Yes.

Worship the hand worship-

Chapter 132 | The Plan

Well..Tomura come here baby🤌✨

Who is it?💕

Tomura drawing : tongue out baby~

Where can we vooote ?

We have to keep pushing

Let's go Tenko/Tomura nation‼️‼️

8th place is insanely well for the first week

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

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.

Sacrificed

Pairing: God!Madara Uchiha x Reader

Genre: Oneshot, filthy filthy smut

Word Count: 6.6k

Warnings: too many to count, afab!reader, rough sex, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, the Uchiha breeding kink, creampie, unprotected sex, aphrodisiacs, Madara has a big dick Uchiha, blindfolds, hands are tied, stomach bulge, mating press, overstimulation, some temperature play, strong language

A/N: This monstrosity has way too many tags, forgive me if I didn't tag every kink. Honestly this was only supposed to have like, two kinks or so, but uh obviously that did not happen and I'm not sorry about it. If this one does well enough I plan on writing a Sacrificed for each of the founders trio, and if I feel the inspiration after that I could add other Naruto characters as well so, let me know if that's something you'd be interested in.

A HUGE thank you to @therantingfangirl for helping me edit this oversized self indulgence! She's the best you guys, I love her and you should send some love her way! This wouldn't have been out as quickly, and would've had many more typos lol, if not for her. So tell her thank you for me~

edit 7/30/22: WE NOW HAVE ART!! A biiiig huge thank you to the amazing @skydaddy01 for their incredible art. They did a fanfuckingtastic job creating god!Madara's appearance, especially with so little to go off of because I'm bad at asking for things. Seriously, go check them out, especially if you like the art~

Without further ado, enjoy Sacrificed (Sun)

Read it on AO3

Villagers scattered about, decorating homes and streets alike, preparing drums and costumes with jovial attitudes; the excitement was palpable. Most everyone looked forward to the Festival of the Sun, it was hard not to! The music, the ritual dancing, the offerings of food and wine to the gods as well as loved ones were certainly something to be excited about. The festivities themselves lasted for an entire week. It had to in order to entice him down from his place of rest. He was hard to excite, after all.

The Festival of the Sun is performed once a year before the cold season begins in order to plead with the sun god for protection from death during the upcoming frost. At the peak of the festivities, a living sacrifice is offered to the deity, but seldom does he come down. Most sacrifices come back without having even felt his presence, however throughout the history of the festival there were rare instances of his sacrifice being found dead at the end of the celebrations. The manner of death was always the same, burnt from the inside out. These instances came to be synonymous with having met him.

That fact made you, the sacrifice chosen for the upcoming celebrations, a bit nauseated. The idea of meeting the sun god made you nervous for many reasons; you were his devout follower, a young peasant chosen by the temple due to your dedication to your faith. At least, that’s what they told you when they notified you of your impending position. Your faith was well known in the village, you made the hike to his temple every two days without fail and prayed for hours in his sanctuary as well as volunteered to help clean the entirety of his temple.

His statues had always entranced you and you often wondered if that was what he really looked like. Was he really that tall and broad? Certainly awe inspiring if true. You’d run the soapy cloth along the carvings of his hair and close your eyes, guiltily pretending you were running your fingers through his majestic locks, it was so long, and the artist made it look so wild and untamed, giving his likeness a dangerous edge that made you bite your bottom lip. It would not be an exaggeration to say you were attracted to your god, or rather to the idea of him.

You had never met him or even heard his words as some priests had claimed to have heard. The high priest, the one who informed you of your role in the festivities, had said that your devotion moved the god and he had asked for you; that made you roll your eyes. As if the sun god himself would ask for you. The odd one, no family or friends, let alone a dating history, or anything of the sort that would catch the attention of anyone let alone such a powerful and incredible god. No matter, it would just mean another year without his appearance, though there is the possibility he’s so enraged by your presentation that he decides to burn you like the others.

He was not known for his mercy, after all. His lust for blood was legendary and his rivalry with the god of the forests still affects humanity despite their typically dormant state. Their battles have scored the earth and ruined oceans, much to the god of the sea’s displeasure. The temple texts state that the gods of forest and sun reawaken every century to continue their discourse. Were the previously killed sacrifices burned for his amusement or was he displeased with their appearance? Being burnt from the inside out at the hands of your beloved deity, was that your destined end?

As you contemplated your possible demise, the festival began. For the first three days your job was to stay in the temple. You were to pray all day, bathe in the ceremonial waters, and eat only the fruits provided. Each day the ceremonial drumming, which was performed as the sun began to set and would continue until sunrise, could be heard despite the temples stone walls. Their beat entrancing and familiar. It gave you something to look forward to as you prayed without response.

On the fourth day you weren’t allowed to eat anything, only drink a strangely viscus and milky liquid with no taste that left the core of your being feeling cold. The usual warm bath with citrus scents was replaced with the same cold and thick liquid you were forced to drink. Are they trying to give me a cold before they send me to my death? You thought as you shivered. The older priestesses were made to wash you, they rubbed the fluid into every part of your being. Maybe I’ll freeze before I’m burnt alive.

It was almost like a massage, the way the older women prepared you. The way they rubbed the fluid into the flesh of your breasts made you blush, and the blush only deepened when your sex was given the same amount of attention and pressure. You bit your lip and squeezed your eyes shut. The feeling was a bit unusual. Heat began to swirl in your center, and it helped you fight off the cold for the rest of the bath.

When you were brought out of the bath rolls of white and red silk were draped around your body in odd patterns. The material itself felt wonderful but they tied the red pieces around your arms and neck, while the white silk they used to bind your chest and cover your mound. It was an odd feeling, only being partially dressed and your abdomen being bare made you flush in embarrassment. They tied your hair back in a braid that was as long as your hair would allow, and they twisted the same type of red silk around it. You were not allowed to look at your own appearance and one of the women led you out of the temple without so much as a word.

Once outside you began to shiver again and your bare feet gracing the soft grass only made you feel colder. The breeze made goose flesh begin to rise along your skin and you wrapped your arms around yourself to try and keep warm. Sounds of the villagers enjoying the festival gave you something to focus on. What would you be doing, if you were not here? Enjoying some wine perhaps, dancing around the oversized fire that was lit in your god’s honor? Mmm maybe even enjoying a full plate of roast boar, your stomach grumbled at the thought.

A group of priests, including the high priest, emerged from the temple and began to lead you further to the west of the temple. On that side there was a trail. Most everyone knew of the trail, but it was not to be used by anyone but the blessed. It led up to the highest peak in the valley and at the top stood a temple made specifically to hold the sun god’s presence when he graced the earth.

The high priest ushered you onto the trail and began to walk in front of you, the others following behind. The entire hike up felt very stiff and uncomfortable, it made you more nervous than you already were. The high priest stopped, as did you, right before the doors to the sacred temple. It was much grander, the walls made of marble instead of stone with gold gilded doors and carvings of suns in the luxurious columns. A strong wind practically blew through you, and you wondered if you’d ever feel warm again. A quick glance around at the people meant to guide you made your stomach twist in knots. They all had such grave expressions. You wondered what was next and began to try to convey your question with your eyes but they refused look at you. “Um,” you began. “Excuse-“

A loud shout rang out from the village, the signal to start the drums. Startled, you glanced at the sky and saw that the sun had begun to set. The high priest turned and walked until he was right in front of you. He began to press a large flask of what looked to be the same viscous liquid into your hands while a different priest came behind you and began to tie a red ribbon made of the same silk tightly around your eyes. The cool material caused your heart to beat as hard as the drums. “Drink this once the sun has fully set, there will be more inside, be sure to drink all of it throughout the next few days.”

Your breathing picked up. Someone, you weren’t sure who, began to tie your wrists together in front of you. “Do not attempt to look at him,” the high priest spoke again. “Do not try to touch him, only he can initiate contact. You may roam around the temple but do not leave it.” How did he expect you to roam without being able to see? “We will be back at the end of the festival to collect you, do as we say and as he says and you will survive,” he paused, “probably.”

You nodded nervously; you couldn’t see his face but could feel the sense of dread in the air. “Alright, let us begin.” Someone began to push you forward and you felt your bare feet touch the chilled marble, heard the large doors creak open, and felt the plush of a cushion as they sat you down on the floor. Once their touch left you, the sense of foreboding increased. When you heard the door slam shut you knew you were alone.

You could hear the high priest begin a prayer outside the door, though it was rather muffled, you pressed your fingers against each other, and you tried to calm your nerves by joining in on the prayer. “Allow your warmth to protect and guide me,” you muttered. After a moment’s hesitation you added, “and your cruelty to pass over me.” And altogether you ended the prayer with an ‘amen’ though yours felt a tad more strained.

Through the blindfold you could make out vague shapes thanks to the small amounts of light; but that was all you could see, and once the sun set you would essentially be blind. You stayed seated for a time and fiddled with the flask that you had been given. The wrappings around your wrists weren’t painful or too constricting but they did limit what you could do. How were you supposed to stay like this for four nights and three days? “Where even is the restroom?” You glanced around at the shapes that made up what you could see. “Do gods even use the restroom?”

After a few more minutes of fretting and shaking you decided to stand and try to figure out what was in the room. You placed your arms out in front of you. Your hands may have been bound but you were still able to grab a hold of things. The temperature of the temple was colder than the temperature outside, it was similar to the biting chill of the nights in the cold season. At this point you wondered if you were doomed to die from frostbite. The tips of your fingers scraped against the cold marble of the walls, and you continued to glide your hands along the carvings to guide you through the area. As your vision began to worsen you knew the sun was almost under the mountain.

Your fingers brushed against a metal decoration and you began to explore the piece to the best of your abilities. It felt like a throne, a large one, with a cushion made of the same type of silk that was draped around you. The size of the throne made it feel a bit more like a small loveseat, you couldn’t imagine it being too comfortable with all the surrounding metals. Beside the throne seemed to be a short table with a pitcher atop it. The pitcher was carved, and you could tell it was well crafted by running your fingers along the object. It felt much too light to be filled with anything, much to your chagrin. You had been hoping for a sip of real water.

While there was still a bit of sunlight left you decided to try to explore the center of the room a bit more. You walked cautiously from the throne to the middle of the area and saw a shadow that seemed to be a table or something similar. It was a bit tall to be a table and you placed your hands on it and felt that it was also made of a cold marble. There were no chairs around it and as your fingers brushed along the edges you felt that there were words engraved on it. You wondered if they were gilded with gold like the carvings on the outer columns had been. Slowly, you attempted to read what was engraved around the table. “A sacrifice of flesh and blood,” you muttered. “Well, that would be me.”

“Is that right?”

You flinched. That was not a voice you recognized. It was deep and alluring, with an inflection that sounded almost amused. The man’s voice had come from behind you, where you remembered the throne being. Cautiously, you turned toward where you thought the voice was coming from but immediately had to squeeze your eyes shut. All there was in that direction was a bright light, like the sun itself had come to rest in front of you. Wait, your breath caught in your throat. The sun itself?

“A-Are you perhaps-“

“Yes?”

You felt so hesitant. Your heart felt like it was going to pound out of your chest, the urge to drop down on your knees and bow was at the forefront of your mind. There was a warmth, an intense but welcome warmth, that began to move toward you. Your eyes were still closed tight; even behind the blindfold his brightness was too much. Like a warm breath it felt like his presence was closer, but you weren’t sure how close. Without much more thought, you gave into your urge and got down to your hands and knees with your head resting atop your extended arms on the floor. Even the floor felt warmer now than it had before his arrival. “My lord!”

“Hm, not quite as interesting as I was expecting.” He sounded so close, almost as if he was directly above you. “But not altogether unpleasant.”

Your skin began to tingle from the contrast in temperature. Hot and cold. Internally, you still felt like you were freezing but externally his presence had warmed everything to such a degree it felt like you might melt. Lightly, it felt like just the tips of his fingers, began to trial down your exposed spine, like he was counting vertebrae. Again, your bottom lip felt the sting of your teeth as your mind reeled at not only meeting but being touched by your god. The same god whose likeness you had thought of in some not so holy ways.

“Is it still too bright?”

“P-Pardon?”

“I understand that my presence tends to be overwhelming for human eyes, shall I dim myself?” He answered his own question, as the harsh biting against your eyelids seemed to lessen and instead of a sun his presence looked more like a group of brightly lit candles. It hurt still, but you were finally able to open your eyes. You wanted to look at him, wanted to take the blindfold off and gaze upon his glory but you kept your head down, afraid of the consequences of doing so. “Thank you for your consideration, my lord.”

“Still so polite,” his dry chuckle was like velvet in your ears. You shivered, but not from fear or temperature; you wanted to hear him speak more. The pleasing thought of having him order you around floated about in your mind. Warm, overly warm, fingers gripped your chin roughly and had you look up at the veiled view of his face. “I like how you’ve thought about me a lot better than the way you’re speaking to me now.”

Your heart hiccupped. Your thoughts of him!? You could feel the color drain from your face. All the unsavory thoughts you had about his image filtered through your mind at once. The few times you had touched yourself had also been to ideas of him. Would he kill you now for your blasphemous behavior? Was he aware of all of them? That rich chuckle continued to fill your ears, much more amused this time, and he turned your head from side to side as if in assessment of a product at the market. “Don’t be so nervous, child. You act like I’m going to burn you alive.”

You were pretty sure he might.

There were no details, but from his outline it seemed like the statue was rather accurate. His hair was long, spiked, and wild like the mane of a lion; his shoulders broad and perfectly set. He barely had a hold on your chin but the bits of his fingers you could feel felt strong, large, and overly warm. The high priest had told you not to look at him but maybe? Just a peek? “Can I remove the-“

“Do you want to go blind?”

“What?”

“Do you think you can stare directly at the sun without repercussions? You’ll go blind if you look at me with your naked eye.”

“Oh,” you pressed your lips together, your cheeks red with embarrassment. “Right, yes, that makes sense.”

“Eager to see your god, are we?”

You wanted to nod but refrained and he let go of your chin. “You haven’t finished the elixir yet.” He said it as a statement of fact and let out a sigh that sounded exasperated. The blood in your veins rushed at a dizzying pace and you felt panic begin to rise in your throat. Had you displeased him? Would he leave because of it? Anything but that.

“I hadn’t realized the time, please forgive-“ Wet warm lips pressed against yours midsentence. It was intense and hot, so very hot. One of his large hands grabbed the back of your head roughly, forcing you to tilt your head back and he tugged on the braid. The surprise made you flinch, and your mouth opened slightly, but it was enough for him. He began to force a liquid into your mouth from his. It was different from the others; it had a sweet taste to it that sat heavy in your center. The warmth of his lips felt like it might burn, but the cool of the liquid soothed it almost immediately. The contrast made you moan, and his tongue began to enter your mouth.

Your eyes squeezed shut and you began to feel turned on as his tongue caressed and pulled at your own. Were you allowed to kiss back? How was this supposed to work? Another noise escaped you as his tongue scraped against the roof of your mouth, slowly and with intent. You squeezed your thighs together in an attempt to calm down. He pulled away slowly, allowing his tongue to linger against yours in the space between you. The sun god chuckled once again, “That face is rather enticing.”

If only you could see what face it was. His touch left you and the warmth of his being began to dissipate. “Resting for so long can be quite boring,” he began, his voice sounded like it was back at the throne. When you opened your eyes you could see the light of his being further back, it seemed as if he was sitting on the golden décor. It almost looked like he was slouched, with one hand against the arm rest and his head on his fist, but that was just your assumption. You had no way of seeing the details of his form. “So, while we wait for the elixir to kick in, entertain me.”

Entertain? How? Should you ask? What if that angered him? He didn’t seem like the patient sort. You heard a sound similar to liquid filling a basin and saw him shift as it looked like he may be drinking. Your heart pounded in your ears in time with the beat of the drums that boom from below. Oh, was that it? At this point in the evening, for the festival, everyone would be dancing. Is that what he wanted? The dance was created for his worship, after all.

You stood on nervous legs, your hands still bound, and listened patiently to the beat. When you felt you had a good enough idea of the rhythm you began the dance. It was fast, continuously moving, with moves similar to dodging attacks in a spar. When the drum paused you twisted your spine and bent backward, almost hitting the sacrificial table behind you, and stretch your arms up behind your head to touch the cool marble. The stretch made you feel exposed. Your neck, abdomen, and legs were on full display. As the pause remained, so did your position. It was difficult, but the dance seemed to warm you up. You felt the flush travel across your body, and you began to feel rather thirsty. You resumed at the same time as the drums.

Everything seemed to disappear as the song continued. Your muscles began to loosen, your tension nonexistent, you completely forgot where you were or why you were even dancing in the first place. It was like you were hypnotized to follow the music. One foot out in front and the other behind, your hands pushed out in front almost like you were begging. Everything felt warm now, your breathing was labored from exertion. Much to your embarrassment, even your core felt a bit sticky. Your hair began to frame your face and you barely registered that the braid had come loose. “Keep dancing,” came his silken command. So, you did.

His approach was harder to feel this time, the difference in temperature not quite as stark, but when his hand caressed the side of your neck you gasped at the excess heat. “I didn’t say you could stop.”

Right, more dancing.

One of his hands remained at your neck, curling around it like a collar and restricting your movements. You couldn’t move away from him without feeling choked. His other hand slid down the length of your swaying curves, from the tops of your covered breasts to the dip of your hips where the white ribbon was tied. The heat was almost sweltering and the ache in your sex began to grow. He tugged and the silk around your waist began to slip away, creating static as it fell from your flesh.

You couldn’t help but stop, your senses now fully focused on your naked lower half. Without the cloth your arousal was even more obvious, its evidence sticking to your thighs. “I don’t like to repeat myself,” he growled so close to your ear. A shiver wracked your form, and you did your best to start moving again, but his hand inching toward your center made you lose your rhythm and your movements became awkward. His hot tongue began to lick a stripe along the red silk wrapped around your collar bone. His warm fingers began to stroke the plush flesh of your mound. A fresh wave of slick began to coat your labia.

“Mm,” you pressed your lips together. You felt like you were on fire. “My lord, please,” you whispered, not entirely sure what you were asking for.

“Tsk, you know my name. Say it.”

He was giving you permission to call him by name? His fingers trailed down and began to stroke the naked flesh of your sex. The amount of wetness made the sounds of his fingers vulgar as he moved them back and forth against the sensitive skin. Your head fell back, and you gasped, his warm fingers immediately zeroing in on your clit. The heat was overwhelming, adding extra stimulation to your already pulsing bud. Your core began to clench, and your hips reflexively bucked toward his hand. “Go on,” he chided. “Say the name of your god, tell him how badly you want him to finger you.”

Your vagina pulsed at the thought. Saying his real name was taboo in the temple, but he was giving you permission. It was impossible to think, his fingers sped up their assault. Only incoherent noises left your throat as your knees began to buckle. How were you this close already? The hand that was around your neck squeezed teasingly, cutting off your air flow temporarily, before moving down to support your lower back as your legs threatened to give out. Instinctively you reached out and tried to use his arm for support before immediately pulling your hands back. They burned, like you had touched a hot stove.

“Do not try to touch him, only he can initiate contact.” The high priest’s words rang out in your mind.

“Weren’t you warned pet?” His head leaned down to your burnt hands, his fingers not ceasing, and he licked along your palms as if to soothe them. The mixture of pain and pleasure only brought you closer to the edge and you began to buck your hips in earnest. Your pleasured noises began to grow into full moans as you approached your peak.

Quickly, without warning, he removed his fingers from your clit and unceremoniously thrust two inside of your entrance. It burned, the heat and the pain of the stretch, but it brought you over the edge anyway. He hadn’t even had to move his fingers and you were already clenching down on them. Tears welled in your eyes behind the blindfold, and you called out, “Ahh, Madara!”

“How cute,” he announced, his voice a note or two deeper, the arm that was supporting you was trembling. “So eager that you came just from having my fingers inside you?”

Madara began to move his fingers, slow and deliberate, making sure to scrape them against your walls and ensuring that pain accompanied the pleasure. He moved his mouth to your neck and tugged at the red ribbon, untying it with his teeth and exposing the rest of your body to his gaze. He began to scissor your entrance and you felt the tightness in your gut return. “Such a naughty human, touching yourself to the thought of your god. Did you think I wasn’t watching? Did you think I wouldn’t know?”

You felt like you were burning, and you heard the juices of your arousal splash against your skin. His thick fingers began to thrust quickly, and he brought his palm up to rub at your sensitive clit. A whine left your throat. He continued his verbal assault. “I watched you each and every time you called out to me with lust. I saw the way your greedy pussy swallowed one, then two, even three of your own fingers. But it was never enough, was it? You needed something else, needed these fingers to fill you.” He added a third finger and you had never felt so full. A cry of his name left your lips again and that rich chuckle of his vibrated through you. “Well how is it? Now that you have the real thing, is it satisfactory? Are you still feeling greedy?”

“It’s good,” you slurred in a drawn-out moan. His fingers began to push at your walls in opposing directions and you thought you might drool. “So so good.”

“Only good? Well, I guess I’ll have to try harder then.”

All three fingers curled at once and began to press on a specific part of your walls. Your breathing stopped, your body convulsed, your toes curled, and your vagina clenched like your life depended on it. His palm pressed hard against your abused bundle of nerves, and you came yet again. But this one was different, more intense, almost painful as it washed over every part of your being. You felt dizzy before you remembered to breathe. His hand kept moving but you were at your wits end. “Too much, ah,” you wanted to grab a hold of his arm but barely registered you would get burned again if you did. Your sex throbbed painfully. “Please lord Madara,” you pleaded. “It’s too much.”

The sun god removed his fingers slowly but made sure to keep supporting you. You watched as the vague light of his being seemed to lick a trail from his own palm down his arm and he moaned deeply as he followed the trail back up to his palm. He moved his hand away from his own mouth and brought his fingers to your lips. “Suck,” he commanded.

Your tongue poked out of your mouth shyly and you wrapped it around the three fingers hesitantly. A grunt left your throat as you tasted yourself on his digits. He shoved the three of them into your mouth, not willing to give you the chance to continue to do as you pleased. Obediently, you sucked. The heat from his fingers almost felt like they would burn your mouth too. Again, you wondered what he looked like in full detail. You gently scraped your teeth against the three digits. “Good pet,” he muttered and pressed the pads of his fingers down on your tongue. “Now, lay down on that table. I’m going to take my sacrifice.”

Madara removed his fingers and let go of you entirely. You stumbled, almost fell to your knees again as your support disappeared. Thanks to the light of his being you were able to see the shadows that made up the cold marble of said sacrificial table. As much as you tried to make your crawl a top it look sexy, you fumbled a few times. It was rather high, making it difficult to crawl onto, but your inability to be graceful didn’t seem to deter him as he was atop you the moment you fully laid down.

The sun god’s scorching lips graced yours once more and this time you tried to meet his tongue stroke for stroke. His impossibly warm palms enveloped your breasts and began to mold them to his liking, almost as if he was trying to change their shape to his hands. For the first time you felt his entire body as it pressed against you. His muscles were firm as they met your squishy flesh and the hardness of his arousal rubbed against your belly in interest. It leaked with precum and the thought of that being your doing gave you butterflies. Slowly he pulled away, he seemed to sit up for a second as you heard the sounds of a glass bottle opening. His own breathing sounded labored, but it paused as he began to gulp down whatever he had opened.

When he was seemingly satisfied, he pressed his lips to yours again, and much like the first kiss, forced the liquid down your throat. Some of it dribbled down the side of your mouth, being too much to swallow all at once, but it didn’t seem to bother him as he continued to aggressively explore your mouth. What surprised you was when he began to pour out the chilled liquid onto your overheated sex. Your back arched, the contrast in temperatures a shock to your system.

He threw the glass bottle away and it broke against the flooring with a loud crash. His thick fingers began to coat themselves in the fluid and started to scoop it into you. You groaned into his mouth. Madara kept pushing it in, forcing it as deep inside of you as his fingers would allow. It felt odd, his hands and your body heat slowly warmed the liquid as he pushed it inside. The god pulled away from the kiss with a loud breath. “No more games,” he announced and pulled his fingers away.

The sound of his slick fingers against his own flesh made you shiver. You wished you could see it, him fisting himself atop you. What a gorgeous sight that would be, it was almost worth the risk of going blind. Almost. He lined himself up with your entrance, one hand holding your tied wrists above your head and the other holding him in place. His tip felt large as it twitched impatiently against your hole. Anticipation made you hold your breath.

“I’m going to ruin you.”

He thrust in and your jaw dropped. Big, he was so big. You felt overstuffed, like there were six of his large fingers shoved inside. Madara pushed forward more, your walls spasming around the intrusion. He was too big; it was too much. You felt like you were going to break, like he’d split you in half. More of his shaft entered you and he groaned, his guiding hand now reaching up to grip your hip and push you further onto him. It felt like he had knocked the wind out of you as the tip of his penis hit your cervix. Surely that was it, he couldn’t go any further. “Pretty little thing, so fucked out already and I’ve barely even started,” he chuckled, his words strained. He brought the hand that was holding your wrists down to wipe your chin of drool that you hadn’t even realized was there. “You’re so wet,” he grunted and pulled his hips back before snapping them forward quickly. You grunted, the drag of his dick the best thing you had ever felt. “Behave and I might just reward you.”

He began to thrust in earnest, the mushroom head hitting against your cervix with each thrust in, like it was trying to bury itself deeper inside of you. Your back bowed and he forced your hips to meet his. You brought your hands up and began to grip at the edge of the marble table. Your white-knuckled grip the only thing keeping you grounded. He brought his unoccupied hand down to your left breast and began to thumb the nipple in time with his thrusts. The shlick shlick shlick sound of each drag against your insides made your toes curl once again. You felt the heavy weight of his balls hit against your perineum and the slick that was pushed out with every thrust leaked down onto the stone beneath.

The sun god was more vocal than you had expected, grunting with effort, and groaning when you clenched particularly hard around him. You licked your lips, your mouth felt dry from hanging open for so long. Your guts began to twist in knots again and you knew you would cum soon. In a rush of bravery, you brought your legs up and attempted to wrap them around his waist. Immediately, your flesh began to burn, and you set them back down. “What did I tell you?” He sounded strained and he moved his second hand to your other hip. “Behave.”

“I can’t-“ you cut yourself off with a moan, his shaft scraping just right against your g-spot and causing your climax to begin again. He hissed and you felt his hair tickle your stomach as he leaned forward and his grip on your hips tightened. You hoped he’d leave bruises.

“Fuck,” he sounded depraved, and you bit your bottom lip hard. His hips continued to push into you. “Your walls are trying so hard to milk me, is that what you want? Hm? You want me to breed you?”

“Uhn,” you couldn’t help but nod vigorously. Your mind so warped with pleasure that you’d do anything he asked. “Oh, Madara,” you groaned and bucked your hips against his grip.

“You want to carry my bastard,” his voice thick with arousal. His large hands pulled you further down on the table and he put both of your legs up around his shoulders. “Everyone will know it’s mine. They’ll all see your rounded belly and know that it’s the seed of their god growing inside of you.”

The new angle was intense, he bore heavily down onto your cervix with every thrust. He pushed your legs forward, putting them up by your shoulders, almost folding you in half, and pushed into your womb. You screamed. It was too much, an intense mix of pain and pleasure that had your nerves confused. “Feel me reach the deepest parts of you,” he grunted. Madara grabbed your tied wrists and brought your hand down to your folded stomach. He made your hands press against your lower belly where you felt the outline of him inside of you. The extra pressure added more feeling and you whined. “I’m going to fill that pretty little womb of yours.”

His thrusts quickened, becoming bruising and focused. You kept your hand where he placed it and felt his bulge as it moved in and out of you. Your head moved back and through your lust filled haze you noticed that the edges of the blindfold had loosened. If you moved a bit more maybe it would come off? Madara moved one of his hands inward and began to stroke at your clit quickly. His pace becoming uneven as his breathing sped up. “You were fucking made for this,” he groaned out. “Made to take me, to be folded in half and fucked stupid.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you cried out and moved your head to the side. The silk slipped off of your eyes and you kept them closed as you tried to ignore the need to look at him. He felt so good, so brutal. Your clit throbbed and your core clenched for the fourth time. This was it, the most intense orgasm you’d have possibly ever. You wanted to look at him, to gaze upon his glorious face as you came undone. “Madara, please,” you began, your voice keening at the end. “Look at me.”

You opened your eyes just in time to see him look into yours. He was gorgeous, his dark hair wild and strung about him in a halo of black, his naked flesh flushed pink with exertion, his eyes so dark they looked like they would swallow you whole. His muscles rippled as he fucked you open, the lines under his eyes crinkling as his lips tightened in a smirk. Madara whispered your name and gave one more strong thrust before you squeezed your eyes tight in ecstasy. “Such a bad girl,” he taunted.

This orgasm was unlike any other before, your entire being felt tingly and a different kind of pressure built in your sex. When that pressure released a large burst of clear liquid gushed from you and your eyes rolled into the back of your head. Your legs shook, your walls trembled, and you barely heard Madara’s own grunt of release as he poured his molten semen into your womb. Your everything trembled and you felt like you might melt into the table below you. Your vision went from white to black and you felt your consciousness begin to fade.

“You may rest for now,” his voice sounded so distant in your mind. “We’ll resume shortly.”

When you woke next, you felt so disoriented. Your eyes were open, but everything was hazy, you felt like you were sitting on something hard but comfortable and you lifted your head to try and see where you were. “It took you long enough, pet,” came Madara’s silky voice from behind you. His chest pressed to your back and his arms pressed you further against him. “We still have three more nights of fun to get to.”

A/N: Again, this amazing art contribution was made by the one and only @skydaddy01 please go check them out and send them a huge thank you from me! Madara looks incredible, doesn't he? Uhg I can't stop looking at this art.

Part Two

Hashirama||Tobirama

Season 2

Omg yes ! I went to a farm a little while ago and they had a cute little bunny with a gray/blueish color, he was so damn cute ! But he was scared of many human. I, on my side am scared of rabbit (😅)

So the only one i was comfortable enought to touch was him but i could see that he was a little scared so i was barely touching him and after some time with only two little pat in that meantime, the little baby come litteraly to me 😭🥹✋💗💗💗

And now that i saw this image i can't stop thinking that he's like this Tomura bunny 😂🫶

OvO he's almost blue in the light and here how he is in a darker light, at that moment he was still scared so he was "hiding" (not the best place to hide buddy)

bunny Tomura and sea urchin Dabi.

YES ! FUCKING YES !

Like my work? Please consider commissioning me or contributing to my Ko-Fi!

Chapter Twenty-Four - At Last

Summary: Tomura Shigaraki was her dad’s boss’s son. He was the creep that stole girls’ underwear and tried to grope her in his room. But it’s not like he could get her Dad fired just because she wouldn’t sleep with him, right? …right?

CW: Quirkless!AU, Explicit Smut, Dub-Con, Coercion, Blackmail, Cheating, Sexual Guilt, Humiliation, Unhealthy Relationships, Virginity Kink, Groping, Power Play, Hate to Love, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Animal Death, Slow Burn, Misogyny

Notes: Ho(s) Ho(s) Ho(s)! Happy Holidays my lovelies. Here is an early Christmas present (or late Hanukkah present) to get you through the holidays. Thank you all for always having so much patience for my slow updates and I look forward to finishing this fic with you all in the New Year!

Read Full Chapter on AO3

[excerpt]

Door-slamming was not particularly common in the Shigaraki household. It was a fact that would be surprising to many, considering how much anger and resentment was harbored just under the surface of this “perfect” luxury, penthouse apartment. Nonetheless, it was a rarity. Perhaps due to the very fact that they were under this roof, that any weakness that led to such an outburst was kept so under wraps. The head of the household was too poised and the young successor too self-destructive to ever show the hand of their emotions like that.

So, it went without saying that when Kurogiri heard the front door slam open, hours after Tomura Shigaraki was due home, it gave him enough concern to pause his dish washing.

“Tomura Shigaraki?” he called out to the entrance.

A thunk responded. And then a twin thunk soon after. They were his shoes, hitting whatever wall or plank of floor was unlucky enough to be in Shigaraki’s way, Kurogiri realized as he left the kitchen and saw the young ward storming through the living room in bare feet.

“Is everything alright?”

He didn’t respond. Just continued to storm straight for the staircase.

Ignoring Kurogiri when he was pissed off was practically the norm for Shigaraki. That wasn’t enough to worry his ever-attentive and unphased carer. It was the dazed sway and stumble in his step. The way that he walked straight into the decorative end table, clearly hitting his foot hard enough to hurt, but not slowing down. Only throwing the offending furniture aside hard enough to splinter. Violently, but wordlessly.

Now, that behavior worried Kurogiri.

“Tomura Shigaraki, what’s wrong?”

The clear, unsettling mix of numbness and pain practically frothing at the surface, just waiting to bubble over and tear him apart.

“ Tenko .”

A forbidden word in this house, but one that was serious enough to finally stop Shigaraki in his tracks. But not for long. He tried to climb up the stairs just a second later, but it gave Kurogiri enough time to actually catch him by the shoulders and turn him around to look at him.

His expression was ragged, broken. Not unlike the way he looked when he first came into the Boss’s care. But there was a burning hatred in his eyes as well, one much more raging and self-loathing than Kurogiri had ever seen. And that was saying something.

There were no polite words Kurogiri could use to describe this expression. Frankly, it worried the shit out of him.

“Tomura, son,” Kurogiri breathed, letting himself show a sentimentality and worry that his boss would certainly fire him for if he knew of it, “What’s happened?”

Everything about him — his body movement, tense posture, the fresh blood on his neck — it all conveyed a furiousness that Kurogiri was quite used to, a tantrum-like anger that was no cause for concern. But his face read something different. A blankness, a sickness, an exhaustion.

Devastation.

Tomura Shigaraki was breaking before his very eyes.

“Nothing,” he lied through grit teeth.

Kurogiri reached into his vest pocket, pulling out a spare handkerchief he kept exactly for these purposes. He reached it forward, padding Shigaraki’s neck gently, “ This is not nothing, Tomura.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” he spat, looking away and tilting his head back so that Kurogiri could get a better angle at his neck.

Now that had to be the greatest lie he’d ever heard the boy spout.

Realizing that this current path was getting him no closer to a clear answer, Kurogiri decided to try a different approach. To dig a little deeper.

“You went to see your friend today, didn’t you?” he asked, “How did that go—”

Shigaraki snapped to him, furious and frantic. He smacked Kurogiri’s hand away from him, might’ve even hit the family caretaker if he hadn’t had the quick instinct to step away.

“Don’t mention her! Don’t you ever mention that stupid bitch to me again!” 

Ah, so that was it.

“It’s alright, Tomura Shigaraki. You can tell me what happened,” Kurogiri assured gently, trying to figure out the best way to get close to him now that he’d started tearing into his neck again. He was like a cornered animal right now, a captive wolf trying to chew its own leg off and ready to bite and kill anything that got near him, “Just calm down—”

“Calm down— I don’t need to fucking calm down!” he practically screamed, “You think I give a shit what she does with her life? What she does with him ?! It doesn’t mean anything! She’s worthless! Just another whore Sensei bought me to keep me from getting bored! I hope she fucking die—!”

Shigaraki froze suddenly, unable to get that last word out of his mouth. Because it wasn’t true. 

None of it was true of course, but that especially — the idea of not only him never seeing her again, but her not existing at all? He couldn’t even pretend to think that. Just the idea of it made him sick.

 He slapped a hand over his mouth suddenly, a distress that Kurogiri knew all too well filling the young boy’s bloodshot eyes.

No more words or time was needed. Kurogiri grabbed Shigaraki by the shoulders and rushed him to the bathroom where he promptly and violently emptied the contents of his stomach.

Continue on AO3

Give Your Heart a Break - Chapter 2 Tomura Shigaraki x reader series

You can find chapter one here

Notes: So I want to clarify that in this fic, a major theme about Tomura's story is that he suffers from a lot of untreated mental illness. I'm representing him as someone who's undiagnosed Bipolar, but also experiences symptoms that boarder schizophrenia, such as the voices he hears and he'll eventually have a psychotic episode at some point in this story. I know this feeds the "Bipolar and psychotic people are evil" stereotype, but I have these mental illnesses and see Shigaraki as someone who could very much have untreated Bipolar disorder (type 1 specifically), regardless. Most anime characters aren't written to be bipolar lol but I have a list of reasons why I think he has the potential to be. Maybe I'll make a post about it someday.

Summary: Tomura is so goshdarn determined to find his lil gamestop crush and thanks to him conveniently seeing her debit card he casually stalks her on the internet

Warnings: 18+ minors don't interact, cliffhanger, mildly dark content, internet stalking, creepy Tomura, Tomura and y/n only talk over the internet in this chapter, i wrote Tomura's thoughts but it's not from his direct POV. They are highlighted in blue, like chapter 1 Tomura hears voices and sometimes they can be nasty - they are highlighted in red, Shigaraki is kind of soft in this fic, very scott pilgrim kind of humor, edgy and derogatory humor but it's satirical, Tomura has his English Dub's voice (pre Paranormal Liberation Front), not proofread yet

Notes About Reader:

everything from chapter 1 applies

she/her pronouns

relatively active on social media but makes content private

reader is a WEIRDO

I made the reader's username mine lol

As said, she's very based off of me

reader experiences unspecified mental illness and has been to a psych ward in her past

she laughs very easily

"*your full legal name*"

Tomura considered the possibility that you may be using someone else's card or that you didn't go by your legal name but he was sure it was a decent place to start. His heart was racing so hard to find out who you are. He wasn't sure what struck a chord in him when he saw you. He supposed it was cuz you're pretty, but he really didn't know anything about you other than you're spooky, like anime, and like his hair.

He immediately started searching for your name on his phone. It wasn't hard to find your Facebook, though your privacy settings didn't let him see much other than profile pictures. You seemed somewhat outgoing from what he could tell.

There was a directory about you online, and he guessed it was you based on your age and location (he saw your location on FB lol). Now he knew your address..

the internet is so nice to him sometimes :)

It took him a little bit of digging but he found your other socials outside of Facebook. All private, though. Fuuuck.

Fuck it, follow.

Tomura never showed his face on his socials and never ever ever put his name. She wouldn't know it was him.

"But now she has to approve it :("

*bugsinmybrain accepted your follow request*

:)))))

Tomura swore that he felt as if he had unlocked a fucking treasure chest. You were so very flashy, that's for sure. A lot of pictures of you, decorated with some cute stickers that were edited in, or surrounded by anime dudes.

"Tenko"

"Fuck off."

From what he could tell, you were a geek. Very nerdy and interested in things, though that wasn't a bother to Tomura. He was a fan of a lot of shit. You were also very pretty. He then stumbled on some posts you'd made about heroes. How you thought their system was corrupted and that they'd neglect people and dismiss those who they thought were worth sacrificing. Mmm, you're speaking his language.

You didn't appear to be any kind of villain, you couldn't be so outgoing on the internet if you were, but you were certainly feisty.

He wanted to message you. He knew it would be weird and he didn't want to creep you out, but god he wanted to talk to you. He wanted to know more about you. To be honest, he really wanted you to give him your undivided feminine attention. When you spoke with him at GameStop he felt warm. Love at first sight? Possibly. Is he that much of a fool?

His social anxiety made him almost want to watch you outside your window before messaging you online anonymously. rrr.

"whatever."

him: hey, do you remember the blue haired guy from GameStop?

you didn't answer for two hours.

Tomura tried to not care if you responded or not but he was boiling hot and itching anxiously, wondering if you had actively ignored him. But you didn't unfollow or block him, he checked many times.

her: omg yea

!!!

him: is your name (y/n)? that's what your card said. sorry thats creepy af but i kinda wanted to talk to you so I looked you up.

He wasn't even attempting to not be a stalker at this point. What else was he supposed to say? There's no way to cover the fact that he has a crush on you or something.

her: yea that's me. i noticed you peaked at my name so it's ok lol. what's your name?

"fuck"

he wasn't supposed to say anything like that online. He's a piece of shit, yea, but a part of Tomura didn't want to lie.

"Tenko"

That's a name he heard often. For the last couple of years he began experiencing frequent auditory hallucinations. Hearing "Tenko" was one of them. Sometimes they'd tell him to stop or scream at him or strangely enough, they'd be calm and nurturing to him. It drove him crazy sometimes.

Whatever.

him: Tenko

her: why did you want to talk to me?

him: that's an awkward question

her: why?

him: i guess it's not. you look cool and said shit about hating heroes. is that a good enough reason?

her: LMAO

i suppose

him: do you play any video games? I saw you go to the anime section...

"She'll know that I was creeping on her"

*deletes that last sentence*

him: do you play video games? you came into gamestop after all lol

her: i play but i'm not very good at any of them

"of course she isn't"

him: what games do you play?

her: league of legends

him: omg are you kidding me?

her: no

him: do you wanna play with me? like. right now?

her: sure??

score.

You were trash at league. But somehow it was charming seeing you try your best, though your efforts were very frugal. Normally seeing someone so bad in his game would make Tomura pissed but he gave you a pass. At the moment, he was more worried about getting to know you than the game itself. So he tried all he could to get you to talk, he loved your voice.

"I'm going to assume you're very new to this?"

"Yea."

"How new?"

"I've been playing for maybe 3 months."

"That long and you're still shit?"

"I know I suck," you say defensively. As if you could hear the things in his head.

"You kind of do, not going to lie."

It wasn't long after that you got essentially gangbanged by three enemy players with no hits back.

"FUCK"

The loud cussing in his headphones made Tomura jump, but he couldn't help but start to chuckle violently.

"Feisty bitch ain't she?"

"She wants to suck your cock."

"Shut up..." Tomura growled under his breath.

"Did you just tell me to shut up??" You ask, though chuckling while you did.

"What? No, no. Sometimes I just have really bad thoughts that come out of nowhere. I have to like.."

"Tell them to be quiet?"

"yup."

"I've done that. Like actually, though. I'll just start thinking of the most wacked out thing, and it comes out of no where. Sometimes I knock on my head to get rid of them, hah."

I guess a spooky looking gal like you being mentally ill isn't a surprise to him. Your ability to relate to his situation was still comforting, though. Especially because he almost expected you to get uncomfortable when he told you about having "bad thoughts." Some girls may think a freaky looking dude like him having "bad thoughts" meant that he was some homicidal villain.

oh wait

"Really? I've had it happen to me all my life, but for the last two years I've like...heard voices, I guess? Sometimes the thoughts aren't even thoughts, they just happen. And I'll hear them, in voices that aren't mine. Also forget all of that, I'm normal and you're very bad at league."

The giggle that erupted from you shot an infestation of butterflies inside his chest. You seemed to think he was very funny, which is something that frankly turned him on. Throughout your call he was able to make you snicker from saying the dumbest shit. He prayed you weren't just faking it.

"It's ok. You'd be surprised how common that is. Doesn't make it any easier though, I'll say that," you reply, hoping to ease his nerves. You could tell even over voice call that while he spoke very easily about his hallucinations, he had a level of shame for them.

"No. It doesn't. Who made you a psychiatrist, anyways?"

"My six stays at the psych ward maybe," you retort.

"sexy."

"Excuse me, Tenko?"

Oh right. That's his name right now. Fuck, he wanted to see you in person. He felt like he'd be able to be more of an open book that way. He'd still need a story though, fake name or not. You probably thought you were just talking to some geeky gamer boy with blue hair and possible schizophrenia, but little did you know, you were talking to a facilitator of multiple acts of mid-level terrorism. Hey, but if it was all in the name of "Fuck Heroes" maybe you'd still laugh at his jokes.

"Sorry that wasn't very feminism of me was it?"

"No, it wasn't" you said as you wheezed in laughter.

"You like my edgelord jokes, don't you?"

You kept laughing, now somehow he had pulled a couple of snorts out of you too.

"fat pig."

"Want to take a trip to 2016? I bet Leafy would love to make fun of autistic 12 year old's with you."

He swore that you were probably crying from how hard you were laughing. He wished he could see you on camera right now, but hearing you blow out his ear drums with your annoying yet adorable little laugh was good enough for now.

"Am I going to have to come resuscitate you?" Tomura cackles, now feeling himself starting to laugh.

"Your voice is cute."

"Liar."

"I'm not!"

"Someone once told me I sound like I'm a prison bitch cuz of how hoarse my throat is."

"wow."

"Done with the jokes, got it."

"I know, right?"

"I just think it's cute, you're very expressive."

*this is Tomura right, now by the way*

"Does that mean that uh..you think I'm cute?" he pesters with the widest smile on his face, though you couldn't see.

*que jeopardy music*

Goodness, you certainly had a girlish charm with the way your mellow voice would start chirping with laughter. He didn't think flirting should've been this easy, but you were very impressionable.

"It it ok to say yes?" you asked sheepishly over call.

"Ehehehe~!!!" Tomura squealed, mocking your giggles.

"Shut up!"

"Am I going to have to come and rescue you? You sound like you're running out of air," he asked almost genuinely, as he held back a cough.

"Do it, pussy, you won't."

"Oh really?"

"Uh-huh."

"Would you be mad at me if I told you I know where you live?"

"Excuse me?"

"Not my fault. Blame yourself for being an on-the-grid person. The internet is dangerous, didn't you know?"

"Are we officially stalker-stalkee now?" you joked.

"Yea but my hair is blue and my voice is cute so it's ok if I stalk you, right?"

"Oh my fucking god."

"So, can I come see you?"

"Huh?"

"In person. I could be there in like half an hour. You live near me."

"Tenko, it's 10pm."

"Would you get in trouble? Do you live with parents or something?"

"Yea."

"I could pick you up and we could walk back to my place."

Now, dear readers, would you accept such an offer from a complete stranger at almost midnight, absolutely alone with him? After he has admitted to lowkey stalking you? You shouldn't!

However, we, the reader, are ignorant to common sense when we receive the slightest crumb of positive (?) male attention.

"Sure."

"teeheehee!!" Tomura teases. "Keep your eyes pealed, then. Thirty minutes, okay?"

"omg i guess."

"omg ok, what flavor of Monster do you drink?"