rax-writes

[rax-writes]

[rax-writes]

reblog to give a plushie to the person you reblogged this from

[rax-writes]

STOP—THIS IS A KINDNESS CHECKPOINT! rb this post + say something you love about prev to keep the positive energy flowing 💫

[rax-writes]

rose I'm about to have to just start sending you voice notes of my guttural screaming because oh my fucking god

this shit gave me a rollercoaster of emotions in so many good, wonderful, beautiful ways & I'm sleep deprived right now so I just want to drop to the floor and wail like a goddamn wounded animal

I love him SO BAAADDDD OH MY GODDDDDDDDD !!! AND THE WAY YOU WRITE HIM MAKES ME WANT TO PEEL MY SKIN OFF (compliment) !!!!

WHAT ARE WE DOOIIINNNGGG OH MY GOD THIS IS SO FUCKING GOD TIER OH MY GODDDD

i need to be fucking put down after reading this

BAD REVIEWS [PART SIX] : shigaraki tomura x reader [taglist OPEN!]

"been alone for so long, ive got something to prove.”

[MDNI] tw: angst. throwing up. a bit of smut.

<< previous — next >>

The date starts off…bad. 

To say the least. 

You’re still holding pinkies as you walk, his hand barely brushing yours with every step.

It’s ridiculous, really. 

Tomura led the way to what seemed to be a greasy little diner in the middle of nowhere. 

You barely get one foot in before your stomach betrays you. The smell of cooking meat hits you like a punch to the gut— fat, grease and sizzling grills— suddenly it's just too much. 

You gag. Hard. 

Your hand flies to your mouth, eyes watering. You spin and back out the door with a choked gasp, you don't get to make it to the sidewalk. Heat rushes to your face, your throat burns and you hurl. 

Right there. Right on Tomura’s red sneakers.

The shame is instant.

You drop to your knees, one arm wrapped around your middle. The other wiping furiously at the fountain of tears leaving your eyes. You sob loud, cracked and ugly. And it all comes spilling out. 

“I’m so sorry–” you gasp between uneven breaths. “Oh my god– Tomura, I didn’t mean to– fuck– your shoes–”

And suddenly it’s not just about the shoes.

Your chest hurts. Your body aches. Everything feels heavy and wrong. 

You can’t stop crying and just the thought of taking a deep breath sounds like a challenge. 

“I hate this,” you sob. “I hate being pregnant. I hate that I’m such a crybaby. I hate that I can’t eat anything without wanting to puke, I hate that I want sushi more than anything in the fucking world—”

You hiccup and sniff into the fabric of your long sleeve. Voice cracking with every word.

A wave of anger hits you.

What are you apologizing?

Why are you always apologizing?

Your hands clenched into fists against your thighs.

You look up at him—at him, standing there quietly, unmoving. Unbothered. Calm.

NOT GIVING A DAMN!

“…Why am I even saying sorry to you?” you snap, breath catching.

He blinks.

You push yourself up on shaky legs, rage suddenly burning beneath your skin. “Seriously. You? You, who broke into my house. Who attacked my coworker. Who left me alone for weeks and then showed up again like you had every right—”

Your voice wavers, thick and hoarse. “You weren’t there. When I found out. When I was scared. You weren’t there when I needed you.”

Your throat tightens, a sob rattling out.

“I’m the one who’s pregnant with your child! I’m the one who was left alone with no one else to turn to. And somehow I’m the one feeling guilty?!”

You were left breathless. Falling down to your knees once again. Sobbing into your sweaty hands– 

And through all of it, he doesn’t speak.

The vomit cools on his sneakers.

He's watching you. Analyzing every word you threw at him.

Then slowly, he crouches. Close enough that his knee brushes against yours. Close enough you can hear the rasp of his breath, a subtle shift of clothes as he moves like he’s trying not to startle you. 

You sneak a peek through your tear soaked fingers.

Without a single word–

He lifts a hand. 

You flinch, just barely.

But he doesn’t grab you.

He just… places his hand over the crown of your head. You feel four fingertips threading gently through the locks of your hair. 

His touch is certainly awkward– as if he’s not sure he’s doing it right, but you can tell he’s trying. For you.

He swallows, jaw flexing as his thumb brushes behind your ear, tucking a strand of hair away.

“I don’t care about the shoes.” He says. “So, don’t cry like that.”

You look up at him, eyes swollen, lips trembling.

“I should’ve been there,” he adds, barely above a whisper. “You’re right.”

And the thing is—

You believe him. Not because he’s forgiven. But because for once, he’s not lying. Not even to himself.

And for some reason, that makes everything worse.

Because now he’s being gentle. Now he’s touching you like you mean everything to him. 

Your heart shouldn’t beat faster when he touches you like this. Your fingers shouldn’t ache to hold him tighter.

And your stupid, aching heart shouldn't feel safest here, with a man who seems to embody every quality a man shouldn't have. 

“I feel like I ruined everything…”

“No.” He says. “You didn’t”

He shrugs, barely. “We’re outside. You’re here. I’m here.” His hand shifts, just barely tracing the curve of your temple like he’s committing it to memory. “Still counts, woman.”

The tears threaten again—frustrated, exhausted, touched. All of it. “You really think this counts as a date?” 

He mutters something incoherent under his breath, then starts wiping the vomit off his shoes with his coat. You watch, half-grossed out and half-comforted by the care he’s giving to your puke. “One we’ll never forget, that's for sure.”

When he’s done, he looks up at you briefly– blood-red eyes unreadable as he raises his hand and grips the coat with all of his five fingers. The previous coat now turned into gray ash blowing through the wind between the both of you. 

“That’s done.” Standing up, he runs his palms against his jeans. Now looking down at you, quiet. Patient. Waiting. “There’s a ramen shop just down the street.”

He pauses, looking away from you. His hand scratches his neck nervously. The comes a twitch of his fingers. “Do you want that? I’m not gonna make you eat here, it’s gross anyway.”

You laugh. 

And then—carefully, like it costs him something—he holds out his hand.

Not his whole hand.

Just his pinky.

That dumb, little offer of peace between two broken people who yearn for one another. 

You look at it through blurry eyes.

And you take it.

The ramen shop is tiny– barely fits five tables, and quiet except for the low hum of broth boiling behind the counter. The warm yellow lights flicker above you. It smells like soy and earth and nothing that will send your stomach into a frenzy. Thank God!

You sit in the corner booth, red-eyed and sniffling, with a tissue in one hand and chopsticks in the other.

Tomura watches you from across the table like you’re some wild creature in a zoo.

You slurp your first bite of noodles.

And cry harder.

Not like the big gasping sobs from before—but wet, sniffly, exhausted tears that just won’t stop.

“How the hell are you still crying?” He mutters, baffled. Sliding more napkins across the table towards you.

“I don’t know!” you wail, your tears mixing in with the bowl in front of you. “I feel awful, Tomu!”

You wave your chopsticks at him threateningly. 

“I’m tired all the time,” you go on. “Everything smells bad. I cry when a cat video plays and I can't go to bed without eating a tub of ice cream! AND YOU!”

Your eyes narrow. A fresh storm brewing behind them.

“You dropkicked my coworker, Tomura!”

He shrugs, deadpan. “This again? He was clearly hitting on you. And he touched you.”

‘He touched what’s mine.’ Is what he really wanted to say but stopped himself.

“I wasn't interested!”

“You work for the heroes.”

“I work for Eraserhead,” you correct, stabbing at your noodles. “Didn’t you say you liked him? I’m sure I can get a picture with him—”

Tomura freezes mid-slurp.

You swear you hear him choke for a second, but masks it with a cough and a sip of iced-tea.

He fidgets with the collar of his t-shirt before saying. “...I didn’t say I liked him.”

“Tomura.” You stare.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. “I said he was efficient. Not the worst hero I've seen– he’s smart and quiet. Doesn’t waste time with bullshit. Uses that binding cloth, which is underrated, by the way. Everyone goes for flashy quirks—

Why am I still talking? He thinks.

he just erases yours and breaks your face.” 

He shoves another bite of food down, chewing like it’ll shut him up. 

You’re looking at him now—like really looking—and he feels it. He feels that awful warmth creeping up his neck again, right beneath the itch. Like he’s a twelve year old boy again and just got caught geeking out, more embarrassingly, about his favorite pro-hero.

He hates it.

He hates how much he doesn’t hate it. 

You grin, a devilish look in your eyes. “Is this your way of saying you want me to get something signed?”

His eye twitches. “Absolutely not. That’s lame.”

You raise an eyebrow, smug. “No autograph or picture. Got it.”

A beat.

“…Maybe if it’s, like, on a napkin or something.”

You burst into laughter. It’s too bright for a world like his. Too loud, too soft, too much.

He frowns, trying to act indifferent, but his ears are pink and his fingers are twitching. 

“How did I end up falling in love with you?”

Silence.

The world stops right then and there. 

He’s still. He’s shaking. Fuck. He doesn’t know anymore.

You said it so earnestly, so sweet like candy on his tongue. 

The need inside him spikes—violent, desperate, terrified. It's not butterflies in his stomach. It’s moths chewing through every soft thing in his body. It’s panic.

What if you change your mind? What if you take it back?

His eyes bore into you. Not blinking. Red and raw and hungry.

He wants to grab your face. To press your palm against his chest and scream ‘feel this, feel what you’ve done to me, woman.’

He wants to kiss you until your lips bruise. Until there’s no one in the world but the two of you. Until you forget anyone else ever existed.

He wants to bury himself inside the space you engraved into his heart and rot there, happily.

He wants to live under your skin.

In every sense of the words– gently, lovingly peel back each layer of your skin. Tangle himself in your veins, wrap around your bones and press his ear to the muscle of your heart to hear how it beats when you think of him. How it beats when his name spills from your glossy lips.

Because it has to be him. It has to be. 

He wants to sit behind your soft gaze, watch the world with your eyes. Wants to be the only reason your stomach flutters, the only reason your breath catches, the only reason your chest aches. He wants to know what it’s like to be loved by you from the inside out.

He wants to claw his way into your dreams, the bad, the good ones, the wet filthy ones, until your subconscious is full of him. Tastes like him. 

Oh, god. To relive that moment, when he fucked you again and again and again.

It replays inside his head daily. If not more. 

He wants to make you cum on his tongue, taste your sweet nectar and drink it all up like it's something holy. Wants to hear you beg for mercy when he thrust inside your tight, wet cunt. Paint your walls white like he did once before. 

He won’t stop until every beat of your heart, every perfect atom that constructs your body matches his destruction.

He wants to bleed into you. Deeply, irrevocably poisoning everything else that has ever made you feel safe. 

Because no one else gets to have you.

Not after him.

Not ever. 

You chose him.

Why?

Why would you ever choose him?

He doesn’t deserve it.

But fuck if he’ll let you go now. 

Because inside the broken, rotted space of his mind, you are salvation.

You are his sanctuary.

His sacred altar. Where nothing else matters, but you.

And he’s on his knees, broken– shaking— pleading— praying with hands soaked in another man’s blood and for the thing taking control over him— that thing he doesn’t fully understand.

One thing he is certain of is that you're the only god he believes in now.

And he will worship you with the kind of love that kills.

That devours.

He leans forward, slow. Voice low and rough.

“Say it again.”

“Huh?”

“Say it again. Say you’re in love with me.”

He’s not asking. He’s starving.

Because if this is real—then maybe he’s not completely lost.

And you think. Fuck it.

You launch yourself across the table.

You kiss him.

It’s wet with the salt of your previous tears and the remnants of dinner breath and your nose bumps his too hard and he thinks your elbow just knocked over a cup—

But still. 

You kiss him.

And Tomura can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t move.

He thinks his ribs are going to explode. He thinks he might die if you stop touching him.

Hands trembling in the air, afraid he’ll ruin it. What if when he touches you… you vanish? 

Afraid he’ll wake up from this dream and end up alone in the dark solitude of his room, and this will just be a sick trick born of hunger and obsession. 

So he lets himself feel it. How your plush lips seem to perfectly fit against his own. 

So when your lips part, just slightly, and your forehead rests against each other, your nose still smushed against the bridge of his—

“I’m in love with you,” you whisper again.

And he’s ruined. 

Absolutely. Utterly ruined.

Because now he knows what it feels like. To be so intimately touched by you. 

To be kissed by you.

To be truly, unconditionally wanted.

Now, maybe just maybe, the child inside him, the one left to rot in the dark, finally found something worth holding onto.

Even if he has to destroy the world to keep you. The two of you.

“HEY!!”

 A rough voice cuts through the ramen shop. You both freeze.

The waiter stands behind the counter, a half-wiped bowl in hand, glaring. The whole shop had gone dead ass quiet. Except for the comedic slurp of someone in the back pretending he didn’t witness the whole ordeal. 

“This is a restaurant, not a porno,” he barks. “Get off the table!”

Tomura turns his head. Rigidly.

Dead red eyes meet the man in a stare so sharp it could skin the guy alive.

With zero shame and full offense, he barks. “Don’t you see we’re having a moment here, asshole?!”

You slap a hand on your face, trying to keep yourself from bursting out in laughter(and failing). “Oh. My. God.” Sliding back into your seat, dabbing the napkins on the spilled drink across the table. Cheeks flaming.

“She’s pregnant, y’know. Outta have some more respect!”

“Tomura! Stop!”

“S-sir, I apologize–the meal will be on the house—”

“Good.”

“Geez, Tomu. That was not necessary.”

a/n: this was such a pleasure to write- i love obsessive tomu hes my favvvvvvvv :) share your thoughts <3

taglist: @rax-writes , @radlightfire , @pastelygrape @enyaaa2222 , @moonchild323232 , @ykyouluvme , @choubidoutriso , @ale-t13 , @stardollwrites , @tomurasnextwife , @tamishadawn , @memo-the-fishy , @saltypuffin1040 , @atspiss , @ilovefictionalmensomuch , @babzzwrld , @babzz6 , @hadesorion , @thatoneawkwardfeeling , @nina-from-317 , @poppyflower-22 , @touyaslapdog

[rax-writes]

Edging this sweet old man into oblivion as he wakes up ✨✨✨

[rax-writes]

maybe if i imagine the character all my problems will be solved

[rax-writes]

.mossy stones.

[rax-writes]

In which, you meet up with Tomura Shigaraki in an abandoned building after patrol and he fucks you against a wall like the good little hero you are. 😮‍💨🫶🏻

Pairing: Shigaraki x fem!reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, smut, p in v sex, degradation, humiliation kink (kinda?), hero x villain relationship, creampie, unprotected sex, shigaraki being a freak lowkey (??) guilty pleasure sex, pwp

Secrets are saccharine.

At least that’s what your friend always told you. That secrets are sweeter when they’re well kept—mouth watering when you go back and forth on letting anyone know. The thrill. The rush. The utter shock of pleasure your friends give you when you finally voice the things you’ve kept. Secrets taste like nectar.

And to whom it may concern, secrets are carbs. They’re salt and sugar. They’re nicotine. A substance that makes you obsessed—wanting to know everyone’s truths, wanting to cradle the things that don’t concern you, or clamp your own between your teeth and take them to your grave. Whatever they are, secrets pull humans in. Your friend said they’re the most humane thing after sex.

But you know better.

Secrets are vile and predatory. They crawl into bed with you at night, shimmy your brain out of your skull, and plant their roots in your chest. They spread like fire—like old creaking wood being nailed into the floor of a beautiful home, just to hide the rot underneath. The hide that’s really beneath you, the things you can’t say. Your secret, the one you’ve kept safe for so long—you made sure there was no sooner or later in the quarry of when you’d be found out.

You won’t.

The meeting place changes each time, naturally. A warehouse near the docks. A gutted school. Now, this to-be-renovated apartment complex, hollowed out like a ribcage. The disastrous fate of being seen entering a building with a criminal hasn’t even left your mind— it could ruin you—but the thrill of snooping around like this, folding yourself and your ethics like origami, sends shivers down your spine.

Your lip trembles. Ankles clashing. Your feet are loud when they shouldn’t be. The mere thought of Shigaraki Tomura waiting in a dark corner behind the jagged teeth of broken glass is enough to get your ribs aching—nerve endings pinched every time your mind replays his face.

You step through the silence like it’s alive. Broken glass underfoot answers for you. You look for the familiar tint of that white-ish blue topaz—his hair, always messy, always untamed. It peeks out from beneath his hood like a tell, and your breath hitches.

He’s already watching you.

“You’re late,” he mutters. His voice barely makes it through the sounds of comatose debris, but you hear it like it was said inside your mouth.

“My shift ran late.”

“Ever the hero.” He scoffs, turning his head like it offends him to look at you.

You gulp. There’s something in you that wants to walk away, to treat this like a mistake you haven’t made yet. But you don’t. You bite the inside of your cheek, tongue thick in your mouth as you stand there like an idiot waiting for him to do something, say something, start something.

He doesn’t.

So you stomp—on purpose, like a tantrum, like you can’t pretend you’re better than this—and walk right up to him, pressing your forehead to his like you’re about to start a fight.

But your mouth crashes into his instead.

There’s no point holding back. The reason you’re both here has already been talked to death. This thing—this itch in your blood—it’s kept you up at night, left you wrecked in the shower with your hand between your legs and your name nowhere on your tongue. His name however, is a different story.

And if anyone saw this? Saw you, fresh off patrol, lips locked with Tomura’s? You’d be imprisoned. License revoked. Stripped of your title. Labeled a traitor. They’d look down on you even in your cell.

But the way he kisses you back, it shreds all your logic into silk ribbons. His gloved hand grabs your collar, yanking you close. His teeth catch your bottom lip like a snare.

And you? You’re split apart on it.

Because it feels good. Too good.

Because he kisses like someone who doesn’t get kissed. Who doesn’t get touched. Like it’s a threat and a promise all at once.

Your hands, shaky but hungry, find the hem of his hoodie. You curl your fingers underneath, feel the heat of his skin just above his waistband. His hips twitch forward when you touch him, and a noise gets caught in his throat—frustrated and soft.

“Still dressed like a good little soldier,” he breathes against your jaw, dragging a hand down your thigh, over your belt.

“Still playing criminal in a hoodie,” you snap back, even as your breath stutters when his fingers hook into the waistband of your hero suit, dragging it down an inch—just enough for the cool air to kiss your hip bone.

He groans, the sound low and near a growl. “You talk too much.”

You smile against his mouth, biting his lower lip this time. “You like it.”

His grip tightens.

Glass crunches as he presses you back, pinning you to a half-broken pillar. Your thighs part for him instinctively, traitorously. You shouldn’t be like this—you shouldn’t want this.

But your hands are already under his hoodie, nails dragging down the ridges of his scarred back. Your hero gloves fall to the floor. His mouth is on your neck now, tongue hot and slow, teeth grazing the place no one’s supposed to touch.

You gasp. He groans again, this time less controlled. His hips press into yours like a threat, like he’s daring you to stop him. To be the better person.

But you’re not.

Not here. Not anymore.

And when he grinds against you—slow, hard, through the layers of your uniform like he doesn’t care how long it takes—you start to think secrets might really be sweeter than sin.

His hands are on your waist, gloved and rough, but hungry. They dip under the hem of your suit like he’s tearing open a present he doesn’t deserve—fingers tracing the shape of you like he’s memorizing it for when you’re gone.

You gasp into his mouth when he pushes his thigh between your legs, and your hips betray you—grinding down on him with aching need. The friction sends a shock through your spine.

“That desperate for it?” he whispers into your neck, voice hot and broken. “You risked everything for this?”

You can’t answer

Your fingers are already working at his belt like your body’s on autopilot—like your mind checked out five minutes ago and left your hands to handle the sinning.

He watches you with that glassy, obsessive stare. The kind of look that makes you feel small and desired at the same time. His cock twitches against your palm when you finally free him from the layers—thick and flushed, already hard, already leaking at the tip like he’s been waiting all day for this.

You stroke him once—slow and tight—and he curses under his breath, grabbing your wrist.

“Don’t fucking tease me.”

You raise an eyebrow, lips parted. “Then shut up and let me have it.”

And he does.

He turns you around with a growl, bending you over the half-demolished windowsill. Your palms slap against the concrete, fingers digging into dust. Your hero suit is halfway off, tangled around your thighs, your cunt already wet and aching and on display. You hear him spit into his hand. Then feel him—hot, solid—rubbing the head of his cock between your folds, coating himself in everything you shouldn’t be giving him.

Your breath catches. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Not even a prayer.

He pushes in slow. Thick. Relentless. The stretch makes your eyes flutter, hips bucking back instinctively, chasing the burn. He groans behind you, low and guttural.

“Fuck. You—” he cuts himself off, grabbing your hips like he’s anchoring himself to reality. “You’re so fucking wet f’ me.”

“Shut up,” you whisper. It’s not anger—it’s shame, it’s desperation, it’s don’t ruin it.

But he starts to thrust, slow at first, then harder, deeper—like he’s trying to bury the whole goddamn war inside you. Your body jolts forward with every thrust, the windowsill scraping against your thighs, your cheek pressed to concrete. Every drag of his cock feels like fire and ice and something close to the thrill of the destruction of his quirk —all at once.

Your eyes roll back.

You’re making sounds you can’t swallow. Gasps and moans and little broken pieces of who you used to be. He leans over your back, lips at your ear.

“This what you wanted, sweetheart?” he rasps. “To be ruined by a villain?”

You nod, throat dry, eyes teary. “Harder.”

He growls and slams into you—hard enough the sound echoes off the walls. The slap of skin on skin is filthy. So is the wet slick every time he pulls out and thrusts back in. You’re clenching around him like your body knows he doesn’t belong there and doesn’t care.

One hand leaves your hip. Moves to your front.

Fingers—gloved, unforgiving—find your clit and rub tight, fast circles that make your knees buckle.

He fucks you like the world’s already ended.

Like you don’t wear that suit. Like you don’t save people. Like he hasn’t watched you on the news with your lips pressed into a grim line, pretending to be righteous while your thighs squeeze together behind the podium.

The derelict building groans around you. The walls are bowing from age, glass shards shimmer on the floor like teeth, and the air smells like rust, old cigarettes, and something sickly sweet—like rot pretending to be candy.

His hips slam against your ass, relentless, each thrust pushing you forward against the cold windowsill. You brace yourself on your forearms, knuckles white. There’s nothing soft about this. He fucks you through guilt, through concrete dust, through the kind of shame you’ll never be able to wash off.

“Listen to you,” he growls, voice raw, forehead pressed to your spine as his cock drives in again. “Fucking soaked for a killer. Getting off on the sound of glass breaking while I ruin you.”

You gasp, tears prickling the corners of your eyes.

“Tell me what the Commission would say if they saw you like this,” he snarls, one hand gripping your jaw and twisting your head just enough for your cheek to scrape the brick. “What would they call you, huh? Little hero? Sweetheart? Or just a fucking traitor?”

His other hand is between your legs again, middle finger working tight, brutal circles on your clit—matching the pace of his cock pounding into you from behind. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

You’re shaking. You’re so close again you can barely breathe.

“That’s it,” he hisses into your ear, fucking you harder now, losing rhythm in the filth of it. “I can feel it. You’re gonna cum all over me like a goddamn whore, aren’t you? After everything? After arresting villains like me last week—you’re still fucking coming for me.”

Your voice catches in your throat. “Tomura—”

“Say it again.”

His voice is low. Dangerous. The kind of voice that crawls under your skin and rewires the good parts of you.

You moan his name again, louder this time, fucked out and shaking. He slams into you deep and stays there, his cock twitching inside you as he grits out a curse and spills himself with a low, guttural groan. The warmth floods you, wrong and thick and claiming.

But he doesn’t pull out.

Not right away.

He lets it sit there—lets the stretch and the fullness and the mess of it all marinate as he leans over you, breath ragged, body pressed close.

“Hope you feel it dripping out of you when you put that suit back on,” he mutters against your ear. “Let it ruin your patrol.”

You shudder, cunt still fluttering around him as the last pulses of orgasm fade into tremors.

“Tell me,” he murmurs after a beat, hand still between your thighs, two fingers lazily rubbing at your overstimulated clit. “When you hug people after saving them… do your hands still shake? Knowing you let me fuck you like that?”

You whimper, body spasming, legs unsteady beneath you.

He finally pulls out, slow and wet and unforgiving. You feel it drip—down your thighs, onto the concrete. You don’t even move to fix your suit. You just breathe.

Shigaraki zips himself up, but he doesn’t look away. He just watches you from the shadows—half-lit in the glow of a broken streetlamp bleeding through the shattered glass.

“You’ll come back,” he says quietly, almost like it’s a fact. Not a threat. Not a plea.

Just truth. And he’s right.

Because even as you pull your suit up with shaking fingers, even as shame slams into your chest like a sledgehammer, even as your comm crackles to life with your sidekick’s voice searching for you on an open frequency—you know this wasn’t the last time.

You know the rot is in you now, too. It has been for a long time.

And you hope that later, during the war, you're not placed on the Shigaraki battlefield.

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[rax-writes]

a concept – tomura shigaraki x reader

warnings: smút. heavy breeding kínk. oral (f!receiving). fíngering. slightly dominant shig.

Tomura could remember the exact moment this sick, twisted little thought took root in his brain. 

The two of you were sitting in the middle of the Kiyashi Ward Shopping Mall – people-watching, as you called it. He had only agreed to tag along with the promise of visiting the food court. He watched you as he ate – he was always watching you, it seemed – so it was easy for him to catch the way your eyes followed something intently. Tomura followed your gaze, and found that what had captivated you was… not at all what he’d expected.

A little girl. Toddler-looking, although Tomura couldn’t even begin to guess how old she may be. Couldn’t be very experienced with walking yet, given her wobbly but determined steps. Gummy grin beneath a neatly-braided head of hair, which matched the color of yours. 

Tomura couldn’t understand what the hell could be so interesting about the little gremlin. So he asked you. As it always was between the two of you – open and upfront, never holding a single thought or question back, no matter how surface-level nor how deep.

“Do you ever think about it?”

You answered his question with a question – one that only confused him further. Sensing this, you elaborated, “Having one… a child of our own…. Has that ever crossed your mind?”

“No,” Shigaraki responded flatly. “I’m not sure what about me makes you think ‘father material,’ but you should probably reconsider that.”

You smiled at him, in that way you often do – that makes him feel like you’re seeing right down to his fucking soul with nothing more than a glance. 

“I think you’d be a good father.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly the most sane person I’ve ever met, so….”

“No, I mean it,” you stated with a soft laugh. “Sure, you’d be unconventional, but you’d be great. You’re capable of a very pure, very deep love, Tomu.”

Something in his eyes softened, before he pointed out, “That’s only for you. That’s only ever been for you…. You know that.”

“I do. But I also believe that you would extend that love to a miniature version of us, whether you wanted to or not,” you argued, still smiling at him with such innate warmth that it made Shigaraki feel feverish. When he gave only a non-committal hum in response, you added, “Picture it, Tomu. I’d look so cute with a baby bump, wouldn’t I? And I’d be tired all the time, and you’d take care of me –”

“You’re tired all the time now and I take care of you now,” Shigaraki grumbled, which you ignored.

“– And you’d sit with me while we feel the baby kick in my belly –”

“Which would be incredibly weird.”

Continuing to ignore him, you cuddled up to him, yanking his arm to drape it over your shoulders. He rolled his eyes and scoffed, but allowed it.

“– And then we’d get a cute, chubby-cheeked little mixture of the two of us. Maybe your hair, my eyes. Or my hair, your eyes….” You sighed dreamily, and Tomura loathed the way it made his heart flutter within his chest. “We’d teach ‘em about the world – the real world, as we see it. We’d give them the love and protection we didn’t get as children.”

Shigaraki allowed himself to absorb your words. He even allowed himself to consider it for a moment. And just when it began to sound somewhat appealing, the hate-fueled voice of his father telling him ‘you can’t ever do anything right’ flooded his mind, and Shigaraki found himself blurting out, “Raising a not-fucked-up kid won’t change the fact that we got fucked up as kids. If we even could raise a not-fucked-up kid.”

“You’re right. But… it’d be pretty fun to be parents together, wouldn’t it?” you asked, and the way most of the tension in Shigaraki’s shoulders vanished did not go unnoticed by you. 

-------------

That night, Shigaraki found himself laying awake, staring at the clock as it read 2:38 AM. He couldn’t care less about the time, though. Not with the particular sorts of thoughts running rampant in his mind.

You with a swollen tummy and heavy breasts, in a too-tight dress, showing off what he'd done to you. The way he’d claimed your body – claimed your womb. 

You bouncing a squishy little infant in your arms, both of you grinning with the brightness of the sun itself as he walks up to take the baby from you.

Him kneeling on the floor as that child took some wobbly steps towards you – who was smiling with a hand on your swollen belly, round and heavy with his seed for a second time. 

Shigaraki felt like the final embers of his sanity were fizzling out – from nothing more than a few simple words from you. 

It was only logical that you pay the price for it.

Before he was even consciously making the choice to do it, Shigaraki found himself moving under the blanket, and pulling your sleep pants and panties down before throwing them onto the floor beside the bed. Still in such a deep sleep, you didn’t even notice the removal of your clothes, nor the way he spread your plush thighs open – until he dove between your thighs and began lapping at your pretty pussy. That earned a few quiet noises from you – but it wasn’t enough. 

Thankfully, he still had on his gloves that cover only his ring and pinky finger – which he did his best to always wear around you, unless he was anticipating some sort of combat to arise. Still yet, there was a moment’s hesitation before he touched you, before diving his uncovered fingers inside you. 

That got the reaction he was craving.

You awoke with a gasp, which faded into a moan as your bleary eyes caught a glimpse of light blue hair beneath the comforter. 

“Tomu,” you whispered, but it sounded much more like a mewl.

Shigaraki didn’t have the mental capacity to respond to you. Instead, he leaned down to flick his tongue over your clit, alternating between that and suckling on it as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. He was overly eager and fiendish, but not without purpose and intent, wanting to lose himself in the taste of you while still accomplishing his goal of making you gush into his mouth as quickly as possible. 

The feeling of your nails on his scalp before grabbing a fistful of his hair was euphoric for Shigaraki, and he groaned against your clit, earning some delirious, breathy moans from you. 

“You’re doing so good, my love. You’re so good,” you praised, and the faintest whimper escaped him. His rough fingertips brushed your g-spot, and he zeroed in on it instantly, desperate for more of those wanton noises from you. “Right there, baby. God, fuck – just like that. You’re so – ngh – so perfect.”

“If I’m so perfect, then reward me,” Shigaraki taunted. It was unusual for him, to taunt or tease, or even to take control at all. He always preferred you taking the lead. But something about the feral, raspy way he snarled out “Cum in my mouth – right fucking now” left you seeing white as you came undone on his fingers. 

Greedy, desperate, obsessed, Shigaraki lapped at your fluttering hole as your pussy wept – mindful to continue pistoning his fingers into you, not wanting to risk cutting off your orgasm. By the time he’d gotten his fill, you were twitching and breathless, and he hurriedly stripped off his clothing, then your sleep shirt, leaving you both bare as he crawled between your legs. Shigaraki hooked your calves onto his shoulders before leaning down to kiss you, the tip of his hard, leaking cock teasing your clit as he folded you in half. 

“Did you mean what you said earlier? You better have fucking meant it. Tell me you meant it,” he rambled, gently rocking his hips against yours to slide his pre-cum dripping cock between your gooey lips, continuously bumping into your clit and short-circuiting your brain. He was too far gone to even meet your eyes, forehead resting against yours with his pretty red eyes squeezed shut. 

“Tomu, baby, what are you – oh, at the mall?”

“Yes.”

A shudder wracked his body as you reached up to trail your fingers along his temple, over his cheek, and down his jawline, then cup his cheek. 

“Yes, Tomura, I meant it. Wanna have your babies.”

The moan sounded so deep, so guttural, as it escaped him, seemingly of its own accord. Shigaraki scrambled to take a hold of his cock and position it at your entrance, and as though he was trying to work as quickly as he possibly could, he canted his hips forward to drive his hard, thick cock as deeply as it would go.

The way your lips parted and the breath was stolen from your lungs – it was just too delicious. Shigaraki couldn’t help but kiss you again, all tongue and teeth, as he set a hard, vindictive pace with his hips. He would withdraw his cock until it nearly escaped you, then slam it back inside, the spongy tip hitting your cervix every time. It was somewhat painful, but in a tantalizing way – just how he knew you liked it.

Shigaraki broke the kiss to wrap a hand around your throat, squeezing so perfectly, cutting off just the right amount of air. His other hand held him up, allowing him a better angle to slam his cock into you, over and over and fucking over. He appeared to be hypnotized by the sight – his twitching, raw, cream-coated cock coming in and out of your tight, fluttering cunt. 

At this point, he didn’t even feel like himself anymore. He felt like a fucking animal – and he was fucking you like one, too. 

“I’m gonna breed you, pretty,” Tomura declared, leaning forward so he was speaking a few inches above your face. Holding eye contact as he squeezed around your throat. “I’m gonna stuff you full of my cum, again and again, until I can’t anymore – and then I’m gonna do it again tomorrow. And the next day. Until it fucking takes. Until you’re carrying a piece of me inside you. Until your pretty little tummy gets all big and round with my spawn. Until everyone just has to take one look at you to know that you’re mine, because they can see what I’ve done to you – see the way I’ve claimed you, claimed your body.”

It was all you could do to hold his gaze, never mind form a response. You were vaguely aware, through the ringing in your ears and the white-hot feeling of an impending orgasm, that you were moaning and crying out his name.

“Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me to breed you, to fuck you full. Do it,” Tomura snarled.

“Oh god, Tomu – fuck – I want it! I need it, baby, please. Need you to breed me – need to have your babies inside me, please!” 

“Then fucking take it,” he hissed, slamming his hips against yours one final time, spilling his warm seed as deeply inside of you as he possibly could. The sensation of being filled, and the look of deranged bliss on his pretty, scarred face, was all it took for you to come undone too, pulsating and milking him for all he had. Tomura groaned brokenly at the sensation, shivering as he forced himself to remain inside you through every aftershock of your orgasm, not wanting to waste a drop of his precious seed.

By the time you regained some semblance of sanity and looked up at him again, Shigaraki was already looking down at you, a lovestruck and pussydrunk expression on his face. He kissed you with his usual gentleness – which he’d seemingly forgotten about for a while there – then began carefully maneuvering so he was laying behind you, his cock never leaving you even for a second.

“Whatcha doin’, Tomu?” you asked with a smile.

“Have to make sure it stays inside,” Shigaraki whispered, wrapping his arms around you and nuzzling his face into your neck. “Have to make sure it takes.”

You laughed softly, laying your hands on top of his – and only then did you notice the way one of them settled over your abdomen. Purposeful. Hopeful.

“Don’t you think we should probably be doing it more than once, to make sure it takes?”

“You’re so sweet for thinking I’m even remotely done with you,” Shigaraki replied, amusement in his tone. He kissed your temple, then settled onto his pillow again, exhaling slowly and peacefully. “Sleep. Because the second I see a shred of daylight, I’ll be stuffing you full again.”

[rax-writes]

I am in fucking shambles

Ohhhh my god. Oh my fucking god. I read this part about 6 times & had to pause in the middle of rereading it to bite my finger.

Oh this is goooood. Oh my god this is all so good. I need this shit like fucking water bro oh my goddddd.

BAD REVIEWS [PART FIVE] : shigaraki tomura x reader [taglist OPEN!]

"i can’t lose another boy that’s not even my boyfriend.”

tw: angst. stalking. obssession.

<< previous — next >>

First day. 

As you walked into the building, U.A. loomed over you like something out of a dream you weren’t quite convinced was yours. The shiny floors, the tall glass windows, towering doors–none of it felt real. You adjusted the strap of the bag on your shoulder, trying to calm your nerves.

This was your chance. A break from your reality. 

You made it past the front security checkpoint with a visitor badge temporarily pinned to your shirt and a polite escort toward the staff lounge. Inside, the atmosphere was surprisingly casual. The pro-heros who teached spoke over coffee, papers rustled, someone yawned so loud it echoed. 

You still weren’t sure who you’d be an assistant for though…

“Is this her?” came a voice, a little too smooth. 

A tall man in a burgundy suit, smiling with easy confidence. He didn’t look like a pro. He had warm eyes, sharp features and a smug smile to top it all off. “Didn’t expect Aizawa to get a TA, much less someone like you.”

You blinked. “Someone like me?” 

You assumed Aizawa was your new boss.

He chuckled lightly. “Relax, sweetheart. It's a compliment.” He offered his hand. “Kaito Kojima. Head of the support department.”

You shook it gently. “Nice to meet you. I’m Y/n—”

Aizawa’s voice cut through from the doorway, dry as ever. “You’re here to work, not flirt, Kojima.” 

“Just being friendly, Eraserhead.” 

“Eraserhead?”

​​Aizawa didn’t answer. He just turned and walked off, clearly expecting you to follow.

You gave Kaito a polite wave and hurried after him, struggling to keep up with his long strides.

You didn’t expect the supposed pro-hero to look like that. 

A strong five o clock shadow, hair a wild tangle of black waves draped over his shoulders, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and a permanent scowl etched into his face. 

The silence between you and your new supervisor was… overbearing. Not hostile– just thick. Like the man in front of you didn’t believe in wasting oxygen unless absolutely necessary. 

Still… it couldn’t hurt to try?

“So should I call you Eraserhead? Eraser? Or is that,like, an on the field only type of thing? I read online that some heroes go by their hero name on and off the field and you know– I don't wanna be that TA who gets the name wrong on their first day.” You rattled off in one full sweep, your voice trailing into an awkward laugh. “ And… what exactly will my responsibilities be?”

He looked back at you slowly. “Aizawa is fine.”

You gave a tight nod, face burning. “Right. Aizawa. Cool.”

You swore you saw the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Amusement? A grimace? You couldn’t be sure.

“I’ll need help grading, organizing field reports, coordinating student schedules with the support department. And keeping disruptive students from blowing a hole in the building.”

“That last one was oddly specific.”

“It’s happened. More than once.” he said flatly. “Also– I drink my coffee black. And don’t let anyone else send you on errands.”

You sucked in a breath. “Noted.”

You didn’t notice the flicker of movement across the street. Didn’t feel the weight of red eyes lingering long after you passed by.

But he saw you.

He never stopped watching.

❀

How could you? 

After everything. 

You turn around and walk into that building full of narcissists. You put on a smile and laugh with those bastards in costumes and capes like they’re worth your time?

His fingers twitched, curled inward. Scratched lightly at his neck.

I should've known. Of course you’d run to them. To the worthless heroes. As if they'll protect you from me.

And that bastard–

Touching what's mine. 

Shigaraki’s lip curled, chest heaving quietly.

He doesn’t know you like I do.

He doesn’t know you carry my child inside of you, does he?

You belong to me now.

Whether you like it or not.

And soon?

You’d know. 

❀

The city air was cool against your skin as you walked off UA grounds. Calming searching for your car keys in your bag. The hum of traffic, golden-pink hue of dusk, everything felt quiet for once. Your shoulders ached— your head buzzed from too many new names and awkward hand shakes.

You didn’t get very far before someone called out to you.

“Hey! Wait up, pretty!”

You turned, surprised to see Kaito Kojima jogging to catch up, tie loosened, blazer draped over one arm. His smile was boyish and easy.

“You heading home?”

“Uh– yeah it's just five minutes away.” 

He suddenly held up a paper bag, slightly crinkled in his grasp. “I ran out to get something. There's a bar around the corner. Quiet place. Thought I'd see if you wanted a drink. To celebrate your first day!” 

Your eyes widened, clearly caught off guard. “Oh– um..” Your hand instinctively went to reach for your stomach.

“It’s just one.” He added. “No pressure.”

 “I don’t drink– sorry.”

CRACK

Kaito’s body jolted forward, eyes wide in confusion as he was suddenly slammed to the pavement by a force too fast to follow.

Your voice stuck in your throat.

He hit the ground with a sickening thud.

And standing over him, boot pressed against Kaito’s head, was Tomura.

Chest rising and falling. Shoulders tense. Blood-red eyes locked on you, but his boot never moved.

Shoulders tense. Chest rising fast. 

He didn’t speak right away. 

Just stared. His gaze flickering to you– then the man he attacked, unfocused, lips trying to suppress his sinister smile. 

His fingers twitched. One, then another. The way they always did when he was deciding whether or not to destroy something.

Or someone.

“You…” He rasped. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.”

He tilted his head, just slightly, fingers dragging up along his neck like they might tear through skin if he let them.

“You work for them now?” he asked, low and bitter. The heel of his boot pressing harder onto Kaitos face making him groan beneath the pressure. Too dazed to move. 

“Stop–!”

“Walk through their doors. You grab them coffee. Sit with them.” 

His gaze snapped to you.

No flicker of softness. No confusion.

Just disgust.

“You’re one of them.”

His fingers twitched—one, two, three—then stilled.

“I should rip him apart just for standing near you.”

“So…” He stopped inches away from you. Voice like a blade barely resting on delicate skin. “What’s it gonna be?”

A pause. Too long. Too threatening.

His boot twisted slightly against Kaito’s skull.

“Unless…” A smile crept into his voice, slow and skin-crawling. “You want him to live.”

You stand shaking, tears flooding your eyes. Your voice barely made it out of the confines of your throat. 

“Y-yes.”

His piercing red eyes stayed glued to you. As if he was trying to figure out whether or not you were lying. 

“I want him to live.” you said again. Firmer this time, even as your knees were ready to give out at any moment. "Don't hurt him, please."

Tomura stepped in close, you could feel the heat radiate off him as he stared at you, unblinking. Then his gaze flicked back to Kaito, as if he was reconsidering.

You took a slow, trembling step forward. Breath shallow.

And then, carefully, delicately you reached out and wrapped your pinky around his.

A fragile touch. A promise, or a distraction. Maybe both.

“We’ll go on that date we mentioned last night, yeah?”

That made something in his jaw twitch—like a shudder under the skin. That unfamiliar warmth spread throughout his body. Foreign. Revolting. Addictive.

You’re disgusting perfect. He thought.

He hated it. He hated that he wanted more of it. More of you.

A festering blooming, ugly beautiful thing that wrapped itself around his ribs and dug in.

Why did you have to exist?

Why did you have to speak to him like he was still a good guy? Why did you offer your hand instead of running?

Your touch didn’t wither. You just stood there, pinky in his, shaking and small and real.

And for a second—just one fucking second—he couldnt feel the itch beneath his skin. Couldn't hear the voices that plagued his mind. Couldn't remember the hate he had for this world of heroes. 

Only you. 

Oh, Hana, how you would love her—

What the hell?

One hand on your belly without realizing it.

And that–

Ruined him.

Not because it was some perfect fairytale.

No. Quite the opposite actually–that wasn't his world. His world was full of blood red and decay.

But because he knew– deep down— in your own twisted way, you still believed in him. 

You wanted him to show mercy.

That maybe—just maybe– there was a possibility of being something other than a growing weapon of destruction.

A father—

The word alone made his mouth go sour. 

He hadn’t even said it out loud. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

But there it was.

What would Mon think of you?

What the actual fuck am I on about?

He said nothing. No twitching. No snarky remarks. No threats.

Just utter silence. 

Then he exhaled. A quiet, humorless sound. “...Fine.”

His eyes returned to you.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Before I change my mind.”

And without waiting— he walked off. 

You stood frozen for a moment. Then followed, pinky still wrapped in his, like a leash you placed on yourself. 

You didn’t look back. 

And Tomura didn’t know if he wanted to scream…

Or hold onto you so tightly the world would crumble first before anything bad ever touched you.

A/N: AAAA so so sorry for the long wait yall!! hope you guys enjoy it!! let me know how you feel and your thought :D

taglist: taglist: @rax-writes , @radlightfire , @pastelygrape @enyaaa2222 , @moonchild323232 , @ykyouluvme , @choubidoutriso , @ale-t13 , @stardollwrites , @tomurasnextwife , @tamishadawn , @memo-the-fishy , @saltypuffin1040 , @atspiss , @ilovefictionalmensomuch , @babzzwrld , @babzz6

[rax-writes]

a concept – tomura shigaraki x reader

warnings: smút. heavy breeding kínk. oral (f!receiving). fíngering. slightly dominant shig.

Tomura could remember the exact moment this sick, twisted little thought took root in his brain. 

The two of you were sitting in the middle of the Kiyashi Ward Shopping Mall – people-watching, as you called it. He had only agreed to tag along with the promise of visiting the food court. He watched you as he ate – he was always watching you, it seemed – so it was easy for him to catch the way your eyes followed something intently. Tomura followed your gaze, and found that what had captivated you was… not at all what he’d expected.

A little girl. Toddler-looking, although Tomura couldn’t even begin to guess how old she may be. Couldn’t be very experienced with walking yet, given her wobbly but determined steps. Gummy grin beneath a neatly-braided head of hair, which matched the color of yours. 

Tomura couldn’t understand what the hell could be so interesting about the little gremlin. So he asked you. As it always was between the two of you – open and upfront, never holding a single thought or question back, no matter how surface-level nor how deep.

“Do you ever think about it?”

You answered his question with a question – one that only confused him further. Sensing this, you elaborated, “Having one… a child of our own…. Has that ever crossed your mind?”

“No,” Shigaraki responded flatly. “I’m not sure what about me makes you think ‘father material,’ but you should probably reconsider that.”

You smiled at him, in that way you often do – that makes him feel like you’re seeing right down to his fucking soul with nothing more than a glance. 

“I think you’d be a good father.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly the most sane person I’ve ever met, so….”

“No, I mean it,” you stated with a soft laugh. “Sure, you’d be unconventional, but you’d be great. You’re capable of a very pure, very deep love, Tomu.”

Something in his eyes softened, before he pointed out, “That’s only for you. That’s only ever been for you…. You know that.”

“I do. But I also believe that you would extend that love to a miniature version of us, whether you wanted to or not,” you argued, still smiling at him with such innate warmth that it made Shigaraki feel feverish. When he gave only a non-committal hum in response, you added, “Picture it, Tomu. I’d look so cute with a baby bump, wouldn’t I? And I’d be tired all the time, and you’d take care of me –”

“You’re tired all the time now and I take care of you now,” Shigaraki grumbled, which you ignored.

“– And you’d sit with me while we feel the baby kick in my belly –”

“Which would be incredibly weird.”

Continuing to ignore him, you cuddled up to him, yanking his arm to drape it over your shoulders. He rolled his eyes and scoffed, but allowed it.

“– And then we’d get a cute, chubby-cheeked little mixture of the two of us. Maybe your hair, my eyes. Or my hair, your eyes….” You sighed dreamily, and Tomura loathed the way it made his heart flutter within his chest. “We’d teach ‘em about the world – the real world, as we see it. We’d give them the love and protection we didn’t get as children.”

Shigaraki allowed himself to absorb your words. He even allowed himself to consider it for a moment. And just when it began to sound somewhat appealing, the hate-fueled voice of his father telling him ‘you can’t ever do anything right’ flooded his mind, and Shigaraki found himself blurting out, “Raising a not-fucked-up kid won’t change the fact that we got fucked up as kids. If we even could raise a not-fucked-up kid.”

“You’re right. But… it’d be pretty fun to be parents together, wouldn’t it?” you asked, and the way most of the tension in Shigaraki’s shoulders vanished did not go unnoticed by you. 

-------------

That night, Shigaraki found himself laying awake, staring at the clock as it read 2:38 AM. He couldn’t care less about the time, though. Not with the particular sorts of thoughts running rampant in his mind.

You with a swollen tummy and heavy breasts, in a too-tight dress, showing off what he'd done to you. The way he’d claimed your body – claimed your womb. 

You bouncing a squishy little infant in your arms, both of you grinning with the brightness of the sun itself as he walks up to take the baby from you.

Him kneeling on the floor as that child took some wobbly steps towards you – who was smiling with a hand on your swollen belly, round and heavy with his seed for a second time. 

Shigaraki felt like the final embers of his sanity were fizzling out – from nothing more than a few simple words from you. 

It was only logical that you pay the price for it.

Before he was even consciously making the choice to do it, Shigaraki found himself moving under the blanket, and pulling your sleep pants and panties down before throwing them onto the floor beside the bed. Still in such a deep sleep, you didn’t even notice the removal of your clothes, nor the way he spread your plush thighs open – until he dove between your thighs and began lapping at your pretty pussy. That earned a few quiet noises from you – but it wasn’t enough. 

Thankfully, he still had on his gloves that cover only his ring and pinky finger – which he did his best to always wear around you, unless he was anticipating some sort of combat to arise. Still yet, there was a moment’s hesitation before he touched you, before diving his uncovered fingers inside you. 

That got the reaction he was craving.

You awoke with a gasp, which faded into a moan as your bleary eyes caught a glimpse of light blue hair beneath the comforter. 

“Tomu,” you whispered, but it sounded much more like a mewl.

Shigaraki didn’t have the mental capacity to respond to you. Instead, he leaned down to flick his tongue over your clit, alternating between that and suckling on it as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. He was overly eager and fiendish, but not without purpose and intent, wanting to lose himself in the taste of you while still accomplishing his goal of making you gush into his mouth as quickly as possible. 

The feeling of your nails on his scalp before grabbing a fistful of his hair was euphoric for Shigaraki, and he groaned against your clit, earning some delirious, breathy moans from you. 

“You’re doing so good, my love. You’re so good,” you praised, and the faintest whimper escaped him. His rough fingertips brushed your g-spot, and he zeroed in on it instantly, desperate for more of those wanton noises from you. “Right there, baby. God, fuck – just like that. You’re so – ngh – so perfect.”

“If I’m so perfect, then reward me,” Shigaraki taunted. It was unusual for him, to taunt or tease, or even to take control at all. He always preferred you taking the lead. But something about the feral, raspy way he snarled out “Cum in my mouth – right fucking now” left you seeing white as you came undone on his fingers. 

Greedy, desperate, obsessed, Shigaraki lapped at your fluttering hole as your pussy wept – mindful to continue pistoning his fingers into you, not wanting to risk cutting off your orgasm. By the time he’d gotten his fill, you were twitching and breathless, and he hurriedly stripped off his clothing, then your sleep shirt, leaving you both bare as he crawled between your legs. Shigaraki hooked your calves onto his shoulders before leaning down to kiss you, the tip of his hard, leaking cock teasing your clit as he folded you in half. 

“Did you mean what you said earlier? You better have fucking meant it. Tell me you meant it,” he rambled, gently rocking his hips against yours to slide his pre-cum dripping cock between your gooey lips, continuously bumping into your clit and short-circuiting your brain. He was too far gone to even meet your eyes, forehead resting against yours with his pretty red eyes squeezed shut. 

“Tomu, baby, what are you – oh, at the mall?”

“Yes.”

A shudder wracked his body as you reached up to trail your fingers along his temple, over his cheek, and down his jawline, then cup his cheek. 

“Yes, Tomura, I meant it. Wanna have your babies.”

The moan sounded so deep, so guttural, as it escaped him, seemingly of its own accord. Shigaraki scrambled to take a hold of his cock and position it at your entrance, and as though he was trying to work as quickly as he possibly could, he canted his hips forward to drive his hard, thick cock as deeply as it would go.

The way your lips parted and the breath was stolen from your lungs – it was just too delicious. Shigaraki couldn’t help but kiss you again, all tongue and teeth, as he set a hard, vindictive pace with his hips. He would withdraw his cock until it nearly escaped you, then slam it back inside, the spongy tip hitting your cervix every time. It was somewhat painful, but in a tantalizing way – just how he knew you liked it.

Shigaraki broke the kiss to wrap a hand around your throat, squeezing so perfectly, cutting off just the right amount of air. His other hand held him up, allowing him a better angle to slam his cock into you, over and over and fucking over. He appeared to be hypnotized by the sight – his twitching, raw, cream-coated cock coming in and out of your tight, fluttering cunt. 

At this point, he didn’t even feel like himself anymore. He felt like a fucking animal – and he was fucking you like one, too. 

“I’m gonna breed you, pretty,” Tomura declared, leaning forward so he was speaking a few inches above your face. Holding eye contact as he squeezed around your throat. “I’m gonna stuff you full of my cum, again and again, until I can’t anymore – and then I’m gonna do it again tomorrow. And the next day. Until it fucking takes. Until you’re carrying a piece of me inside you. Until your pretty little tummy gets all big and round with my spawn. Until everyone just has to take one look at you to know that you’re mine, because they can see what I’ve done to you – see the way I’ve claimed you, claimed your body.”

It was all you could do to hold his gaze, never mind form a response. You were vaguely aware, through the ringing in your ears and the white-hot feeling of an impending orgasm, that you were moaning and crying out his name.

“Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me to breed you, to fuck you full. Do it,” Tomura snarled.

“Oh god, Tomu – fuck – I want it! I need it, baby, please. Need you to breed me – need to have your babies inside me, please!” 

“Then fucking take it,” he hissed, slamming his hips against yours one final time, spilling his warm seed as deeply inside of you as he possibly could. The sensation of being filled, and the look of deranged bliss on his pretty, scarred face, was all it took for you to come undone too, pulsating and milking him for all he had. Tomura groaned brokenly at the sensation, shivering as he forced himself to remain inside you through every aftershock of your orgasm, not wanting to waste a drop of his precious seed.

By the time you regained some semblance of sanity and looked up at him again, Shigaraki was already looking down at you, a lovestruck and pussydrunk expression on his face. He kissed you with his usual gentleness – which he’d seemingly forgotten about for a while there – then began carefully maneuvering so he was laying behind you, his cock never leaving you even for a second.

“Whatcha doin’, Tomu?” you asked with a smile.

“Have to make sure it stays inside,” Shigaraki whispered, wrapping his arms around you and nuzzling his face into your neck. “Have to make sure it takes.”

You laughed softly, laying your hands on top of his – and only then did you notice the way one of them settled over your abdomen. Purposeful. Hopeful.

“Don’t you think we should probably be doing it more than once, to make sure it takes?”

“You’re so sweet for thinking I’m even remotely done with you,” Shigaraki replied, amusement in his tone. He kissed your temple, then settled onto his pillow again, exhaling slowly and peacefully. “Sleep. Because the second I see a shred of daylight, I’ll be stuffing you full again.”

[rax-writes]

[rax-writes]

୨୧ — "Sweetheart, you really are such a desperate thing, aren't you?" Nanami murmurs, his thumb brushing away the tear that trickles down your cheek before leaning in to kiss you softly.

The ache inside you was almost unbearable- a desperate, clawing need that’s been building since the moment you heard he barely survived Shibuya… The relief that flooded through you when Shoko said he was coming home nearly brought you to your knees. 

Now, sitting across his lap in his chair, you can hardly breathe with how badly you’ve missed him- the dampness between your legs a clear sign of how badly you need him... Every part of you trembling, embarrassed how you can't control the sob that slips between your lips against his as he presses his strong thigh between yours.

Your fingers trace the burns covering half his chest, the remnants of the cursed flames that nearly took him from you forever. Shoko said his left eye would never see again, the damage too severe. But you didn’t care. You didn’t give a damn about his half burned body or the new scars that map across him… Visible reminders of how close you came to losing him in Shibuya.

Pulling back just enough to see your face, Nanami’s remaining eye searches yours- the question obvious.

Are you sure you want this?

Your eyes meet his as you nod, your grip on him tightening as if afraid he'll slip away again… that somehow you're only dreaming and will wake up alone and brokenhearted- the answer clear. 

Nanami’s smile was gentle but strained, a shadow of doubt crossing his good eye as he leans forward to place the softest kiss on the tip of your nose. His hands find their way to your hips, thumbs tracing small, soothing circles against you. His one hand’s movements are slightly stiffer, pulled tight from the burn damage.

"We should take it slow," his voice barely audible, "I don’t want to rush after-" He swallows hard, glancing down at his scarred chest, "…After everything… I’m not… I’m not the same man who left that morning. This body is..."

You can feel his hesitation, the way he tenses beneath you, and for the very first time you see shame in his eye- ashamed of what Shibuya had done to him. Half his body disfigured, twisted in pinks and reds- raw in some spots…

You find yourself slowly rolling your hips against him without thought, seeking closeness, seeking proof he’s really here before resting your forehead against his marred shoulder, "Don’t want slow," you murmur, "Want to feel everything, Kento. The ache from the stretch, the way you fill me, the drag of your cock-" You pause as his breath catches, a shudder running through his body at your neediness despite coming back to you looking the way he did... "The proof that it’s really you inside me."

His damaged hand trembles as it moves to cup your cheek, gently forcing you to look at him, "I can’t promise it’ll be perfect like befo-"

"I don’t want perfect," you whisper, grinding down harder against him, feeling him hardening despite his doubts, "I want you. Scars, limitations, all of it… Want every inch of you that survived and came back to me."

Nanami is silent for a moment, remains still for a heartbeat as he absorbs your words. His damaged fingers find the underside of your breast, "I can’t feel you the same," he admits, "but God, I want to try…"

Taking hold of your wrists, he guides your arms around his neck before lifting you as though you’re made of precious glass, the strength in his arms -even the one damaged by burns- a reminder of everything he is- your protector, your lover, your home.

The mattress dips beneath your weight as he lays you down with such tender care, "Look at me," he commands softly, hovering above you. And when your eyes meet his, he takes your hand in his scarred one and places it over his heart, "Feel that?"

He waits for you to nod- to say yes… For you to feel the thumping beneath your palm.

Your words catch in your throat, unable to speak, tears threatening to spill again as he continues- watching as his head dips to your neck, placing soft kisses there. His lips brush against the shell of your ear, the tip of his nose nuzzling your temple, and the heat of his breath caressing your cheek as he speaks, "Tell me, my love. Do you feel it?"

"Y-Yes." Your eyes flutter close for a moment, savoring the feeling of his heart beating against your palm.

"I’m here." he whispers, bringing your hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to each fingertip as his other hand moves to the zipper of his trousers, "And I promise you that i'm not going anywhere ever again. This is where I belong. With you. Awlays."

[rax-writes]

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ just some emotional damage via praise and love because i’m pretty sure nanami is not protected from that

nanami is brushing his teeth when you sidle up beside him in the mirror, stretch your arms overhead, and sigh like a sleepy cat.

“you’re very handsome, you know,” you murmur, voice low and scratchy with sleep.

he blinks at you through the mirror.

you blink back. grin.

“what was that?” he asks, mouth full of toothpaste foam.

“i said you’re handsome.”

he stares for one more second—and then leans over the sink and spits, lingering a second longer than necessary to keep his expression in check.

“why?”

“…why are you handsome?”

“no, why would you say that?”

you raise an eyebrow. “because it’s true?”

he rinses out his mouth like he’s trying to scrub the embarrassment off his tongue. “you can’t just—say things like that. in the morning. while i’m brushing my teeth.”

“i literally woke up and felt overcome with love for your stupid face.”

he covers his face with one hand.

“you don’t like being complimented while you’re… minty?”

he sighs. “i’m not prepared for this level of sincerity at 7am.”

“what is your preferred time for me to express how stupidly in love with you i am?”

“never,” he mutters. “or at least after coffee.”

you lean in, cheek against his bicep, watching him in the mirror as he rinses his toothbrush. “i like your laugh lines.”

“they’re wrinkles.”

“they’re hot.”

he drops the toothbrush. “stop.”

“you have excellent forearms, by the way.”

“what does that mean?”

“and your shoulders? criminal. you should be fined.” your hands fall off of them as he steps away to go get dressed.

“i’m leaving.”

“i’ll miss you desperately, lover:”

he stares at you from the doorway like he’s rethinking his entire identity. then, very slowly, he walks back over and takes your face in his hands.

“listen,” he says seriously. “you can’t just… emotionally ravage me before I’ve had a chance to emotionally armor myself.”

“that sounds like a you problem.”

“it is a me problem.”

you grin. “does it help if i say i’m proud of you and think you’re amazing and love the way you always fold the laundry just how i like?”

his expression crumples.

he buries his face in your neck.

“stop,” he says, muffled. “this is damaging.”

“do you need me to—”

“no. no more compliments. not until at least lunch.”

you giggle, wrapping your arms around his waist. “deal. but at noon, i’m telling you you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

he sighs against your skin. “i’ll prepare accordingly.”

[rax-writes]

♡ Dabi with a corruption kink ♡

x reader drabble. 273 words. smut. teasing. fingering. f!reader. and ofc, as the title says, (subtle) corruption kink.

"One of these days, you're not gonna want to go back to them, you know," Dabi murmured against the shell of your ear. His fingers busied themselves rubbing your clit through the wet lace of your panties, the texture sending your mind into a lust-fueled haze. "How 'bout it, princess? Gonna stay with me? Not go back to those stupid fuckin' heroes in the morning, like usual?"

When you opened your mouth to respond, it's like he could somehow sense that you were going to argue, and he wasn't having any of it. 

Dabi moved your panties to the side and slipped a finger inside of you, then another, and began massaging your clit with his thumb. And you could hear his smirk when he spoke again. "So sorry baby, what were you about to say...? You were about to say that you'll stay here with me, weren't you, pretty girl? Stay here, with me, forever... keeping my bed and my cock warm...."

"Dabi," you managed to choke out, nails digging into his forearm as he began to kiss down your neck. "You know I – fuck – I have to go back." 

"No, you don't. You just want to – for reasons I'll never understand," he grumbled, then nipped at your neck. He sat up then, pulling his fingers away then removing your panties. 

You didn't just hear the smirk now. You could see it, as he sat back on his heels, still between your legs, and began peeling off his tank top.

"Don't worry, my sweet girl," Dabi cooed, sneering the word 'sweet' like it was a word most vile. "I'll change your mind."

mdni banner from @cafekitsune

[rax-writes]

BAD REVIEWS ; shigaraki tomura x reader [taglist OPEN!]

"couple bad gut feelings, well, i've had them too. still i choose to be in love with you."

— next >>

You were soaking wet.

If it weren't for the fact that you were searching for the lost father of your baby, you wouldn't be out in the pouring rain, knocking on the grimy, worn down door of some sketchy abandoned-looking bar that reeked of smoke, rot and spilled beer. You were out way past any unreasonable hour, following the unreliable lead to this hell-hole you should’ve ignored. 

He told you his name was Tenko. You’d met him at a GameStop, for god’s sake — not some back alley with a gun to the back of your head. 

You never did things like this. You didn’t chase strangers. Or impulsive one-night stands…

You also didn’t go paying online strangers to run background checks– that had to be illegal, right? 

 But here you are—out in the goddamn rain—because some guy named Tenko disappeared after one night.

And now you were… well, pregnant.

To sum it all up— you guys fucked. 

It wasn't romantic, no candles or rose petals. But it wasn't careless either(he suspiciously wore two finger gloves too).

There’d been a softness in the way he held your hips and how his fingers brushed against your jaw, like he wasn't used to touching something that didn’t crumble under his touch. 

You played Smash Bros on some shitty motel TV. You remembered laughing—really laughing—as he trash-talked you like a twelve-year-old who lived in his mom’s basement. It was a weird night. Tender in a way that caught you off guard. Like two people pretending they weren’t lonely for once.

You knocked once. Twice. As you were about to knock for a third time a misty figure wearing a black and white suit opens the door making you step back in surprise. “What is your business here?”

“Uhm– I’m looking for—” frantically searching inside the bag slung across your chest and reaching for a crumpled piece of paper with a sloppy sketch of the man you were looking for. “This guy… about 5’8, very dry skin, slouchy and a beauty mark below his lips.”

As the man is about to close the door on you–

You quickly wedge your foot between the frame and the door, heart pounding. “Wait! I’m not here to cause trouble– I just really really need to talk to him…”

The figure tilts his head to the side, his gloved hands pointing to the sketch in your hand. “You seek him.”

You nod, biting your lip nervously. “It’s really urgent.” 

He’s about to speak again when a pale blur passes behind him—slouched posture, ragged hoodie, unmistakable mop of chalk-blue hair. Your eyes widen.

“That’s him!” You gasp, pushing past the doorman before he can react. Hearing protests as you continue to sprint inside the dingy bar. “Tenko!”

The figure freezes, slowly turning his head towards the sound of your soft voice. His eyes widened in surprise and displeasure. His hand came up to irritably scratch aggressively at his neck, as if it's the only thing that tethered him at this moment.

That alone makes your heart sink.

“I know you probably don’t remember me, but—”

“I remember you,” he cuts in, voice rough. His brows pull tight. “What the hell are you doing here?”

You flinch at the sudden edge his tone attains, but feel no real venom behind his words. Like he truly is at a loss of words when it comes to the reason you came here.

“I’ve been looking for you.” You breathe out. “And trust me, it has not been an easy task.”

He shakes his head disapprovingly, trying to make sense of the situation. “Get out.”

“Tenko, please! It's really important– I just need five minutes.”

“It's actually Shigaraki.” He stares at you, you don’t know what his face is saying. “And fine. Five minutes.”

You follow him into a cramped back room—dusty, dim, and completely silent once the door clicks shut.

He leans against the far wall, arms crossed tightly. “Alright. You’ve got my attention.”

“Well remember that night at the shitty motel, you know we played video games and eat junk food and you were—”

“Spit it out.”

You huffed and pouted. “I’m pregnant.”

He blinks once. Then twice.

“...What?”

“I’m pregnant,” you repeated, firmer this time. “And it’s yours.”

For a moment, he just stared at you. Like he was trying to rewind time. Like if he blinked hard enough, you'd vanish along with your words. 

Your heart starts to break into tiny pieces. You were half expecting this response. One of rejection.

“I wore a condom,” he said at last, voice low and disbelieving, as if trying to ground himself with logic.

“I know,” you added sweetly. “I’m not here to blame you Tenko– Shigaraki or whatever you go by. I couldn't just not tell you…”

His hand went up to his neck again, scratching hard, the skin already raw from anxiety. “This is… you’re serious? You’re actually—”

“Yes. I’m nauseous. Tired. Late.  And I took a test.” You whispered the last word onto him. His body tenses harder at your claims. 

“I don’t even know your last name.”

You look around the room, swallowing the anxiety and nervously down to your gut. “Trust me, I know.” You bite your lip, feeling sick at what his next words might be.

“Shit…” 

 His voice is low, sharp—like a blade dragged across ice. “Get the fuck out. I don’t want to see your face ever again.” The words escape his mouth with a cruel, underlying sense of disgust.

It hits you like a punch to the ribs.

Your vision blurs. Your knees weaken. Panic starts to pour in, thick and fast. Your breath turns shallow, wheezing out of you in short, sharp bursts. You stumble back and tears brim your eyes. 

“Tenko–”

“It's Shigaraki!” He yanks your wrist, using two fingers worth of strength. “Fucking hell.” He says, dragging you out of the hallway and leading you to the door you busted through earlier.

The tears you’d been desperately holding back finally spill, sliding down your cheeks in trembling, uneven rivers. They drag your makeup with them—black streaks of mascara bleeding down. 

“Come on,” he mutters, jaw clenched. “You wanna break down? Do it outside.”

“Wait–”

And then, without another word, he slams the door in your face.

You’re left out in the storm—shaking, wet, and completely alone.

a/n: did you guys like this? i've had this thought ruminating inside my head rent free lolthought i should share

[rax-writes]

The truth of it 🤣