Yoo..

Yoo..

I love Shigaraki Tomura. Ever since S1, he's been an amazing villain. Very complex, sexy, hot, cute, handsome, beautiful, chill man, that's hella misunderstood. He's not a manchild, nor is he immature if his character is truly payed attention to- His development was tremendous. And damn, he's gorgeous af. His face and voice enough to make me fainttt. Hhjjjkjaaja-- I love the rivalry between him and Deku.

I draw, I'll post my draws of him, all I ask is dont repost or use my works-

Pathethic edit by me

Yoo..

More Posts from Flamme-shigaraki-spithoe and Others

11 months ago

A new life for Tomura part4

A New Life For Tomura Part4

The Potential of You and Me [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Title: The Potential of You and Me [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Synopsis: You have a stalker. And he's tired of waiting for you.  Commissioned piece.

Word Count: 5100ish

notes: yandere, stalking, threats, noncon oral sex, humiliation and degradation

The Potential Of You And Me [Yandere Shigaraki X Reader]

Every box packed is sealed with a mixture of bitterness and relief, all stacked high in increasingly precarious towers; filling the dark corners of your longstanding home with cardboard and hastily made tape labels that you hope won’t peel off in the moving truck. 

It makes you sick to see them. It makes you scared. It makes you sad. 

It might be different, if you were leaving under different circumstances. If you’d gotten a job in a new city and you were starting over with a fresh coat of paint, or something like that. Something you could spin into sweetness and adventure. 

If only.

If only you weren’t moving because you had a stalker and this was the only palatable option left. The police couldn’t do anything--there was no tangible evidence, no matter how many times you insisted things were missing. 

It turns out that “I can feel someone’s eyes on me” and a letter detailing how much they loved you and how good you were going to feel on the inside was not, in the eyes of the authorities, enough to really do anything. Change your locks, they said. You did. Switch up your routine, they said.  You did.

It didn’t matter. Things kept going missing. You kept feeling watched. You came home and found your bedroom window open and another letter on your pillow that you tossed out without reading. 

It wasn’t going to stop, with or without the advice of the police. And you couldn’t do anything to protect yourself, not on your own. You didn’t even have a damn quirk. 

So what can you do? You can pack up your life and find a cheap apartment in another city, where you don’t know anyone, where you don’t have a job, where you’ll be in a place half this size and nowhere near as nice.

You can throw away everything you’ve ever known and pretend that things are going to be fine. 

This is what you’ve been reduced to--but it’s this or your life, isn’t it? Your sanity? You don’t know how much more you can take or how long it will be before your stalker takes a step beyond stealing your underwear or sending you notes. 

What if your stalker decides to go further than leaving letters and taking panties? What if he decides to hurt you--or kill you? You were no stranger to the nightly news, to stories of women found killed and dismembered by men found to be stalking them. 

You had a life to live. Even if you have to live it somewhere else, if you want to be safe. 

You slap another label on a box filled with books (and God, you had too many books, didn’t you? But you couldn’t bear to part with them, stalker be damned) and wiped a trickle of sweat beading on the back of your neck. This would have to do for tonight. The moving truck was coming in 2 days, and you’d been living on little sleep, tons of coffee, and far too much takeout.

You needed a break. Just a little one. Just some sleep, to feel refreshed, before you spend another whole day packing and shoveling food someone else made into your mouth as quickly as you could before you went back to it.

You’re in the bathroom--still not packed, but you’d been putting it off for the end--when you hear the noise.

Something small. A creak. A noise that you would have brushed off a few months ago as nothing. 

But now it sends a twist straight into your gut. You freeze, turn off the sink, and spit foamy toothpaste carelessly into the basin. Your fingers shake and your toothbrush clatters into the sink, too loud, too overt. Fuck.

Your hands clench the end of the counter and you strain sideways, forcing yourself to listen.

Nothing… nothing. Maybe you are being paranoid. Maybe it’s best that you’re moving away, if even the slightest noise had you on edge--

But, oh. 

Oh.

You hear it again.

A creak--but it’s not just a creak, is it? 

It’s a step.

Down the hall. Something is in the hallway. No, not something, because something wouldn’t be wearing shoes that make an unmistakable sound when connecting with the floorboards.

Someone is in the hall. 

Someone is coming for you.

Your body seems to move on autopilot, quick, numb. 

One step, two step. 

You hear the hallway closet door opening. Nothing inside but boxes. 

Another step, and another. 

The guest room door opens. More boxes, and piles of stuff you planned to take to the donation center tomorrow. 

Step, step. Step. 

The hallway isn’t long enough, oh God, how you wish it was longer.

Because all too soon, the steps stop at your bedroom door and there’s an awful scratching sound, like someone is dragging fingernails down the wood. 

The terrible reality of that sound makes your body jolt back to life. You’re just standing there! You stupid, stupid moron. You have to do something. 

Your buzzing mind races, what are you supposed to do? Call the police! But your phone is on your bed, sitting idly on top of the bare mattress where you left it earlier. There’s not enough time. It’s too far away. You’ll get caught, mid-lunge, and your trembling fingers will probably drop the phone anyway.

So you, legs tingling with fear that seems to both paralyze and push you, rush into your doorless closet and stand inside next to the open doorway. 

You’ve already packed your closet up, so there’s nothing to hide behind, no layers of clothing to shield you. Only the darkness of the bedroom that you hope is enough to hide you. 

The door opens with a foreboding creaking that makes your chest hurt. Slow and methodical, like whoever it is is fucking with you on purpose.

You cover your mouth and nose and will yourself not to breathe. 

Someone steps into the room and you curse yourself for not turning off the bathroom light. But the closet should still be dark enough, right? You pray for that, mindlessly.

Whoever it is--it’s a man, you realize, with lanky silver hair, but you can’t see his face--glances toward the bathroom. 

He takes a step, then pauses.

Don’t come to the closet. Don’t come to the closet. Don’t come to the closet. It’s a mantra, a prayer, rushing through your brain as you will him to inspect the bathroom. 

Maybe someone up there likes you, because he does take slow steps toward the bathroom and you wait until he’s in the threshold (where he’ll no doubt see the room is empty) before you bolt from the closet, arm slapping carelessly against the door frame (it hurts) before you rush through the doorway of your room and into the hallway.

Everything is dark and dim. You were going to bed, now you’re running for your life. 

You register only sounds and vague physical feelings that puncture through the veil of your terror. The slap of your bare feet against the floor. The sound of the clock in the kitchen. The scratch against your elbow from one of the cardboard boxes as you run towards the front door, a sharp corner digging into your skin. 

And then you hear the slow, calm steps that come from behind you, almost matching the ticking of the kitchen clock in their lack of urgency.

Your fingers pull on the doorknob and nothing happens. Your palm grips it, twisting this way and that, turning the lock open and shut and open and shut. But it doesn’t open, no matter what you do, what you turn. A soft, helpless sound pushes its way out of your throat.

And then you look up and see something jammed into the top of the doorway, like it’s been stuck on there. A barrier? A lock? You have to get it off, and you go to stand on your tiptoes when a voice behind you sends every nerve in your skin tingling.

“You’re not very good at this, are you?”

Your bowels clench and your hands shake as they slap against the door and you turn your body around to face the man who broke into your home.

The light is dim, lit only by some streetlights streaming through the window and the tiny light above your stove in the kitchen. His hair is the easiest thing to see about him, light colored. His clothing is dark. His face is hidden in shadows.

“Please don’t hurt me,” you whisper, keeping your back pressed against the door. If only you had a quirk that would let you melt through walls or blast open locks or do something, anything, to help yourself.

The man tilts his head, and there’s a dim recollection in your mind at the gesture. It’s like something out of a movie. Or a video game. Is this a game to him? Some twisted entertainment? 

“No?” His voice has something of a gravel to it, like he needs to clear his throat. But there’s a smoothness underneath it all, too--a teasing lilt that worries you to the core. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“I--” You lick your lips, and your shoulders shake like you’ve been left in the cold for too long. “I don’t want to die.”

“Oh,” he says, and there’s a snicker at the edge of his voice that promises to cross over should you amuse him too much. “Of course you don’t.”

Your hand stupidly reaches behind you and pulls at the door again. All it does is make a shifting sound as it slips uselessly through your fingers. You aren’t going anywhere. At least not through the front door. But the windows… 

You stand up straighter, trying to center yourself, trying to calm down.

“What… what do you want? I-I have some money, but not much. I’m moving, so--”

He scoffs. You can’t see his expression, exactly, but you get the impression that he’s narrowed his eyes. That he’s annoyed with your suggestion for some reason  you can’t fathom. 

“I don’t want your money.”

It’s a stupid question to ask, but you ask it anyway.

“Then…what do you want?”

He sighs, and that snicker is there, all dark and teasing. It makes your chest hurt more. And then you watch, entranced, as he reaches into his pocket and pulls something out.  A handkerchief? Or a piece of lace? It’s light blue and colorful and--

Fucking hell. 

It’s a pair of your underwear. A cute pair you’d picked out on a whim last year. And… he’s holding it in his hands, fingers drumming in the air, almost toying with the fabric as you stare. This pair went missing, didn’t it? Then how--

“I came to give this back. Aren’t I generous?”

“Give it… back?” The words come out in quiet disbelief and everything clicks in your head, like a lock snapping shut on something you should have realized long ago.

He’s holding a pair of your underwear.

He’s broken into your home. 

He’s your stalker.

“You’re--my…” You can’t bring yourself to bring the word into reality. “And you’ve been…” Your back presses harder against the door, as if you might just conjure up that wall-busting quirk through sheer will alone. 

“Please leave!” You’re almost shocked at how high and loud your voice is, despite the way your body trembles. You lick your dry lips again, and words come tumbling out. Something, anything, to make him go away. “I’ve already called the police. So-so they’re on their way and if you don’t leave, they’ll--”

“Don’t lie.” 

Your mouth stops mid-ramble. 

“I’m… I’m not lying. I really did, I--”

His hand dips into his other pocket and he pulls out your phone, shaking it slightly at you, like presenting evidence of misbehavior to a wayward child. One of his fingers is sticking out to the side. It’s strange, but--

“Unlock it,” he says, holding the screen out flat and there’s no room for argument in his voice. Nor are you stupid enough to try to grab the phone from him. You place a shaking finger on top, and the screen lights up, revealing your latest background--some silly photo your friend sent you a few months ago. 

He begins to run his thumb down your screen, until you see that he’s bringing up your recent calls. 

“Moving company… takeout…” He smiles, but in the darkness, it looks more like a sneer. “No police.” 

You swallow, throat dry. He splays his fingers out suddenly, keeping his thumb wrapped around the screen. He places one finger down. Two fingers. Three, four, five.

And your phone crumbles to dust.

Your bowels clench hard, and you push back against the door.

“Please,” you whisper, throat dry, mouth trembling.

He takes a step closer. You can look at nothing but his fingers. Even in the dimness, you can see a fine layer of dust on them.  Your phone. Your phone, there and gone, nothing but ashes. And now he’s taking a step closer to you, reaching out with his hand. 

You make a sound, something soft and primal in what you believe are your last moments, but instead of agonizing pain and nothingness, you feel only a single finger on  your cheek. You blink, and the tears held back by your imminent death fall easily. His finger makes a lazy swipe up your cheek, catching the tear.

“I like that. Keep saying that, okay?”

“Please?” There’s disbelief in your voice, yes, but hope, too. Hope that you can get out of this alive.

He makes a low sound, like a hum. 

“Please… don’t hurt me.” 

He pulls his finger away and looks at you. Now that he’s closer, you can see a bit more of his features. Or at least, you can make out the smile he gives you. It’s not a comforting smile.

“I won’t hurt you, if you’re good. Now…” He takes a step backward. “Turn around for me. Face the door.”

You don’t want to. More than anything, you don’t want to listen to him. But you have to, at least for right now, if you want to live. So you force your stiff, leaden muscles to work and face the traitorous door that won’t open for you anymore.

“Good,” he says, with a note of something like pleasantness. “Now stay nice and still while I tie your wrists.” 

You do wait. You wait until you hear him unzipping the bag slung around his shoulders, and then you bolt on tingling muscles, pounding down the hallway and whipping back into your bedroom. You can’t call the police, but you sure as shit can jump from your bedroom window.

Your thighs are up against the bottom of your bed--you just have to climb on and get over your headboard to the window behind it, so close, so close--when you feel hands on your back, pressure, and all of the air goes out of your lungs as something big and heavy tackles you and pins you to the bed.

Your mouth opens, and you’ve finally gotten the idea to scream--only for four fingers to slap over your mouth in an instant. There’s dust on them. Like bitter salt. 

“Quiet.” The word is practically hissed into your ear, and all thoughts of making a sound cease. But you don’t give in, not yet, because you’ve read your true crime books and watched your horror movies, and you know what happens to people who get pinned to beds by stalkers who break into their homes. It can’t happen to you. It can’t. 

He grips your shoulders with one hand and flips you onto your back. He slowly releases the hand over your mouth, because you’re smart enough to stay quiet, aren’t you? Especially when those fingers could come down (one, two, three, four, five) and kill you in an instant.

You’re quiet. But you won’t give in without some fight. You move to sit up, free hands pushing against his check--do you really think you’re stronger?--and his breath hitches above you as he grips your wrists and pushes forward, pinning you to the bed.

Your teeth clack together when your head hits the mattress, and against your better judgment, you continue to buck and squirm, pulling at the wrists keeping you on the bed. He’s too strong. You don’t even make it an inch. And the sheer helplessness of it all turns to worms in your stomach, cold and slithering. 

But you don’t stop trying, and your breath comes in heaves as soft, timid sounds of daydreamed escape push past your lips. If you could just get a wrist free. If you could just get a leg free. If you could just get him off you.

Thoughts come and go without staying concrete. Maybe a hero was walking by your bedroom window just now and he heard the tousling and he’s going to break the window and save you. Maybe the police decided to do something and send a patrol car to your home. Like gray daydreams, these fuzzy hopes of rescue.

Instead, there is a man above you, pinning you down with nothing but his strength and if he wanted to, he could turn you to dust for being too difficult. 

But you don’t turn to dust. Instead he’s looking down at you, leaning forward so his hair tickles your face. You can make out his features now, tired, lined, crazed. He scares you in a way you can’t articulate. There’s something deeply, terribly sad and--wrong--about him.

“I should punish you a little.” His words feel sour, breathed onto your face. “But… I can’t stay mad at you…” He leans forward until his nose is absurdly pressed against your cheek, nuzzling your skin, even as you turn your head in an attempt to lessen the contact. “Not when I’m finally ready to take you home.”

The word is a vice, and it’s like all the strength gets sapped out of you at once. 

“Home?” 

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he tugs at your wrists until they’re resting on top of your stomach, and he takes one hand and holds both of your wrists firm. 

“Don’t be stupid.”

You aren’t. Your skin feels numb from fear, but you keep your wrists still as he leans backward and opens the bag hanging from his shoulders. He pulls out some restraints made from some type of cloth, and wraps them around your wrists one after the other. There’s a center strap in the middle of them, which he yanks high, pulling at your arms, until they’re above your head. The headboard--he’s tied the strap to the headboard.

"There. Nice and snug." He seems pleased, and that scares you more than any of his threats or the dust still clinging to his fingertips. You don’t want him to sound so pleased, not when you’re here, in the dark, tied to your bed.

Your words taste bitter as you force them out of your drying mouth. 

“What are you going to do?” You want to know. You don’t want to know. You want it over with--you don't want him to start. You flex your fingers, but your bound wrists aren’t going anywhere. 

He leans forward, and there’s something sickly sweet on his face. A grin--a grin that is not very nice at all. 

“What am I going to do?” he says, voice higher, frightened. Mimicking your fear. His hand reaches for your face and you flinch, but all he does is trail two fingers on your cheek, winding down until they rest on your lips.

“Open up.”

You do, because what other choice do you have? In an instant he shoves the fingers inside, and you gag on dust and salty skin. He pushes them too forward and you retch.

“Oops.” He giggles. It’s a breathy sound, not at all sweet. “Lick them, okay?” 

Your eyes widen. You want to ask him why, but the thought of making any muffled sound around his fingers makes you sicker than the grittiness currently in your mouth.

“It’s for your own good,” he says, with an almost teasing lilt to his voice. “I promise.”

You don’t trust any of his promises. But you do trust the taste of the dust in your mouth, a forewarning of what might happen to you if you don’t listen.

Slowly, you force the muscle of your tongue to start licking his fingers. It’s a short motion--you want as little contact with his fingers as possible. You have to fight back that way, at least, don’t you? Even if it makes him mad.

But it doesn’t make him mad. He coos, if anything. “Oh, you’re like a kitten.” The words are gross and stick inside your chest, and you can’t ignore the tears threatening to spill onto your cheeks. But you keep licking.

Done, or maybe just bored, he pulls them out and wipes an excess line of connecting drool onto your cheek. “Good enough.”

For what?

Without warning, he reaches lower and yanks down your pajama bottoms. You can hear the elastic rip from the force, and the soft fabric bunches up around your knees. 

Whatever part of you that had resolved to be good and quiet dissolves in primal fear, and you shriek--perhaps there’s words in there (Don’t, please, oh--)--but they die the instant he holds up his hands, and is there where you die, too? 

But he doesn’t bring his hand down. 

Instead, he digs down into his pockets and you only have the briefest moment to register that he’s holding the panties from earlier, the ones he stole from this very bedroom, before they’re shoved into your mouth. The fabric tastes stale and there’s brief pulses of horror (what was he doing with them all this time?) before you try to push at all the bunched up fabric with your tongue, desperate to get it out. 

He regards you with a smile, and there’s something so low in it, degrading and dark. 

“Keep them in there. Unless you want the neighbors to hear?” Then he pats your cheek with a few fingers. “If you spit them out, I’ll just gag you with something bigger.”

You don’t want to know what that would be. What remains of your whimpers are muffled around your underwear as he scoots backward and grips your thighs. He pulls them apart without a word and your legs tremble. You could kick, couldn’t you? You could fight and kick and even if your hands are tied, you could.

But you don’t want him to hurt you. You don’t want to die. You want this to be over with. You want him to do what he’s going to do and leave and you’ll call the moving company in the morning and ask if they can pick up your things today. Or you’ll run out the door with only your essentials, and a favorite book or two, a memento--your mom’s necklace, a trinket or two--and… and things will turn out all right.

They have to.

So all you do is keep up your pitiful little whimpers as he rips your underwear off and tosses the destroyed garment on the floor. The coolness from the exposure makes you tremble. Or maybe that’s the fear, and the realization that he’s going to touch you.

He hooks one arm under your thigh and keeps it pulled to the side, giving him easier access to the .

You feel them, then. His fingers. Warm and a bit gritty. Touching you, stroking you, playing with you carelessly like someone who is happy to explore something for the first time. There’s no real consistency to the way he touches you. He pulls apart your pussy lips and prods inside. You jump. He runs his fingers up and down the middle of your slit. 

It doesn’t feel good. But it doesn’t hurt (that’s something) and maybe he won’t hurt you, after all? Not that you want it, not that you would rather be anywhere else right now (I won’t complain about my new city, you think, not the rent or the public transportation or the new neighbors. I’ll be so good and so grateful if this is over with quickly and he leaves.)

And then his finger is touching gently at your clit. It’s too sudden. Your hips jerk and a sound is stifled by your gag. He watches you and pulls his finger back a bit, instead touching around your clit, ghosting it, a much more tolerable (and sickening) feeling. He’s gentle, almost, and it hurts to contrast it with everything else. 

You think about how many of your personal things have gone missing. The letters he’s left you flash in your mind. He can’t stop thinking about you. He wants to know you. He-needs-you-he-wants-you-he-will-have-you. And then… then you think about your phone crumbling to dust and what would it look like, if he did that to your skin?

You don’t want this. This can’t be happening. But it is, and there’s no way to escape the reality of the situation with his body so close to yours--with your hands tied firmly to the headboard. 

You feel the trail of slick on his fingers before you see it, just as he pulls his fingers away. It’s a bodily reaction, nothing more than that. But it doesn’t lessen the humiliation and the terror, and the panty gag in your mouth is soaked with drool and salty tears that have dripped in from between your lips.

“I was going to wait until we got back,” he murmurs. “But…” He almost looks wistful, and there’s a small, childish smile on his face. “You feel so much better in person than I imagined. You know that?” You see him working his bottom lip under his teeth--is that where his scabs are from? “Fuck it.”

All you register is him swooping down and the quick bob of his head before you feel it--his tongue between your pussy lips. It’s startling, and you gasp around your stolen underwear as the warm muscle goes from awkward prods to gently lapping around your clit, just touching the edges of it with enough firmness to send your nerves singing. 

You mewl. You can’t help it. It’s a sinful feeling, delicious and abhorrent. It’s a wet warmth that keeps going, lapping and lapping, making all of your nerves go haywire. Your legs kick on their own, and the thigh kept in his grip trembles.

He pulls back just enough to talk, and you wish he wouldn’t.

“Are you close already? You’re going to be so much fun…” 

He’s back between your legs then, and you feel one finger carelessly toying with your entrance. You clench, but he doesn’t go inside. Instead he presses his mouth back against you, and there’s warmth both from his mouth and your own body, flushing as he forces pleasure to start shooting down your stomach straight to those blissful nerves between your legs.

You moan into your gag, and he moans back. Everything feels sloppy and wet as his tongue begins to lap back and forth, harder, pressing firmer against your clit until you feel it coming--electric and tingling and unwanted, all the same. Your orgasm hits as you shake your head--no no no no--and your legs twitch until the orgasm fades.

All you’re left with is aftershocks and shame.

He maneuvers himself until he’s almost chest to chest with you. His pants press against your exposed lower half, and you can feel your dampness mingling with the fabric of his trousers. And there’s… something else you feel, too.

He’s hard.

You choke back a sob into your gag. You imagine what he’ll do now. He’ll pull down his own pants and he’ll spread your legs again, and you’ll feel him and it will be even more invasive and--

Your breath comes faster now, and you almost wish you were still gagged, so that the sound of  your frightened heaves weren’t so open and ragged. 

It seems like he understands what you’re thinking. 

“You can pay me back some other time, okay?” A finger traces up your neck to your mouth, and he sticks his fingers between your lips and pulls out the now damp panties without a word. “You’re probably tired, huh? I’ll take you back, then.” He says this all so casually and it makes it harder for the words to soak in at first. 

And when they do it, it stings just as badly. 

The sounds that were muffled by your gag now seem to echo around the mostly-empty, packed room. Sniffling. Little choked sobs that shake your chest. Because if he wants you to pay him back, is he going to let you go? If he’s planning on taking you somewhere, will he ever bring you back home? 

How could you call that moving truck anyway, if your phone is dust? 

Where can you run to, if your stalker can kill people with a touch? 

What can you do, except beg for something you know won’t be happening? 

“Please,” you whisper. Quick. Erratic.  “I won’t tell anyone. Just let me go, and I won’t tell.” 

His smile twists into something that’s almost like pity. But there’s something deeper in it. Sharp and bitter. “Hush, hush.” His knuckles reach up and wipe at your tears. “You’ll get used to it. I know you will.” He pats your cheek twice. “I’m…” He seems to consider something. “Call me Tomura. Only that.”

You don’t respond. You don’t want to call him anything. 

Without fanfare, he sits back up on the bed and reaches into his pocket to pull out a phone. His phone, you assume. There’s only a few swipes before he’s putting it up to his ear and talking to some unknown recipient. 

“Hey.” He looks at you and pets your hair. Is it meant to be soothing? Patronizing? Both? “Yeah, we’re ready.”

Without warning, there’s a heavy feeling before blackness fills the room. Your eyes widen like saucers but he doesn’t explain--he doesn’t need to, you know this is not going to be good. 

You could beg. You could spend the next few seconds promising that you’ll do anything if he just leaves you alone. But whatever words might force themselves out of your trembling lips are stuck inside your chest, like so many other things. Thoughts of the apartment waiting for you in a new city. The movers that will call and call and never get an answer from you. Friends and family who are waiting to go out for one-last-big-lunch to send you off.

He unhooks your wrists from the headboard and hoists you over his shoulder, giving you a perfect view of your bedroom as he takes steps into the heavy black swirl that appeared out of nowhere.

Behind you, the doorway of the unpacked bathroom is still open, lit up, showing the contents of your life in full display.

yes ! I have small boobs i swear i wanted to hear ass of things, thanks anonyme for asking UnU now i know thank to you

boobs, ass or thighs? honest question i swear

Tch. None of those are All Might so I don’t care! *crosses arms and pouts*

.

.

.

.

.

.

Ass.

Does anyone know when the next part will come ?

Im Sorry But This Fic Fucking Got To Me, I Love Passive Aggressive Sun, Dont Get Me Wrong; Love Me Normal
Im Sorry But This Fic Fucking Got To Me, I Love Passive Aggressive Sun, Dont Get Me Wrong; Love Me Normal
Im Sorry But This Fic Fucking Got To Me, I Love Passive Aggressive Sun, Dont Get Me Wrong; Love Me Normal
Im Sorry But This Fic Fucking Got To Me, I Love Passive Aggressive Sun, Dont Get Me Wrong; Love Me Normal

im sorry but this fic fucking got to me, i love passive aggressive sun, dont get me wrong; love me normal sun, but this fic got a few laughs outta me-

still having art funk so i let myself do textured lineart, as a treat-

(also benjimen did not have a vivid description besides glasses and a comb over so i took artistic liberty-)

toonervoustotagthecreatoronhere;v;

Same for real xD

A cult of the lamb game screenshot. The lamb is listening to Narinder tell them, "Excuse me, Leader, you look so fluffy today!" Narinder is wearing a black and red maid uniform, while the lamb has the Fleece of Fervors Favor, with a heart-shaped clasp.

This mf needs to stop playing with me and propose already 🙄


Tags
11 months ago

How would Shiggy go about being infatuated with a girl who’s shy and just as much of an inexperienced, asocial loser as he is? (Might his corruption kink motivate him to make the first move?) NSFW too plzzzzzzz

How Would Shiggy Go About Being Infatuated With A Girl Who’s Shy And Just As Much Of An Inexperienced,
How Would Shiggy Go About Being Infatuated With A Girl Who’s Shy And Just As Much Of An Inexperienced,

A/N: IM SORRY FOR THE IMAGE HAHA IM RUNNING OUT OF BW IMAGES TO USE FOR THIS BLOG (send me some plz send more tomura panels)

WARNINGS: nsfw under the cut

Now I'm sorry if like this isn't on par with the ask but he's also a loser so he'll try and reinact things he's seen from hentai, and you two will fail miserably.

he wants to take your virginity but he's a virgin himself and he's not sure how to initate it other than you push you somewhere and get you stuck (jk)

you two will be somewhat intimate? like you'll make the first move and try to hold his hand or lock arms, silly things like that.

it's cute watching a bunch of young adults act like preteens and their first relationship.

he finds himself more erect often when he's alone and also unable to jack off to his usual porn, but when he finds one where the actresses look like you or share something with you, he's hard as a rock.

he's not particularly shy, mostly he hates people. so you two would probably meet at a cafe or gamer cafe/gameshop or arcade.

he will try and make the first move, you two have probably been close by now and let it slip that you also watch porn or something because like losers, they kind of tend to ramble when someone's there to listen.

he'll try and put something together to sleep with you but god he's at a loss.

he finally mans up and watches something that gives him a decent idea. So he goes out, buys condoms, hides them under his pillows and invites you over.

you two will start playing games together probably sitting on his bed or something before you make the first move.

after a loss, you're sitting there upset while he stares at you with a cocky smile before you muster up the metaphorical balls to kiss him.

he's excited, really excited, it makes him pop a boner instantly.

everything proceeds with foreplay, making out, slowly taking clothes off, some odd gamer talk in the middle of it,

but since the both of you are inexperienced, it's kind of a struggle. you ask him to prep you, he has no lube and he's scared of decaying the only person he actually holds close so he asks you to prep yourself.

while you do it, it's embarrassing but don't worry he'll be jacking off while he watches so it's fair, right?

once you're done, he gets up, gets the condoms and you two struggle to slide it on him, who knew this shit could be so hard to do and so confusing?

he eventually does slide it all the way down and he gets ontop of you to try different positions.

the best one for the two of you is missionary, so he tries that, he tries to put it in but really he's kind of just humping your folds.

a good struggle later and he finally slips it in, it feels heavenly for the both of you, he doesn't really know how to thrust but he tries, it feels so good.

both of you will end up cumming quick, and doing it over and over again, exploring and experimenting with eachother until you're both covered in fluids and panting on his bed happily.

The aftercare will consist of fastfood and mariokart. or a duo on league.

and that's it you're his girlfriend now.

How Would Shiggy Go About Being Infatuated With A Girl Who’s Shy And Just As Much Of An Inexperienced,

—Ake 2024

Tw: mdni!!!!, kinda religious imagery I guess, PLF!tomura (calling him king and Shigaraki-sama), f!reader, makes you squirt for the first time, overstim, creampie, drabble

Tw: Mdni!!!!, Kinda Religious Imagery I Guess, PLF!tomura (calling Him King And Shigaraki-sama), F!reader,

Devotion.

That's what it is.

When you lay beneath your king, it is a form of worship. It is loyalty.

Tomura kisses your temple and hums against your neck. Nothing feels quite like your snug walls sucking him in. The warmth, the closeness and trust.

His hands roam your body, grope at your tits and hips. He could kill you and you'd thank him. He loves that. He loves that you're not scared. He could do nothing wrong in your big doting eyes. To you, he is a savior. Usually, you look up at him but today your eyebrows are pinched and those beautiful eyes squeezed shut.

"Tomura."

He nearly misses it, his eyes widen and his lips part. You don't see his confusion too preoccupied with feeling his cock drag against your sensitive spot.

"Tomura. Tomura!"

You never called him that before. Gosh, you must be really losing it. It was always Shigaraki-sama like there is some professionalism remaining between you and him when he sees you entirely unfiltered like this nearly every night.

"Tomura," you whine and your back arches off the mattress, your nails leaving red lines down his arms. Every drag of his thick length lands right against your g spot. Not a single thrust misses today. You can't handle it. Your mind is melting.

"Am I hitting the spot?" He chuckles, leaning in to kiss your cheek softly. It is so contrasting.

You nod and sob. "Too much. S'too much. Gonna squirt– m'gonna squirt if you don't stop–"

Tomura's eyes gleam. "Why would I stop?" He whispers against your ear, kissing the shell of it and making you squirm. His hips slow, but only to pound with more precision, to pound harder into your special spot. You cry out.

"No, no, please." You heave. Your breaths become desperate gasps, your hands try to find something to steady with. "It'll make such a mess– I'll make such a mess, my king. Stop."

Tomura groans. You are so unbelievably adorable. He takes your hands, locks your fingers together and pins them down. He kisses you again even softer.

"I don't care about messy," he chuckles. "I order you."

You moan and tear your eyes open, searching for crystal clear confirmation in his. He kisses your lips, then your nose.

"Make a mess for your king, pretty."

And if he orders you, you really have no say. You do what Shigaraki-sama tells you to do. Gladly and with love. It's the only salvation you know. To serve him is to be blessed, to find meaning. You atone. And you sin. You are forgiven. All at once.

You breathe shakily, lips quivering. You want to pull him closer but he has other plans and kneels back to better see where your bodies are joint.

You babble and whimper. Clench around him and Tomura's senses are sharp like never before. You are squirming, ripping at the sheets and shaking your head from one side to the other. Your body is trying to fight it while also losing all and every control.

And then, all your devotion becomes tangible as it spills from you in the form of a warm, clear liquid. It is not quite like in porn, spraying all over - though he is sure you could do that too. It flows like an abundant stream; your love and devotion visualized and Tomura bathes his throbbing cock in it.

"Shit–" he pushes back in, your gummy walls now tighter than before. "Do it again." He says and flips you over. You hold onto his neck for dear life. He thrusts up into you and it only takes a few times for the fountain to spring again.

"Fuck," Tomura moans and leans back, losing himself in the feeling of the warm liquid running down his thighs. It is so hot, so much. The smell is sickly sweet. "Holy shit." He pants. "One more, cmon."

You wince and shake your head, you can hardly breathe. "Can't Can't Can't."

"Please," he pouts and kisses you tenderly again, travels pecks down the curve of your neck and shoulders. "Please, baby. Just one more."

He thrusts up, angling you in the right position. Your mouth is opened, your head thrown back but you make no sounds. You are rendered incapable to even hold yourself upright.

Tomura pounds up into your swollen hole until you cry out desperately. You claw at him, feeble, you are so weak, so spend.

"There you go, heh," he husks. "Make a mess." And you do. For your king. "Fucking hell."

Tomura finds it mind-boggling himself. The feeling of the heated liquid running down his skin, seeing it gush from your pussy, the way you can't control your body and how he is at fault. He loves it. It is something he can easily get addicted to. 

He cums too, deep inside your abused cunt, making even more of a mess. You'd usually say thank you but today he lets it slide.

He kisses you softly, lovingly – devoted to you just the same.

"New favorite thing unlocked," he heaves, letting out a manic chuckle, placing his lips to your shoulder. His hands caress your trembling thighs. They are shaking like crazy. It's so hot.

You whimper in acknowledgement. It's all you can do. You try to close your arms around him but you have no strength left. "I love you," you whisper, closing your eyes.

Tomura smiles, satisfied. "I know."

He is your king of course.

YES WANT THE FIC GIVE ME-..pleeaase

Bipolar!Shigaraki Tomura Headcanons

Bipolar!Shigaraki Tomura Headcanons

I'm writing it. Because I CAN

Before I start, I am writing these headcanons as someone who has been diagnosed with Bipolar Type 1 for almost three years now. I frankly could not care less if people don't think he has Bipolar Disorder, I'm writing this for my comfort and that of others who either have Bipolar disorder or just resonate with the idea that Tomura does.

and I'm also very aware of Bipolar Disorder being stigmatized as something that affects "bad" people. I'm not trying to suggest this, but that Tomura is someone who is neglected of treatment.

Warning: Bipolar disorder as title suggests (Tomura's symptoms relate to type 1 more), talks of depression, mania, psychosis, suicidality, etc, angst?

Tomura has never been given a formal diagnosis and likely has no clue that he has bipolar disorder himself. He doesn't know much about it, either, other then the stereotype that people with general mood swings are "so bipolar."

The doctor knows, AFO does too, but for them, they see it as more ammo for their arsenal to make sure Tomura's life is nothing but agony. He's never been treated with medications or therapy. Nothing.

Because he isn't medicated, his episodes are pretty strong. His manic episodes sort of blend in with his everyday behavior to a lot of people.

It's during this time that he finds himself planning out grand operations against the heroes. Some of his ideas seem unrealistic and not well thought out. They're more just ideas thrown around, and he jumps to gather people and means to carry out his goal before actually having a calculated plan.

He's up all night doing this. But if he's not, he's likely gaming. He huddles up in his room with multiple cans of energy drinks (as if he didn't already have way too much energy).

(semi-canon) will text his comrades at godforsaken hours either asking, demanding, or just rambling about stuff. If he gets an answer, the recipient often finds themself confused because Tomura just talks and talks and talks, and when he's in the heat of some plan or project he doesn't really stop to compose his sentences or even take a damn breath.

He impulsively buys things, like copious amounts of in-game purchases. Or DoorDash. If he's feeling reeeaaal bold he'll go for a whole-ass gaming console if he can, even if his current one is perfectly fine. Or assembling as many thugs as he can and feeling generous enough to overpay them when they definitely don't need the amount of money he's giving them.

You can see how when AFO was arrested, his lifestyle shifted in this regard.

Tomura is already an irritable guy, and so his mania can make it worse. He gets very overstimulated with all of his sensations that little things, like accidentally stubbing his toe, can make him mad as fuck for a good thirty minutes.

He also gets very paranoid about others. When he talks to people, he's already convinced that they are tricking him somehow and he'll read every cue he can to confirm it, even if the proof isn't even there.

Even when he's out in public and by himself, he thinks everyone is mocking, judging, and looking at him. That also comes with being the most wanted villain around, but that's beside the point.

When something finally goes his way, he is HAPPY. Sometimes the League will catch Tomura smiling his face off for no apparent reason (odd for him), and will ask what's up, only for Tomura to CACKLE back with, "ehehAHAH NOTHING!! THAT's just IT!"

They look at each other like, but just let him go about his day. They'll later hear him giggling to himself in his room, and sometimes talking to himself. He'll deny and just tell them he was on chat (his devices are not open and he is standing in the middle of his room).

Because he's not medicated, his mania can trickle into psychotic symptoms. Especially if he's going through more stress than typical. He hears voices that tell him mean things. Sometimes they're the voices of his dead family.

And because he doesn't sleep much, he sees detailed shadows and things moving that aren't. It disturbs him, but he accepts it and tries to just push on. But sometimes if he hears voices more than he'd like, he gets sad and has to grip his head and whisper "shut up shut up shut up" to negate them.

He's delusional, too. AFO's grooming and constant monitoring of his whole life have definitely emphasized his distrust of everything around him. Sometimes he'll think that the people he's gaming with online are secret hero spies trying to get him to reveal himself. He also has a fear that someone is watching him in every location, and he'll think that even the silliest things are cameras or microphones, or that those around him are also spies. Later on, it becomes paranoia that his master is everywhere.

Then comes the doom of depression

For Tomura, he's technically always depressed. But when he goes into a depressive episode, he's pretty lifeless.

He's complacent about his goals. Sometimes he'll get a tiny idea that makes his brain go !, but then he thinks of all the planning behind it and immediately slouches down on any nearby furniture

He'll lay in bed for a long period of time doing nothing. Sometimes he'll try to play a game on his phone but he gets bored quick.

Tends to eat more during this time because it's the only joy he can get. And he gets bored. He is SO BORED

Anhedonia is a bitch

His brain dwells and rambles, yet his thoughts don't make sense to him? He's constantly thinking about how fucked up his life is, how better other villains are, and how much he hates All Might and heroes altogether. He tells himself that if it wasn't for all of that he wouldn't feel this way (relating to the depressive episode).

It overwhelms him and he tries to sleep it off, but he's somehow so depressed that he's UNCOMFORTABLE. His itching gets bad.

He is very suicidal during this time and hurts himself to try and subside it. If you asked him his reason for living, he'd tell you "to see this world crumble." But he's too busy crumbling in his bed.

Psychotic symptoms can occur during his depression, too. Especially if he hasn't slept.

His lack of medication usually causes him to swap back to mania somewhat soon (2 months or so). He definitely has rapid cycles.

Because his condition isn't managed, his brain is sort of in an in-an-out stance when it comes to his literal sanity. He has moments where he can definitely be level-headed (he gets rrly confident when he notices it) but when his anger and stress fuel him more than usual, he spirals and quite literally sees red. Sometimes he can't even tell if he's dreaming or not. Often mistakes the date and day of the week.

:(

I might write a fic of the reader comforting bipolar tomura. I don't think I've ever seen a fic like that for any character.

Toy

Shigaraki x F!Reader smut

Synopsis: Shigaraki uses you whenever he feels like it. Though sometimes he's merciful enough to grant you a moment of happiness in the middle of your grim reality

Warnings: +18 MINORS DNI, smut, dubcon, possessive behavior, implied noncon, implied abduction, toxic relationship, toxic behavior, Stockholm Syndrome

DISCLAIMER: Characters belong to Kohei Horikoshi

Word count: 1.1k

A.N.: A draft, which was almost finished.

Toy

A beam of sunlight shines between the bars of a small window. It sparkles on the wooden floor, appearing almost magical, at least for someone who’s been denied access outside for many, many months. 

Staring at the beautiful light, it seems like a divine privilege in the dark room. You can almost feel the warmth of it and see the weather outside; the breeze that could caress your hair, the fresh air flooding your nostrils– Your mind wanders away, too deep inside inaccessible dreams that you can’t focus on anything else, not even on the cock that moves in and out of you. 

“Oi.“ 

A husky voice pulls you back into reality and your face turns at the man above you. His white locks hang messily, crimson eyes staring down at you grimly. 

“Would it kill you to see some effort?“ Shigaraki asks, annoyed.

Quickly understanding your mistake, an apologetic smile spreads on your face, “Oh, I’m sorry! Didn’t mean to!“ You exclaim cutely and bring your hands on his shoulders, but it does nothing to the scowl on his face. 

When he’s there, your attention should never stray to anything that isn’t him. His desires are always your priority, anything else he considers disobedience. 

But your smile widens sincerely so he’s willing to accept that you were just distracted by something you couldn’t see often. He exhales gruffly, accepting your apology before leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss. 

Placing your hand on his cheek, you smile into the kiss as he starts thrusting again, slowly, sensually. Your fingers run through his untamed hair as he begins to pick up the pace. Parting away, you close your eyes, moans tumbling down your lips as you lean your head back. 

Shigaraki is getting closer as he mutters curses under his breath, balls tightening in approaching orgasm. Slamming his hips against yours, thrusts sloppy and careless as he uses your little pussy to get himself off. 

With a loud grunt through gritted teeth, he thrusts deep inside you and releases his seed in steady spurts. Face buried in the crook of your neck, he pants and shivers while emptying himself inside you. 

You caress his back and hum, smile never faltering while showing affection that is uncommon for someone in your position.

Shigaraki isn’t that mindful though. After pumping you full of his cum, he pulls out unceremoniously and gets up to gather his discarded clothes. 

You’ve grown accustomed to his careless habit as he possesses many of them, so you only pull the cover over your naked figure and watch him slip back into his clothes. As he buckles his belt, you detect that he seems unbothered enough for you to ask a question that’s been in the back of your mind for some time. 

“U-umm.. Tomura?”

“What?” 

“I was wondering.. Do you think you could let me go outside?”

Your question makes him glance at you from the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t show any other emotion than his usual indifference.

“Why would I do that?” He asks while putting on his black t-shirt. 

“Well.. It seems that there’s lovely weather outside. And I’ve been inside for so long that I would really be grateful to get some fresh air,” you explain with another precious smile. 

Shigaraki however, shows no reaction to your plea, if anything it seems like he needs more reassurance, which you deliver immediately. 

“Please? I promise I won’t try to run away.”

He takes his time to measure your request, which is an act of kindness. In other words, completely unnecessary for him. Your comfort isn’t by any means important as your only purpose is to serve pleasure and you should never become an inconvenience to him. 

But such a cold, calculating way of thinking is for someone without feelings. Shigaraki might seem callous, but he isn’t, at least towards anyone he cares about. He knows he should grant you a little moment of joy for becoming so obedient. 

After all, he still remembers your first nights, when you were scared and trembling, sinking away from his touch. When your tears overflowed and you had difficulties accepting reality, which was that you were his property now. He has seen your face scrunch when he penetrated you, heard your pitiful little cries when he rammed his cock in you. 

He’s watched you turn from a fearful, reluctant little captive into a toy who’s ready to fulfill his every need. And truthfully, he feels guilt drilling his gut whenever you look at him so hopefully. It just makes his heart incapable of remaining stern so he sighs heavily—

“Fine.”

  • odity-human
    odity-human liked this · 2 months ago
  • hakemiuwu
    hakemiuwu liked this · 2 months ago
  • delinas-stuff
    delinas-stuff liked this · 2 months ago
  • mikeellee
    mikeellee reblogged this · 2 months ago
  • almacrystalparral
    almacrystalparral reblogged this · 2 months ago
  • almacrystalparral
    almacrystalparral liked this · 2 months ago
  • florroja19
    florroja19 liked this · 2 months ago
  • fivia
    fivia liked this · 3 months ago
  • ideowlod
    ideowlod liked this · 3 months ago
  • dizzy-dandelion
    dizzy-dandelion liked this · 3 months ago
  • earthlingbaby921
    earthlingbaby921 liked this · 4 months ago
  • iloveshigarakisomuchtbh
    iloveshigarakisomuchtbh liked this · 4 months ago
  • blhuedot
    blhuedot liked this · 5 months ago
  • tartano88
    tartano88 liked this · 5 months ago
  • blackxqueen
    blackxqueen liked this · 5 months ago
  • apolalfa
    apolalfa liked this · 5 months ago
  • apolalfa
    apolalfa reblogged this · 5 months ago
  • thesecond2demonking
    thesecond2demonking liked this · 6 months ago
  • mikeellee
    mikeellee reblogged this · 6 months ago
  • apolalfa
    apolalfa reblogged this · 6 months ago
  • raveinmea222
    raveinmea222 liked this · 6 months ago
  • yiboistbunnyrabbit7
    yiboistbunnyrabbit7 liked this · 7 months ago
  • skullmalice
    skullmalice liked this · 8 months ago
  • d3cayeshusband
    d3cayeshusband liked this · 8 months ago
  • ahahahhaha
    ahahahhaha liked this · 8 months ago
  • klommand-blog
    klommand-blog liked this · 9 months ago
  • nightstarblue
    nightstarblue liked this · 10 months ago
  • your-local-crazysimp
    your-local-crazysimp liked this · 10 months ago
  • diamondcz27
    diamondcz27 liked this · 10 months ago
  • skinlesscloud
    skinlesscloud liked this · 10 months ago
  • artistgremlin
    artistgremlin liked this · 11 months ago
  • shadowydonutperson
    shadowydonutperson liked this · 11 months ago
  • lylaakira
    lylaakira liked this · 1 year ago
  • sakumoly
    sakumoly liked this · 1 year ago
  • tentabulge-torturechamber
    tentabulge-torturechamber reblogged this · 1 year ago
  • tentabulge-torturechamber
    tentabulge-torturechamber liked this · 1 year ago
  • hitomisimp
    hitomisimp liked this · 1 year ago
  • faeriefleisch
    faeriefleisch liked this · 1 year ago
  • mother-mozquito
    mother-mozquito liked this · 1 year ago
  • zephlovesspacestuff
    zephlovesspacestuff liked this · 1 year ago
  • mullnull-602
    mullnull-602 liked this · 1 year ago
  • just-your-everyday-goth
    just-your-everyday-goth liked this · 1 year ago
  • berg-ice
    berg-ice liked this · 1 year ago
  • aprylx
    aprylx liked this · 1 year ago
  • greatgaspiads
    greatgaspiads liked this · 1 year ago
flamme-shigaraki-spithoe - Just a big simp 🤌✨
Just a big simp 🤌✨

18+, minor don't interact with the 18+ contentTomura shigaraki's biggest simpArtist, writter

479 posts

Explore Tumblr Blog
Search Through Tumblr Tags