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#nsft bnha
ertappad · 2 years
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Shigaraki is a virgin gamer fight me
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andypantsx3 · 8 months
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ON ICE : TODOROKI SHOUTO x READER
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summary: your pro hero boyfriend ices you to the counter and has his way with you. content warnings: shameless unedited smut, fem/afab reader, aged-up characters, established relationship, misuse of shouto’s quirk (aka ice restraints), nipple play, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex word count: 2.6k
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It happened right in the middle of lunch prep.
You’d just taken the vegetables out of the oven and you’d been peering thoughtfully into the sauce, wondering what else it needed, when there was a crackling, crystalline sound, almost like glass shattering. There was the freezing touch of ice at your ankles, curling up around your foot, locking you to the floor.
You yelped, catching yourself on the counter, and whipped around to stare at your pro hero boyfriend as he lounged in the doorway.
“Shouto, that’s fucking freezing!” you yipped, clutching the countertop for balance as you tried to yank your house slippers out from the block that had encased them. The thickness of your socks and the material of the slipper protected you from the worst of Shouto’s quirk, something you thought he’d probably banked on, but you could still feel the icy chill beyond them.
“What the hell?” you demanded.
Shouto, for his part, looked extremely unconcerned with what he’d just done. Today was his off-duty day, and he’d clearly just awoken from the nap he’d been taking, face down in the bed when you’d left him. The right side of his hair was mussed, fluffed up and out of its usual silky perfection, and he still looked sleep-soft in a dark tee shirt and sweatpants. A tiny, mischievous smile turned up the corner of his perfect mouth.
“Caught you, love,” he said in his low, gentle tone. Which was extremely sexy but also explained absolutely nothing.
You peered at him suspiciously over your shoulder. “I’m making lunch—there’s nothing to catch.”
You watched your boyfriend’s mismatched eyes slide over you in a cool assessment, icy grey and fiery blue, flickering down the lines of your body. Instead of answering, he pushed off the doorway, padding slowly over to you. You lost sight of him as he moved closer, unable to twist your head at that angle, so you were surprised by the sight of a long fingered hand reaching out by your hip, tugging the pair of oven mitts hanging off the side of the stove.
“Uh, what are you doing?” you wondered as his hand retracted, only to shiver as he stepped up behind you, his chest warm against your back.
“Hold out your arms, love,” Shouto said, catching you under your left elbow. You watched, mystified, as he pulled your hand back, gently guiding an oven mitt down over your arm. “I don’t want you to get frostbite.”
“Frostbite?” you echoed as he pulled on the second one. Shouto carefully guided your hands back to the counter, encouraging you to take hold. You had your answer, then, as a lick of ice formed under his hands, pressing yours down to the counter. It crackled up and over the fabric of the oven mitts and clamping down tightly until you were encased in ice up to your forearm, a solid, unmovable mass, locking you against the counter.
You could feel a vague sense of the cold through the mitts, but it was abstract, distant—cool more than cold.
You stared, blinking down at the ice block in bemusement. “Sho—what the hell?”
Shouto’s chest pressed more firmly against your back, and his hands skimmed up the skin of your arms to your shoulders, holding you as his mouth pressed to the side of your neck. You shivered in his grip, feeling lost and confused and also weirdly, strangely turned on.
“You asked, love,” Shouto said into your shoulder, those long fingers playing with the straps of your dress, pulling one aside so his mouth could reach the skin under it. Your brain went a little bit fuzzy with the feeling of his soft lips on your skin.
“I think I would remember asking you to turn me into a giant ice cube,” you told him, wracking your brain for what he possibly could have interpreted as a request for this.
“When we watched that movie last week,” Shouto said, his hands sliding down your back to grasp your waist. His front pressed all along your back, and you thought you could feel the slight stirring of his interest, pressed just above your ass.
You tore your focus away from the feeling of him, a long, hot line along your back, trying to dredge up the memory of whatever movie he was referencing. “The—the super old All Might one? With the frost villain?” you asked incredulously, suddenly recalling.
There had been a classic damsel in distress, frosted to the side of a building set to implode—and All Might, aka an actor in a horrendously blimped-up bodysuit and yellow wig, had come charging in to free her. She’d been all dark eyes and heaving bosom as she’d called out to him, and when he’d pressed an enthusiastic kiss to her waiting mouth, you’d unthinkingly given voice to your doubts.
“Shouto, I said that there was no way that situation was as sexy as they tried to make it look!” you said, your mouth dropping open. “There can’t be anything hot about being ice cubed!”
Shouto hummed into your skin, a low vibration you felt all the way down your spine. “We’ll see about that, love,” he said, pressing a slow, languorous line of kisses up the column of your throat.
You tried your ice restraints again, aching to reach up and pinch him, but there was absolutely no give. “And you took that personally?” you asked.
“I did,” Shouto replied, his hands bunching up the waistline of your dress. You realized he was slowly gathering up the folds of your skirt, his fingers skimming the skin of your thighs as they were bared.
“Okay well my bosom won’t be heaving,” you promised him. Shouto’s mouth quirked against the back of your neck and he hummed again, low and full of promise.
“We’ll see,” he said again, as his hands slipped beneath your dress, sliding up your stomach to cup the aforementioned bosom. You couldn’t help but laugh, and you could feel Shouto smiling into your shoulder too, even as he grew harder against your back, pressing himself into you with intent.
“I’ve got plans for the state of your bosom,” he told you, making you laugh again. Long fingers fiddled with the cup of your bra, occasionally teasing the skin underneath, until he pulled it away from your chest, rolling it up and over your breasts.
His hands replaced the cups, warm and gentle, and you shivered again as he bit a careful kiss into the lobe of your left ear, just as his thumbs came up to brush slowly over your nipples.
“Feels good, love?” he murmured, doing it again, his thumbs flickering back and forth again in slow little circles. You could feel your nipples growing stiffer in his palms, incontrovertible evidence that it did feel good.
“Y–yes,” you said, letting out a slow breath. You felt your thighs squeeze together in the open kitchen air, your legs and your entire front bared with the way Shouto had your dress rucked up over his forearms.
Coupled with the immovable pressure at your arms, the vulnerability was unusual, and a little bit nerve-wracking. But there was no better pair of hands you trusted yourself in than Shouto’s.
Shouto kissed up the back of your neck, slowly, as his fingers worked your nipples, gently pinching and plucking, exactly how he knew you liked. Despite your earlier promise, you felt yourself growing wet, your breath coming heavy, your chest almost heaving. You realized your hips were moving, grinding in little circles against Shouto’s front.
“O–oh,” you said, when Shouto rolled your nipple just so between those elegant fingers, in a way that made the edges of your vision go a little bit blurry. "Ah—yes—"
“Mmm,” Shouto intoned against your ear. One of his hands released your breast, sliding back down over your stomach, dipping with intent into your panties. “That’s it, love,” he said, over the bitten off moan you choked out, as his fingers found their way between your folds.
His middle finger sank into you easily, his thumb brushing gently over your clit.
You grasped the counter tighter between your fingers, barely able to adjust in the minute space his ice had given you.
“It’s not so bad, is it, pet?” Shouto murmured, both his thumbs stroking over your sensitive areas in unison. His index finger joined the first, pressing up into you with purpose. "Could it be good?"
Something about the guiding question in that low, indulgent tone made you shudder, pressing harder back into him, clenching around his fingers. You felt him adjust himself against your back, his cock pressing against your ass through the fabric of his sweats, dragging up the cleft in a rocking motion.
He let out an appreciative huff, kissing below your ear, adding another finger. The heel of palm pressed firmly to your clit as his other hand plucked at your nipple again.
You turned your head, seeking his mouth. You could feel the tiny smile on his mouth as he met you halfway, licking across the seam of your lips. You moaned into his mouth as his heel pressed harder against you, pinning you back against him. You were slowly rocked between his hand and his hips, your vision sparking and fizzing, then dimming completely as your eyes fluttered closed, lost in the feeling of his hands on you.
“I’m going to take you, love,” Shouto said between kisses, licking slowly and unexpectedly filthily into your mouth, continuing that insistent rocking of his palm, the press and curl of his fingers within you. “Do you want that? Right over this counter, pet? Trapped in the ice?”
You nodded quickly, squirming in his hands. Fuck, you didn’t even care that this meant he’d been right about how sexy the ice thing could be. His fingers were so clever, so good inside you, but you wanted him more—wanted to be bent right over the edge of the counter and filled with him, wanted him weighing you down to the countertops, all those kilos of pro hero muscle curled possessively over you.
“Shouto, please,” you managed, and Shouto’s hands left you instantly. You felt him pull down the waistband of his sweats, and those fingers were teasing your panties aside, and then he was guiding himself into you, long and thick and full and utterly delicious.
You were so wet already he slid into you easily, and you realized he’d melted the ice at your feet as he walked you forward to press you right over the counter, fisting a hand in the back of your dress.
“Fuck, love,” he said, his voice tight. Hearing the inflection in his normally impassive tone heated your blood until it was simmering. “Ah, you feel so good. So sweet for me.”
He felt so good, especially when he slid back out and into you again, his hips slapping the flesh of your ass. He bucked into you slowly, groaning his approval, one strong arm curling around your waist, pulling you back into him.
“Oh my god, okay—Shouto, please—please—” you said again, uncaring that your voice had risen into a high, shaky whine.
His hips slapped into you again as his fingers found your clit once more, his palm pressing down against you. The slide of him within you and the tease of his fingers without had you moaning into your dress, bunched up over the top of the ice. You could feel the sharp bite of the ice block against the underside of one of your breasts where your dress didn’t quite cover it, shockingly cold against your overheated skin.
Shouto worked you up with the maddening skill and precision of long familiarity. He knew just how you liked it, murmuring praise into your hair, his hands roaming over every inch of you, plucking, pulling, teasing. He fucked into you with long, hard strokes, all that pro hero athleticism turned on you, maintaining a pace that had you slumping bonelessly into the counter, heat licking through all your veins.
You wanted to clutch at him, but you could only flex your fingers uselessly within your stupid oven mitts as that pressure in your lower belly started swirling out of control. When his hand lowered to your cunt again you found yourself unable to get away, every slap of his hips driving your clit more firmly into his fingers.
His other hand found your right breast and carefully teased your nipple again, rolling it between fingers that were suddenly slightly too hot, then slightly too cold.
You realized you were babbling something, but you couldn’t hear yourself over Shouto’s warm murmurs against your temple. “That’s it. That’s it, love. So perfect for me. So lovely, so tight—so good. Come for me, pet—come on. Can’t you do it?”
You were delirious with the sound of his voice, the feeling of his fingers, the slide of him inside of you. With only a few more slaps of his hips, you found yourself twisting desperately in his grip, every muscle in your body drawing taut, like a string about to snap—everything inside you hot and tense and tight—
And then you were thrown out over the edge, crying out Shouto’s name, twisting and squirming and writhing out your pleasure between his hand and his cock. Shouto fucked you through it, his low, soft moans in your ear, the rapid huff of his breath stirring your hair.
Even as you relaxed against him, feeling pliant and shivery like gelatin, he kept going, seeking his own release. You pressed your cheek against the cool ice through your dress, Shouto still fiery-hot against your back, sweat sticking you together. Shouto’s hands both clutched your waist, and it was the tightening of his grip that signaled his orgasm, as his thrusts grew more hurried, more irregular.
He groaned out your name into your shoulder as he came, his voice thick and low and warm and pleased.
His weight trapped you against the counter, even more firmly than his ice, and a feeling of deep contentment and satisfaction pooled in your veins.
So...he had been right, you could admit. The ice thing could be sexy, or whatever. Given the right pro hero in the mix.
“I thought so,” Shouto said when you admitted this aloud to him, sounding a little too pleased with himself. “I suspected you would be interested.”
You turned your head to look at him, catching sight of one blue eye, his scarlet bangs falling across his brow. “I am pretty certain I said I thought it wouldn’t be sexy though,” you said, squinting at him suspiciously.
In the corner of your eye, you saw his mouth quirk. “Ah but that means you thought about it,” he said, with the terrible perceptiveness of a partner you’d had for years.
Your whole body went suddenly hot with embarrassment.
“Okay but I say a lot of stuff during movie scenes,” you said defensively, as Shouto’s hands came up to smooth over your waist again, clutching you almost possessively. You were occasionally kind of a talker during movies, you could admit it. It wasn’t like this scene in particular had been special.
“Which means we have several other scenes to explore, love,” Shouto said, shifting over you with intent, still buried within you. “I seem to recall two others from this last week.”
You suddenly realized he was making no move to free you from the ice, even as his hands slid over you again. And you recalled with a startling clarity just which scenes you had remarked on this last week—
You could feel your boyfriend’s smirk against your skin, and you shivered with delight, as he slid down your body and began his work anew.
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an1m3smutt3r · 1 month
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Hawks and Dabi fighting in front of everyone and in private they're ripping each others clothes off, scratching and biting each other, and one of them gets thrown on the bed and getting absolutely wrecked, it'd be a miracle if they went into work/to see the league in the morning...
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blackberreh-art · 5 months
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Caught between Heaven and Hell 🤭
You can view the full thing on patreon for just $2 a month!
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mhathotfic · 10 months
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Having thoughts of yandere Alpha Bakugou jerking off to you because he doesn’t want to approach you yet.
He thinks he’ll scare you, you’re so sweet and soft and everything he isn’t it. He’d ruin you if he ever touched you, but still.
He burns for you. No matter how hard he tries to ignore it, he’s plain desperate to have you.
He so desperate to sink his teeth into the forbidden fruit that is you. To peal off your clothes and revel in your plush soft body. To taste your sweet juices as it melts on his tongue. To know what his knot would look and feel crammed in you.
He groans at the thought, already knowing he won’t be in bed until much later than he would like. He blames it all on you.
Convinces himself that you’re driving him mad intentionally. That you want him to obsess over you and it infuriates him. How smug must you feel making him like this?
He doesn’t want to touch you and stain what he thinks is so precious and perfect, but if it teaches you not to test him than maybe he should
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kumori932 · 1 month
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There will be a follow up on my patreon :3
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berrybanana-arts · 2 months
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I redrew this one a little while ago and never posted it! I’ll probably redraw it AGAIN soon, knowing me. Have some suggestive dabihawks to tide you over while I wait to be allowed to post some zine content ;)))
These mouths were insanely satisfying to draw, hence the close-up.
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kizzaii · 1 year
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Shigaraki is a bit tied up. What are you gonna do about it?
( Kinda looks like caveman shiggy but I’m not complaining ever 😏 )
➡️Link🌲
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road-thank-run · 6 days
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an1m3smutt3r · 16 days
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We all know Kachaan is the bottom let’s be fr
"Fuck~ keep going~ that's it~ good boy~" *stops riding Izuku* "Sh-shut the fuck up Deku!!" *Thrusts up into Katsuki* "Ah..~ f-fuck you..~"
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blackberreh-art · 5 months
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some naughty AfOs as a cooldown~
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pixeldemonia · 2 months
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❤️ EMERGENCY COMMISSIONS ❤️
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I can do sfw and nsfw, I you want more references you can ask for them, I can do oc, oc x canon, self insert, character designing, any body types or proportions, complex poses, MxM, FxF, etc, etc, whatever you want you can ask me! (except for the things listed on the do and don't image)
Dm me if you're interested or have any questions, If you can't buy or aren't interested you can help me by sharing this post!
Hi guys! At the end of last year I finished my internship, since then I haven't been able to find a job so I'm currently unemployed. I supported myself through savings and an informal job to which I have not been called back, which is bad since I have two cats and myself to support, my family also need my monetary support, I'm running out of money so anything helps
I'm not a very popular artist but I do pour all my heart on every piece that I make, and my babies Nina and Corel would be very grateful 🩷
Please ignore if you don't like, just don't leave hate
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shig-a-shig-ah · 1 year
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everything i’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it
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Before the League of Villains, Tomura took you. Before the final war, he let you go. Still, moving on proves difficult for you both.
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» pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x afab!reader » word count: 4.2 » notes: Idk what this is, really. Divorce Ghuleh was in some kind of mood. » contains: gn!pronouns, post-canon, angst, exes (kinda), unrequited love (kinda), soft Shigaraki, ostensibly yandere Shigaraki, referenced kidnapping, oral sex (f!receiving). 18+, minors DNI. » ao3 mirror
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"You got a new place."
Anyone else might be alarmed by that casual interjection when you were, until a moment ago, alone in your apartment, no company save for the pile of moving boxes beside you and no sound except the patter of rain against the roof. But you? You don't so much as flinch at the sudden appearance of that raspy voice. You only continue placing books neatly on the shelf before you as you reply, "And you found it."
"I always do, don't I?"
There's a shrug in Tomura's voice, the words spoken as a simple matter of course. It's followed by footsteps reverberating across the hardwood, and even without turning around you can picture the scene perfectly in your mind: him pacing behind you, head cocked and hands shoved lazily in his pockets as he surveys your fourth apartment in fifteen months.
"Why'd you move?" His question is followed by the telltale creak of a cabinet opening. "I thought you liked your last place."
"I did, but they raised the rent."
The cabinet, empty, thuds shut. There's a weight to the brief silence that follows, and when it's broken it's by the drag of fingernails raking over papery skin. Then, "You know you don't have to worry about that."
It's true, and it isn't. You could afford any place you wanted with the money Tomura insists on putting in your name—money that you refuse to touch. On principle, you tell yourself, though you often wonder the difference between that and spite.
You don't argue, though. Only deflect. "It wasn't worth what they were asking. And I like this place, too."
You're not lying. The unit is smaller, admittedly, and further from the city center, or what passes for one these days when so much is still in ruin. But it's also quiet. Quaint. There's a picture window that looks out over the shared courtyard, and rows of built-ins lining the walls. More built-ins than you could possibly need, really, for the meager possessions you've accumulated over the last year and some, but you tell yourself that's a good thing. That you'll grow into the space in a way you never managed at your last apartments.
Not that this is a promising start.
You wipe your dusty hands on your jeans and finally stand, sighing as you turn to face Tomura. "You said you were going to stop coming by like this."
He looks as you'd expected, on first glance—loose black clothes and slouched posture, carmine eyes watchful behind the spill of white hair that hangs longer every time you see him. But you also catch the subtle shift your words bring—the brief press of his mouth into a tight line, the quick drop of his gaze.
There's a long silence as you stare at him and he stares at the floor.
When he starts pacing again, the echo of his footsteps hangs heavier this time.
"It's hard," he says, chewing at his cheek. "Everyone else has moved on. Toga has her girlfriend, Dabi's with his family. Spinner's turned the Liberation Front into some heteromorph rights movement, if you can believe it." He lets out an incredulous laugh, as though he can't. "Even Kurogiri is busy. Figuring out his old friends, his old life."
"Kurogiri left?" You try to force aside the unwanted tightness that revelation spurs in your chest. "I thought he'd stay with you."
"He offered. Would have if I'd asked, but it's not like I need him. I'm just..."
"Lonely?"
"No." And then, with mirthless huff, "Maybe."
That admission hangs in the air longer than you intend to let it—long enough for your memory to take you back to places you'd rather not be. To waking, years ago, in a strange bedroom in a strange apartment. To long night after long night with Tomura curled against your side and your own mind refusing sleep, preoccupied as it was with the question of why.
The answer, it turned out, was deceptively simple.
There's a pile of takeout menus on your coffee table—ones that were waiting in your mailbox when you moved in. You sigh as you reach for them, already knowing he'll stay for dinner if you offer.
And already knowing you'll offer.
"Well," you say, not missing how Tomura's eyes darken guiltily at the trace bitterness you can't quite keep from your voice, "it's not like it would be the first time."
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"You go out now."
Tomura's words have you pausing with a piece of katsu lifted halfway to your mouth. The two of you have been silent the last ten minutes; were mostly silent before that, too, as you waited out the vast-seeming span of time between the placing of your takeout order and the reprieve of the delivery person's arrival. But now he's looking at you from behind his hair as he scoops up threads of soba.
You finish taking your bite. Swallow. "What?"
"I came by your old place a few days ago and you weren't there." He says it reluctantly, like he's ashamed despite the current circumstance. "Last month, too. That never used to happen."
Of course it didn't: you barely left your old apartments in the weeks and months after Tomura let you go, though you've been trying to remedy that as of late. Two years sequestered from normal life left you overwhelmed in public, oddly claustrophobic any time you found yourself in a crowd. And even once that tendency towards panic abated, there was hardly anywhere to go outside of earning your meager living. No family to miss you, and certainly no friends to reconnect with. Much like Tomura now, everyone you knew seemed to have moved on.
Not that you hadn't, because whoever you were before Tomura, it's not who you were after. And you know the same is true of him—that he's not the person he was when he took you. An incontrovertible truth, if only because you're sitting here. Free.
More or less, anyway.
You take another bite of katsu. Chew carefully before saying, "I was on a date, actually."
The way Tomura stiffens slightly at your answer sparks a vindictive stab of satisfaction in you. It only grows when he asks, with forced casualness, "What kind of date?"
"A first date."
A good date, too, by objective standards. One where your suitor did all the right things, and where that effort seemed genuine. They didn't even try to come up at the end of the night—only kissed you on the cheek and said they would call.
"Is there—" Tomura wavers, for a moment. Lifts one hand towards his neck only to drop it just as quickly, and then slurps down a hasty spoonful of broth instead. When he swallows, it's harder than seems necessary. "Is there going to be a second one?"
You think again about the end of that latest attempt at romantic connection. About the blank indifference you felt as your date stood there smiling, and about the memory of crimson eyes that haunted you in that moment, the same way it had in the few attempts before. About the voicemail your suitor left the next day. The one that still sits on your phone, unplayed.
Whatever petty satisfaction you felt a moment ago slips away.
"No," you say flatly before lapsing back into silence.
There never is.
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"Do you ever regret it?"
It's a question that again comes after lengthy quiet, though this time you're the one to speak first. Dinner is long over, takeout containers and disposable chopsticks left in a pile on your scuffed kitchen table, and you've spent the last couple hours in silence on your sofa. You're in one corner and Tomura's in the other, his foot propped up on a couple moving boxes as a sitcom neither of you are really watching plays out on screen. He frowns at the abrupt inquiry.
"The war?"
It's telling, you think, that that's the first place his mind goes. To that final confrontation with the heroes, and a battle he'd more or less won. But it's not what you meant.
"Letting me go." After a moment's consideration, you add, "Or taking me in the first place."
That question has festered in the back of your mind since the day Tomura chose power over the dwindling comfort of your presence, and you couldn't say why you ask it now. Couldn't say, either, why it was left unspoken for so long, save that some discomfort always stopped you. A fear, you suppose, that whatever response he gave would reveal as much about you as him. That you'd realize too late there was some specific answer you wanted.
Even now, your eyes stay fixed uneasily on the television as you await a response that takes several long moments to come. In the interim the quiet is filled with nothing but grating laugh tracks and the telltale rustle of nails scraping over Tomura's throat. You wonder when he resumed that anxious tick. Wonder, too, how bad it's gotten. If you brushed back those tangled locks, would you find mere reddened skin, or deep scores?
You distract yourself with that wondering, and eventually Tomura gives his answer.
"Sometimes," he admits.
"Sometimes for which one?"
The subsequent silence is longer this time. Then the sound of scratching abates, and from the corner of your eye you see his hand drop.
He leans forward for the television remote. Turns the volume up a couple notches.
"Both."
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"Are you asleep?"
"No."
Tomura's answer is the one you expected. You've spent the last who-knows-how-long doing nothing more than staring at the dim black of the ceiling above your bed and somehow, despite the dark and the polite distance left between you, you knew he was doing the exact same thing.
He doesn't stay over, usually. Doesn't come by that often at all, truth be told, though every time he does it feels like an inevitability. Like there could never be any world where the two of you part for good.
On your good days, you know why that is. Understand the technicalities of trauma bonding or Stockholm syndrome or whatever one wants to call it. You know, too, that you're lucky in some ways. That this thin attachment you can't shake could be far stronger after two years of forced proximity.
On your bad days, though? On days like today, when his presence reminds you that there was something almost comfortable about this, once?
On those days, you can't help thinking that sense of inevitability might mean something.
You shift. Roll onto your side to look at him, and preoccupy yourself studying the outline of his silhouette, so different now from when he first stole you into his bed. He looked so young, then, with his owlishly wide eyes and that shaggy mop of dirty white hanging chaotically over his features. Now, his stark hair falls heavy back from his face, and his cheeks have lost some of their surprising roundness. Those more chiseled angles match the cut of meaty shoulders, and the swell of a chest that wasn't always so broad.
Several long moments pass, and then Tomura turns to face you.
"Why?" he asks. His brow is knit slightly, the rest of his face placid. It's a look you used to find strange—too dispassionate and untroubled for someone whose blood so often ran hot. But even in the earliest days he rarely turned those mercurial moods towards you.
No, with you he was always calm, or calm enough anyway—no demands or expectations beyond your stolen company and the tug of your head to his chest so his face could bury into your hair. It's that weight of expectation that makes it so different with everyone else, you think. Every job you take, every date you make, comes with the realization that something is wanted of you. Then, and always.
It had seemed intolerable when you were living it, but those long years with Tomura were still the only time in your life you were allowed to simply be.
And whether you want to or not, sometimes...
Sometimes you miss it.
You scoot closer to him. Ignore the way he stiffens in surprise and lean in, pressing your mouth to his.
It's not love. It never was, you're certain of that—not for you and not for him, either, even if it took so much time and growth for him to realize it. But it is familiar in a way that nothing else is, and tonight you don't much mind that when he feels like home it's in the exact wrong ways, like a place to which you would never want to return for good but that you might sometimes long to visit, if only because nothing else will ever be yours in quite the same way.
And because you'll never belong to anything else in quite the same way, either.
Tomura's arm extends to settle around your waist, tugging you closer. The gesture is far more practiced than the clumsy movements of his lips, but it's no surprise to you that he's more well-versed in the mundane affections. They were a constant in the hundreds of nights you once spent close against him, his hands in careful fists and his body curled into your side, each passing minute proving that he wasn't lying when he whispered what you thought were reassuring falsehoods. That he just wanted to be close to you.
It was hard to believe at first that he held little interest in carnal endeavors, at least beyond what they might represent when given willingly. But in the end you were convinced of it.
And in the end, when some combination of conscience and necessity finally led to your parting, you gave it willingly.
Now here you are. Again.
You deepen the kiss. Let your tongue trace over Tomura's scarred lower lip and sigh when his arms tighten around you. There's not passion in it, not exactly, but he's steady against you. Warm. Easy. And whether it's him you want or merely a familiar body touching you, that's enough to have a faint spark of heat stirring between your thighs.
Tomura doesn't protest when you pull back to tug him atop you, your hands already pressing at his shoulders to guide him where you want him, settled between your thighs. In the dim light you can just make out the stigmata-like scars that mar his palms as he shoves your shirt up, and you find yourself contemplating those pale, shiny marks. They're two among many, those hints of old wounds serving as counterparts to all the strength and muscle that lingered even after All for One left him.
It must be unsettling, you think, to inhabit a body so different from the one he started with—to wear the evidence of his ascent to godhood even after all that power was stripped away, sacrificed in the name of something as basic as self-preservation.
You think, too, that in the wake of all that it's no wonder he's lonely.
And then Tomura plants an open-mouthed kiss against your clothed mound, and you can't think of much except the desire blooming in you. His fingertips hook under the band of your underwear, tugging them down over your hips so his thumb can tease at your exposed sex, and the delicate touch has a faint gasp slipping past your lips. Tomura's cheek comes to rest against your bare thigh, his hot breath tickling flushed skin.
For a long moment he simply stares up at you from that prone position, gaze intent and eyes heavy-lidded with a want that seems deeper than mere lust. When your hips buck impatiently, however, he's quick to answer; a shuddering exhale slips past his lips and he drags his tongue over the length of your cunt.
His mouth is warm, the velvety pressure enough to have you lifting a hand to tangle in his hair. He groans in response, tipping his head to nuzzle briefly into that touch before he resumes his work, one finger tracing again over your entrance. It tests your wetness and then slips inside you, pressing and curling experimentally until it earns the delicate whimper he was seeking.
He repeats the motion, his tongue continuing to lap at your sensitive apex all the while, and you whine again, throaty and frustrated this time as the heat that's been building levels off. As good as it feels, it's not enough, the soft strokes of his tongue too gentle to approximate what you're accustomed to—the buzz of toys or the firm press of your own fingers, but never someone else's touch. Your grip on his hair tightens as you grind yourself against him.
"More," you gasp. He's quick to respond, another finger slipping inside you and the flat of his tongue dragging more firmly over your clit. Your back arches in response, your eyes fluttering closed. "Mmhmm," you gasp. "Like that."
Even with your own eyes closed, you can feel Tomura's unfaltering gaze, can sense him watching raptly as you respond to every persistent touch. Your head is starting to go fuzzy, everything beyond the friction between your thighs receding into a haze. When Tomura's lips latch around you, sucking lightly, your free hand clutches at the blankets as your legs start to tremble.
Tomura stops his efforts just as quickly, planting a kiss against your inner thigh as you let out another choked noise of dismay.
"Say my name," he pants. Those words are accompanied by the faint rustle of the sheets beneath him, and when your eyes blink open you can just make out his hips rutting against the mattress, some reflexive bid for friction. His voice is thick as he repeats his request. "Say it, when you—"
You're already nodding, clutching at him again as you guide him back to where you want him. Where you need him. There's a pleasant ache at your center, throbbing as you hover on the edge of release, and you whimper when Tomura's lips close obediently around you.
"Fuck," you swear as the flat of his tongue starts to work in tandem with that suction, the sensation heightened by each rhythmic stroke of his fingers. "Fuck, 'm close."
He speeds up his movements, tongue working more eagerly against you, and you can feel yourself beginning to tense, your hands and your hips conspiring to shove Tomura's face more firmly against your cunt. It's a heady sensation, to be touched at all and especially to be touched like this after so long without. When those waves of pleasure finally crest it's almost overwhelming, some strange melancholy swelling in your chest even as your whole body goes taut and a cry rises in your throat. It nearly sticks, lodged behind the unwanted lump that's formed there; in the wash of your tumultuous orgasm you barely manage to give him the one thing he asked for in exchange for that peak.
The words come out a hoarse, broken whisper. "C-coming, Tomura."
He groans gratefully, coaxing you through your release and not stopping until you force him away, overstimulated. Even then he only turns his head to mouth at your thigh, his hips continuing to grind against your mattress as his breathing grows more ragged. His lips work fervently over you as he does, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses punctuated by strained exhales. Then he's stuttering and shuddering, letting out one last desperate gasp against your skin as he comes.
He claws his way back up beside you almost immediately, cheeks flushed and eyes wide, uncertain in a way that contrasts sharply with his usual demeanor these days. It has you reminded once again of early on in all of this, when he was so different. When you both were.
That uncanny nostalgia only intensifies when he asks, hesitantly, "Can I...?"
You nod. You know what he's asking for—the only thing he's ever really wanted when crawling into bed beside you. The moment you acknowledge his plea, he's pressing himself into your side, arms wrapping tightly around you and his face burying in the crook of your neck.
Tomura doesn't move after that. Only relaxes into you slowly as you stare again the ceiling, willing yourself to feel some shame or guilt for inviting him into your bed. Not because of what it might mean to him, after all this time, but because of what it might mean to you. What it might mean for you.
In the end, though, you fail to summon that remorse. Another part of the inevitability, perhaps, because what is there to be ashamed of when it feels like things could never have been any different?
So, you only lay there listening as Tomura's breathing evens into the telltale rhythm of sleep, and sometime in the hours after you doze away too.
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Tomura wakes to the warmth of your skin against his, and for a moment it's as if all the months since your parting have been erased. He blinks his eyes open expecting to find himself in his room at the bar, and to rise and make you tea under Kurogiri's watchful eye the same way he did so many times before. It isn't until he's met with the sight of bare walls and morning light streaming through the window that he orients himself.
Muscle memory still carries him to your kitchen after he slips from beneath your sheets; it's only when he finds coffee instead of tea among your sparse pantry items that he pauses. Remembers that he's well past such persistent efforts to win you over. All he's doing now is acting out a script for a performance that's long since ended.
He leaves the stove unlit. Puts your kettle, half-filled, back where he found it, and stands uncertainly in your kitchen, surveying the stacks of half-emptied moving boxes that surround him.
It doesn't mean anything, he knows. That you asked him to touch you, or that you asked him to stay at all, those casual invitations thrown out not with reluctance, exactly, but with resignation: Why don't you stay for dinner? And then, when you'd retreated to bed, the simplest, Are you coming? And even if it did mean something, it would be nothing more than what it always means when you fail to turn him away. That the consequences of his early thievery extend far beyond what his younger self could have imagined. That what he's done he can never take back or undo, no matter what paltry efforts he makes to set things right.
There is no right, here. Not for the two of you.
Tomura's halfway through slipping on his shoes when your voice interrupts him.
"You're leaving."
He turns to find you standing in your bedroom doorway, your face still bleary with sleep and your expression otherwise indifferent. The skin at his throat prickles, the way it seems to do so often lately.
He was. Leaving. Had been intent on slipping out the door before you rose, and before he had to wonder if you would ask him to stay.
You don't ask him to stay.
"It's funny," you say instead, and with no real amusement, "I woke up at some point last night, and for a second I thought..."
That sentence hangs in the air, half-finished, but Tomura knows what you thought. He thought it himself, after all, when he first stirred to the rise and fall of your chest under his cheek and was transported back to a time when things felt far simpler. A time when after was a problem for others to contend with, so abstract and disconnected from his goals that it seemed the future couldn't touch him.
Tomura finishes tying his shoes. Straightens up to look you in the eye—a feat that seems to grow harder every time he sees you. Fingertips lift to rub at his neck as clears his throat.
"I won't bother you again," he says.
He means it, but then he always does. Always tells himself this time is the last time, and believes the lie until the moment that unshakable pull has him slipping through whatever unlocked door or window he can find.
You spare him the indignity of skepticism, though. Only nod and move to open the front door, watching silently as he accepts that unambiguous disinvitation. He takes two steps out into the hall before pausing, a question he doesn't want to ask hovering on the tip of his tongue.
He asks it anyway.
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"You asked me if I regret it," he says. He keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the carpet in front of him. "Do you?"
The question is met with silence at first. When Tomura finally turns to face you, you're staring at him with your brow slightly knit, your mouth twisted into something a little too wry to be called a smile.
After another moment, you sigh. Your gaze drops, briefly, and then rises again to meet his stare.
"Goodbye, Tomura," you say, almost gently.
You shut the door.
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nudibranchlover · 1 year
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NSFW
oh god… currently thinking about trans!shigaraki and vampire!reader…
he’s so interested in your biology, the two of you grow close the second you join the league.
and sometimes, he’ll wake up covered in sweat, his dreams filled with your fangs and your body on his…
but most oddly, after you join he suddenly gets his period for the first time in a few months, and he was already pent up before that. he didn’t need anymore confusion in his life, he needed relief, so he approached you about it.
“so you… drink blood, right? you like it?” you nodded along with him, confused, “and it, uh… doesn’t matter where it comes from?”
you obviously could smell the iron on him, and it was intoxicating, but you had no idea what he was talking about or where it was coming from.
“I want you to feed off of me,” oh… well that was a pleasant surprise.
you lead him into your room and he sits on the edge of your bed while you undress, watching you carefully. he seems nervous.
“I don’t particularly know how I’m meant to say this to you… especially since… uh… you’re in the league? but…” you nod along, waiting for him to just spit it out, “I’m on my period,”
you’re not too shocked but you’re surprised he trusts you enough for you to feed from… such a sensitive area. and he does.
he laid back on the bed, naked and shy at the fact he’s so exposed already. he feels like he hasn’t been in your room for more than 15 minutes.
you get to work quickly to avoid small talk, and… oh my.
you lap up the first taste, and you’re immediately addicted. you can’t help but press your tongue deeper inside of him.
he’s squirming and whining at the unfamiliar feeling, but the fact his gloved hand is pressed firmly against the back of your head with intent to trap you between his thighs, let’s you know he’s enjoying this more than he’s leading on.
the taste is so unique and addictive, you can easily imagine just eating him out like this on a regular basis.
you’re almost finished your meal when you notice his thighs shaking vigorously, and you couldn’t stop yourself from curling your tongue to keep him satisfied.
you continued to eat throughout his orgasm, but stopped when he went limp.
he was fixated on the ceiling, fucked out and somehow even more pale than he was when he came in.
you pressed a soft kiss to his hole, where you’d just been feeding from, as a ‘thank you’, ignoring how eagerly it twitched, before retreating and crawling up the bed to lay beside him.
“I, uh… you’re really good at that,” he muttered and you nodded, the tension thicker than his blood, “I think…”
you turned to him, focussed.
“I think we should do that again,”
you agreed.
“just give me a few minutes and you can finish eating,”
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writer-and-lover · 1 year
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Day 12: Shigaraki + Dabi
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Dabi was shameless when it came to you. He'd flaunt himself to the whole hero and villain world if you ever gave him the chance to, but your word is law to him. But you looked for options to satisfy your little pyromaniac, and your brain mastered up a plan.
You weren't naïve. You knew the cute little longing looks Shigaraki would send you both when he thought you weren't looking. You definately noticed his childish pouts and insistent huffing whenever you both had marks across your skin from each other, or bites encompassing the stretch of your necks. Dabi had been eager to get the leader in bed, but the rules were simple and you were a villain for a reason. Your sadism knew no bounds, even as Shigaraki gave you the softest eyes and the prettiest of words fell from his lips. The cuffs you looped through the bars of the chair and tightened around his wrists were designed specially for him to grip and pull at, and you told him as much. You were planning on making him cry from need.
The moans you pulled from Dabi where pornographic, obviously dramatised for Shigaraki's own suffering. But Dabi was human at heart and the smooth baritone of his voice would stutter and break at each bite at his skin.
You couldn't help but groan in pleasure either, the rolls of Dabi's hips grinding deliciously, sinfully, against your own erection. Shiggy's poor cock looked painful, making you harder than ever. Having these two boys at your command was intoxicating.
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