you can still see his pinky half raised. “Idiot. Why’d you ask me to play if you were gonna get mad at me for being better?”
“You’re not better you just time jumped,” you argue reflexively, overcome by the urge to hide in his hoodie. The upbeat tune pouring from the island softens as day turns to night and you sigh. “I’m not actually mad, baby. I don’t know. It’s just…”
Tomura hums. You suppose he would understand your incomprehensible pettiness more than anyone. Warmth encompasses your body once again as he slips his arm beneath your head, tucking his knees behind your legs, bringing his console around to hold it out above yours.
Tomura’s character slaps the floor with their net. “Come on,” he coaxes. You swallow, moving the sticks clumsily to amble after him. You’re taken along a stretch of beach. The horizon curves to reveal lines upon lines of items. Money bags and white gift boxes tied neatly with red ribbon.
“Who do you think I got so good for?” your fingers flex, startled by lips brushing the shell of your ear. He kisses you there, featherlight, enough that he could deny it. “Take all of it. Do multiple trips if you need to, I don’t care”.
“All this is for me?”
Louder, and directly into your ear, he groused, “Not gonna say it again”.
You dissolve into a fit of laughter, recoiling from his voice, game briefly forgotten. Tomura bites back a smile. He wraps his limbs around your body as though he were trying to consume you. Brings you into his chest and holds you there, locked in place, heartbeat reaching for you through his ribs.
After catching your breath, with a mouthful of his shirt you murmur, “Thanks baby”.
Above, Tomura kisses your crown and replies, “Whatever”.
782 notes
·
View notes
Text
Tomura Shigaraki is so touch starved.
Love him. Comb your fingers through his hair, kiss his lips, just… shower him with love. Not just empty sex, give the man more. He needs more than just pleasure. He needs the aftercare, the emotion, the passion, everything that makes sticking around afterwards worthwhile.
He’s so insecure. He deems himself unlovable. He doesn’t deserve to be loved, he thinks, and honestly he’s probably right. Tomura Shigaraki is a victim, he was abused and thrown onto path of villainy, and he treads on it until he reaches his dreams. It’s not fair the stupid, ‘never give up on your dreams motto’ doesn’t apply to everyone. It’s selective, and why the hell should he care, why shouldn’t he just get what he wants?
Heavens, he can just take you, can’t he? He could keep you hidden away forever and never let you see the light of day again. He could keep you, he could get rid of you, he could literally have you any way he wants but he couldn’t do any of that. Not when the fact is when he makes you cry when he yells, he wants to tear his throat apart, rip out his larynx and decay the voice box. Not when the sight of you trembling when he’s in one his slumps, refusing to leave his smelly depression room, holding a shaking plate of a meal you made for him, knowing he hasn’t eaten in a week.
You look afraid of him in those moments. Your stupid to think he would hurt you. He’s stupider to make you think so.
You’re fucking quirkless. You’re useless to him, you should be useless to him! You have nothing to bring him close to his dreams and somehow you attack him, like a vicious disease, with new, stupid dreams of being touched and held like a person, a man that is loved. He’s a villain! He wants to be one, he needs to be one. Or else what’s the point?
He hates the world to the point of hating ever living, breathing thing. You must be a fucking zombie then. That’s ridiculous. You’re the most prettiest thing this world has ever assaulted him with, and your gentleness makes him dizzy. The only use you should have is… pleasure, he won’t deny he’s a man with needs and desires, but fucking hell! You’re no sex tool! The horrible lie makes him want to throw up his thoughts. He doesn’t when he realizes you’d be the one to hold his hair back and rub his stomach. You’re his peice of heaven the gods were stupid enough to spill down the drain, and now you’re stuck in the rat-infested sewers that is Tomura Shigaraki.
But you’re not. Not stuck, he means. He could make that be so but you know he won’t, he knows he won’t, hell, anyone with a brain who catches a glimpse at how he looks at you through Father knows you’re the first person to see him without the hand in years other than Kurigori. Anyone who jokes Tomura keeps you around for fun is getting decayed into nothing. Not even Dabi would dare. You’re all his but at the same time you’re not really. He’ll never admit it with words but when you have him in your arms, running your fingers through his greasy hair until you fall asleep, he’s all yours.
Yours, yours, yours!
Tomura hates himself for not hating it! For not hating you! You’re weak in the sense he needs to protect you, and yet you bring the man to his knees when coo his real, real name softly before the dreaded, three lettered word and that just makes him cry. A horrible contradiction, a mind numbing, mind cradling contrast when a monster is loved by an angel.
You… shouldn’t love him. He wished you didn’t, but at the same time he hopes you never stop. He hopes you never stop looking after him, hopes you never heal from whatever delusion of him you have in his mind. He’s a horrible boyfriend, and he knows it. And yet he tries to be better even though he can’t take you on dates. He tries to cuddle you even though he’s too afraid to make skin-to-skin contact; he’s so afraid he raises his pinkies when he wears gloves. You’re precious, you’re the death of him, the death of a villain and he starts having delusions of his own.
Delusions your sleep-inducing love twist into a dreams, lulling him into a temporary rest in your arms. Dreams of redemption, of being in your arms forever.
Tomura Shigaraki is irredeemable. He’s killed countless. He’s a monster. He’s selfish. He’s the viscous disease, he’s the life sucking zombie, he’s the parasite, the pathogen, sucking all your love like a greedy vampire, sucking you dry. He can see what this relationship does to you. It lasted years because Tomura Shigaraki is selfish.
He’s not being selfish when he leaves you, forcing you to forget him.
643 notes
·
View notes
Text
"Do I bother you?" Your voice echoed in the room as his fingers stop tapping on the keyboard only for him to give you a look over his shoulder. A look that he couldn't quite name it himself even...
That was so out of the blue.
"What?" His raspy and rough voice muttered as you blinked at the ceiling, without moving one limb, before you muttered the same question you did a few minutes ago back at him, leaving him... in a state he couldn't quite decide if it was concern or annoyance.
Concern because it was, again, out of the blue you popped that question and you did seemed pretty down... and annoyance because he thought you already knew what felt towards you.
... hell. Everyone knew.
He bet that even the heroesbthat chased you two knew.
"Why exactly are you asking me that out of no where?" He hissed while finally turning off his game as you sighed, a melancholic expression present on your face.
"Just answer the question... please."
He frowned before cursing under his breath, lifting himself up from his chair and hissing when his bones cracked at the sudden change of positions.
He was only 20 but apparently his body thought he had 80 by how much his joints and bones cracked at every sudden and brusque movement.
He sat himself close enough to see your numb face as he flicked your forehead to finally break that expression out of you.
"What was that for?!"
"For saying stupid things of course." He rasped before crossing his arms and laying his back against the bed frame as you pouted at him with a furrow of your eyebrows.
Good... he preferred that expression than your sad and melancholic one.
"It was just a question you didn't had to-"
"No." He interrupted you abruptly as you glared at him.
"What?"
"No you idiot. You don't bother me... not at all." He muttered with a sigh while his ruby eyes closed as you stared up at him.
"... are you sure? Because sometimes I feel I-"
"You dont have a good sixth sense nor a spider sense." He rasped before opening his eyes to stare down at you "I don't think there was a time you ever bothered anyone here... you're sometimes too good to be a villain."
"Was that an insult?" You inquired with a arch of eyebrow before yelping at another flip on your forehead.
"Don't put words into my mouth."
"But I didn't!" You hissed as he smirked down at you.
"You did." He muttered, a voice still raspy and rough but with a tinge of softness on it that only you could hear it.
Then it dawned on you... what he was trying to do all the this time since you asked him this.
Tomura didn't open up to anyone. Shigaraki killed or attempted to kill anyone who actually bothered or irritated him in some way. He always gave his enemies one of his most fucked evil grins ghat could bring any old hero to shivers.
... but here is the thing. He never did that to you. He acted that way with you.
Here, in the safety of his room and only your company... he could be... him. He could be the shimura tenko he never could be outside. He could be socially awkward and nerd he was at ease.
He could just act like himself. Like your boyfriend.
If he was bothered by you... he would have either say it, or just plenty up yell it....
But never did.
That's why he made that face... that face that told you he was thinking you did something stupid.
Because to him... you could never bother him....
Your lips lifted up immediately while staring up at his face. He was turned upside down to you, you could see all the "imperfections" of his skin and the slight double chin... but he looked so beautiful with that fucking grin everyone thought it was disgusting.
But not to you.
"What?" He growled before going to scratch his neck "is there something on my face?" Your hand stopped him as you lifted yourself up to his level... his eyes widened and a faint blush could be seen on his pale face.
"Thank you Tenko..." You muttered before kissing his dry and cracked lips without a care "Thank you..."
He scoffed before smirking at you laying down on him.
"Whatever... are you feeling good enough to play that game you like?"
.
.
.
"(A/n): this was my first attempt to make a shigaraki fic since I never actually try it. So pls be gentle with Mr I'm still learning
210 notes
·
View notes
Text
Selfish Moments
Summary: I wanted to write something soft and this has been in the docs for a while, so here it is!!
Characters: Dabi and Shigaraki
Word Count: 1.4K each
-
Dabi:
It's become a routine for him to invade your home and make a mess of things. To have dirt and grime in the shape of his shoe stain the floor, to have picture frames bumped and knocked over when he stumbles into a room. It’s become addictive with the way that you allow him to do this, smiling softly and setting him down on the couch. And you clean him; you dab a white towel that has turned dirty with blood and ash. And when you smile and touch his face, wiping away at the dried blood that streaks down and falls to the floor, you lean over, and you kiss him sweetly. You tell him that he’s making a mess of things, and kiss his lips again, hands clutching at his shirt, desperate to keep him here, and he’s reminded how vile he is for having invaded your life.
You’ve reminded him countless times how he’s always welcomed in your home, how you’ll have a meal ready for him, warm and ready, made to perfection. You’ll shower him in love and care, in tenderness he’s only ever known in memories, and he’ll wonder if he could ever do the same for you.
A part of him wants to. He wants to return the tenderness, the comfort and care that you’ve given him. He wants to be without debt, without having to lay awake and wish that he would have kissed you more, would have kissed you again and again if it meant that he didn’t have to guilt bleed through his lips and have his body aflame in wishing and wanting.
He doesn't need to hear you say an "I love you", doesn't even need for any words to be said out loud or whispered when he's asleep. He just wants to know that you do. And in these soft moments, when he's sitting on your couch, the smell of smoke and cheap cologne seeping into the fabric of your couch, he can pretend that you do. That you feel the same way that he feels for you.
Loving you comes so easy to him. It's nice, and warm. It's welcoming, and it's you cleaning him up and making him a space in your home. It's him ruining you. It's him leaving scorched handprints on random pieces of furniture. Stealing hair ties and scarves. Leaving shirts for you to wash and for him to return to, his scent gone and replaced by yours.
"Dabi." He can feel his heart race when you call his name.
If you were to call him anything else, he thinks he would combust, explode into himself and scar you beyond belief.
And yet, he wants to tell you to call him by his given name. He wants to know how that would sound, if it would sound as soft and adored as his chosen one does. And of course, he knows the answer. He knows that you’d cherish that name, that you’d whisper it to him, and never grow tired of it. If he were to tell you what his given name was, he’s positive that you’d hold it gently on your tongue, and you’d only tell it to him, and you’d never dare to whisper it anywhere else but in your room.
He hums in response. His eyes haven’t left yours.
"I asked if you wanted to spend the night." Your hands brush at the side of his head, pinching two fingers between a lock of hair and pulling at it, letting the soot fall to the floor. "It’s late and you look like you need sleep.”
His stomach churns at the thought of spending the night, twists and flips violently, and he hates how his heart sputters and jumps at the thought of sleeping in your bed. He wishes he could stare at you forever. He gives a crooked grin and stands up, watching as your hand falls and returns to you. "Lead the way," he says.
You hand him clothes that are too pristine for him to wear. He knows that if he changed in front of you, he’d ruin it all, ruin your perception, ruin your floors, ruin the clothes that you’ve cared for. There’s no need for him to talk and explain himself as he walks into the bathroom and lets steam fog the mirror and he bites the insides of his cheeks when the water stings his back. He stands underneath it, watching the blood and grime swirl down the drain, gone forever, but the tile stays dirty, and he smells like milk and honey when he stands at the doorway, watching you read something.
It doesn’t take long for you to notice him, and when you do, you make space for him beside you.
In the night, through the blinds where moonlight comes in pieces, he watches you sleep. You've dropped all your defenses around him- there's no need for you to feel unsafe around him. And sometimes, he thinks that you're an idiot for that. Sometimes he wants to wrap his hands around your throat and have you wake up to him with blood painting at his cheeks and dripping onto you. He wants to be violent and bare his teeth at you, and spit fly when he yells. He wants you to cry and hate him. He wants all of the ugliness to show itself fully to you.
But then you twitch and your hand finds his, even in slumber, you reach for him. And he hates himself for all he is is death and war. He wants to be soft. He wants to wake up in the morning with birds singing at the window sill, and the morning news muffled between the walls. He wants life to be with you where he doesn't have to part ways and sneak out through the window and be trapped in a box. He wants to lie down and kiss at your face and your hands and feel safe. He wants you to care for him, to ignore the blood on his hands.
He needs you to feel the same way- to want the same as he does.
“What are you thinking about?” You murmur with your eyes still closed and with sleep heavily laced into your words.
“How’d you know I was awake?” He asks, desperate to keep his hand limp and not grip at you with ferocity.
“I can just tell.” A yawn interrupts your words, and you don’t speak again, but a light squeeze of your hand tells him that you’re waiting for his response.
He’s going to lie to you and even if you do know it’s a lie, you’re far too polite to confront him. “I was thinking about how I’m going to sneak out.”
“You don’t have to,” you add. “You can spend the day and leave at night.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
“I always want you to stay.” You say it without pausing, and it’s honest, and it makes him scowl.
He hates how he needs to ask you if you want him to stay, and he hates it even more that you’ll never say no. “Okay,” he says without a fight. He hates himself for wanting your acceptance. You hum, and press yourself closer to him, your breathing soft and steady. “Only cause you’d twist my arm if I said no,” he adds, trying to save face, trying to ignore how tight his chest feels when you’re beside him.
When he's gone from your life, he needs you to cry. He needs to know that you sobbed and heaved and begged to be taken with him. He never wants you to heal from him. He wants to run you through the ground, leaving you too messed up for anyone else, the hole that he would leave too big and too great to ever be filled. He wants you to claw at the dirt and grass and beg for the world to swallow you whole- to search for a corpse that was never buried and never loved.
All he wants is to sit at the table with you and share breakfast. He needs you to want and crave every part of him, the ugly and the wretched, the soft parts of him that only reveal themselves when you’ve turned a blind eye.
Dabi is a tragedy at heart. It’s his birthright, the only one given to him.
-
Shigaraki Tomura:
The itching only stops for a moment. For a minute, he’s left without pain, left without having to claw at his neck and chest, the need and want to tear himself open, to rip out his skin and have his bones bare and bloody, can only disappear for so long. For a moment, he’s at peace, the nerves that have clawed and had bile pool under his tongue thinned and nothing more than a reminder of just moments ago.
You’re on his lap, arms wrapped tight, and face hidden where his shoulder and neck meet. He can feel your breath, steady and warm, fan across him, and the only reason that he knows that you aren’t asleep, is because of the shapes that you trace over his forearm.
Your fingertips are soft compared to his.
He stares blankly into space, and he wants to speak. He wants to tell it all to you. All of his life, all of his day, all of thoughts; only if it meant that he could hear you speak to him, to know that you are real, and that he is loved. He thinks about the countless times that you were so eager to tell him anything and everything, and just knowing that it was him that had you seeing stars, made him eager and obsessive for you. He made you happy. You wanted to talk to him despite it all, despite who he is, and where he’s been.
He never wants to leave you. He never wants to move from this spot. He wishes that this moment would be forever still. Tomura wishes that you would stay curled up in his lap for all of eternity, frozen in time, frozen and loved, and he’d be victimless, trapped beneath you, wanting to forever feel your warmth.
His hand hurts. The part where his fingers used to ache in pain and he wonders how long it’ll last, and he wonders if he could do anything to make it hurt more until he’s gritting his teeth and biting his tongue.
It’s worse than an itch, but it’s all the same. The desire to poke at it, to make himself bleed, but also the knowing that it wasn’t him who got rid of his own appendages. It made things difficult for a while, and when he’d catch you staring at him, he knew that there was pity in your eyes. You’d treat him as if he were glass. You’d hold his hand delicately, fingertips brushing just at the edge of the scarring, ghosting over the marred flesh that wrinkled, and you’d get lost in those simple motions.
Tomura has been under your gaze before, peered through your lashes, watched and terraced by your hand as you studied him in a way that made him feel all too seen. He craved those moments, needed you to look at him, through him, to see how red his irises are, and trace his scars, letting your fingertip brush at his lashes.
He remembers being unable to breathe during those times, stiff and unmoving, afraid that even the simplest gesture would have you retreat and never look at him again.
But after his fight, you shifted your focus to his hand. You’d cradle it gently, and when he went to change the bandages, you offered to change them for him. He heard your breath hitch, felt your breath on the sensitive skin and when you kissed at the center of his palm, too worried that you’d injured him with a featherlight kiss, he felt his whole hand go aflame.
As if reading his mind, you grab at his hand, and finally, you move, and life returns to the world, and he is aware that at some point, he’s going to have to leave, and he’ll be cold without you.
“What are you thinking about?” You ask, running the pad of your index finger up and down his, tracing over the lines on his knuckles.
There’s an ache in his chest, tight and unforgiving, and it makes it difficult to breathe. “I hate meetings,” he mumbles. The bile in his mouth makes it difficult to swallow.
You breathe out a laugh, and swipe your finger in a curve, your index now tracing over his middle finger. “I’m not too fond of them either,” you admit, and you’re looking up at him.
When he looks down, he finds it difficult to stay looking at you, but he wills himself to. “Why do you stay then?” His voice is strained, and once again, he’s unable to breathe.
“I like being with you,” you answer earnestly. You smile up at him, it’s a slow smile that slowly stretches and you look down at his hand for a brief second before looking back up at him. “You’re gonna be busy for a while, and I wanna get in as much time as I can with you.”
Oh.
It’s difficult to keep looking at you after that statement. It’s enough to have his chest tighten and he looks away, turning his head to look at the door, wondering if someone will save him from this grief.
What you told him is true- he will be busy, and you sit around in boring meetings with people who you aren’t close to, to just be with him. All you want to do is spend time with him. It makes his chest hurt, and he’s unable to breathe, too aware of it to keep it normal, to make it seem like what you told him isn’t a big deal.
“I want-” his voice cracks and he swallows whatever little spit he has- “I want to spend time with you too,” he says in a low whisper, unable to make it any bit louder. He’s positive that if he were to tell you this sentiment out loud then something bad would happen.
You return to hide your face in the crook of his neck, wrapping your arms around his, your hand sliding down to envelop his and he’s sure that that position couldn’t be comfortable, but even so, you stick with it, closing your eyes and keeping close to him.
His canines bite into the soft flesh behind his lips, and the pain isn’t nearly enough to have him distracted. The hand that you hold, that hand that has been through hell and ripped apart, burns, and the need to scratch and peel his skin grows great.
Even if he tries to keep himself composed around you, you know him. You know how he panics, and you kiss at his neck where his heart pumps and you can feel his pulse quicken, beat and pour blood and he’s sure that if it were possible, he’d gush blood out his body, leaking and staining your clothes and you’d hold him to your chest and coo nothing but soft words to him.
He’d never hurt you. He’s made you cry and he’s apologized and kissed your tears and made broken promises that he would never dare to make you cry again. Of course, he’s still made you cry, and you still sought out comfort in him, pressing yourself against him, clinging and twisting his shirt in case he did just vanish into thin air. But, even so, he hopes that when you die, you are taken with him. You’re wrapped around him, clinging to him, stuck forever with him. He wants to take you to the grave, to keep you forever his.
A part of him hopes that no matter what happens to him, that you would never move on. It’s selfish and cruel of him, but he wants it with his whole being. He could lie and tell you and wish to the stars that you’d end up with someone normal, with someone who can take you out, but he doesn’t want that. He wants you to sit in your room, holed up and blocking the outside, because you’d miss him too much. He wants you to never move on, that you’d grow out your hair because he touched it, and you could never part with his touch, not even with one that was so fleeting. He wants you to sob and wail over him, to bury yourself in grief.
If the last thing he could ever do was to curse you with his own feelings, he’d do it. He’d do it a hundred times over, to know that at least you cared for him, that your feelings for him weren’t just temporary, but that they were forever, that they were permanent.
Tomura hopes that you’d never want to move, that you’d have the same curse that you gave him. He hopes that when you think of him, it becomes harder to breathe and harder to want anything else but him.
352 notes
·
View notes
Text
✿ you wake up early in the morning to put the kettle on the stove and make breakfast when you feel two bony hands wrap around your frame from behind. pointy chin rests atop your head as tomura covers your body with his, enveloping you in his warmth. you curl your body into his hunched figure instinctively, battling the morning chill. seems like you weren't as discreet as you thought you were when leaving your shared room.
his breath fans against your cheek, the ghost of a kiss grazing your neck slightly. his voice is kind despite its huskiness, albeit it is still croaky from recently waking up.
"the bed got cold, you booger."
you know that he means to say that the bed is cold without you and that he wants you to go back under the covers. he draws you in with a sleepy grunt, and you chuckle airily as his unruly ivory hair tickles the side of your face. tomura observes you go about your usual morning routine with little interest, his mind is still asleep and wandering.
you take out two cups, two plates, put the bread into the toaster, and finally turn to face your favorite grumpy mug, snaking your arms around his waist, mimicking him. the pair of half-lidded crimson eyes meets your own with unconveyed gentleness as the man places his forehead against yours, nudging you slightly. sleepy and cute.
"good morning to you too, tomura."
"mmmhm."
sakuracream, 2023. don't repost or copy my writing, minors dni.
396 notes
·
View notes