MY CART DIED AUAUAGHAUAGGHHH 😭😭😭😭😭💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

Okay. Breathe, Satoru. You can do this. It's just a sleepover. Just your girlfriend. Just the person you're absolutely, irrevocably obsessed with. Who you're trying really, really hard not to scare off.

Standing in your apartment, hands shoved deep in his pockets to keep from touching everything. You’re flitting around, casual, relaxed, while he’s trying to memorize the shape of your furniture, the smell of your space, the way you hum when you walk into the kitchen.

Satoru's baby-blues locking onto the bathroom door. “I’ll, uh... shower first, if that’s okay?” like it’s the most neutral, chill request ever. It’s not. He’s sweating. His ears are pink. You nod like it’s no big deal - of course it’s no big deal - but to him? It’s a very big deal.

He gently closes the bathroom door behind him. Worries if he makes too much of a sound, he will be banned from your fine establishment. Your things are everywhere. Shampoo bottles, conditioner, your razor, a little candle half-burned on the sink, your loofah hanging from the shower knob, the loofah. He stares at it for too long.

Are we at the loofah-sharing stage? Satoru wonders, frozen in place. It’s pink. Fluffy. It looks soft, and it’s yours, and he’s fighting every stupid urge in his body. “Don’t be weird,” muttering aloud, as if he can command himself into normalcy. Still, his fingers twitch. He holds it. Briefly. Gently. Just for a second. Just to say he did.

Then comes the body wash. He squirts out the tiniest amount and rubs it between his hands like it’s precious perfume. The scent hits him and he nearly slides down the wall. You smell like this. You smell like this all the time. How is he supposed to survive? Because now he smells like you.

Pressing his face into the steam and pretends it’s your neck. He’s sick. Maybe a little pathetic. He knows it. But he’s also just so in love. What can a guy do?

When he steps out, face flushed and hair damp, he feels like a teenage boy at his crush’s house for the first time - which, in his mind, he kinda is. You’re waiting for him in pajamas, makeup wiped off, looking soft and sleepy and so perfectly you. He thinks he might pass out.

And then… brushing teeth together. Should be simple. Should be normal. But nothing is normal around you. He’s beside you at the sink, trying to play it cool while your shoulder brushes his. You hum to yourself while brushing, glancing at him through the mirror, and he nearly foams at the mouth. Or maybe that’s the toothpaste. He’s not sure.

Then he sees it.

A little blob of foam at the corner of your lips.

Something happens to him. Something dark and unspeakable. He wants to kiss it away. He wants to lick it off your mouth like a psychopath. He stares. Blinks. Shakes his head like a wet dog. Absolutely not. No. Stop it.

What’s wrong with you, scolding himself. She’s just brushing her teeth. Like a person. A very pretty, perfect person.

He spits. Rinses. Avoids eye contact. Looks at the drain. Looks at your spit down the drain. Another weird thought. One that must be suppressed.

And then it’s time. Bedtime. Final boss.

Your bed is small. Cozy. Absolutely infested with plushies. He pretends to be annoyed but he secretly loves them. Even if they are plotting to kick him off the edge of the mattress. He climbs in carefully, unsure which plush is your favorite. Unsure what you'd do if he accidentally knocked one little guy off the floor. The blanket smells like your laundry. Like home. Like the future he wants with you.

You’re already under the covers, blinking at him sleepily, smile soft and content. Wearing his shirt and not much else. The fabric rides up your thighs and he has to look away before his brain fully melts. He deserves a prize for not making a move. Deciding to lay on his back, stiff, hands folded like he’s in a coffin. He doesn’t touch you. Not even a pinky. Be good, chanting to himself. Be good. You like her. You love her. You’re not a perv, you’re not a perv.

You shift closer.

A leg brushes his. A sigh escapes your lips. Your hand settles gently on his stomach like it belongs there.

He almost cries, something between a half whimper and a wheeze leaves his throat.

Slowly, carefully, he slides his arm around your waist. You don’t flinch. Don’t pull away. You lean into him.

He swears he hears wedding bells.

You fall asleep just like that, face nestled against his shoulder, breath even and slow. And he lies there, heart racing, brain fried, blinking up at the ceiling, Satoru would be getting no sleep tonight.

His thoughts are a mess: She’s so pretty. Is she really mine? What if I kissed her forehead? No, too soon. Maybe not. God, her skin is soft. I should move in. Tomorrow. Today. Right now. No, bad. Calm down. Be cool. Be a good boyfriend. Don’t get a boner. You’re cuddling. It’s fine. Just breathe. You’re okay. This is okay. Everything is okay.

He wants to. Touch you, that is. Just your waist. Just a hand on your back. Just to pull you closer and feel your heartbeat against his chest. But he doesn’t. He stays perfectly still. He doesn’t want to push anything. You haven’t done that yet, and he’d rather die than make you uncomfortable.

Except nothing’s okay. Because he’s so in love it physically hurts. Because you’re sleeping peacefully and trusting him with this little moment, and all he wants is to stay like this forever.

How are you sleeping so peacefully while he’s over here thinking about nothing but how perfect yoh are?

King For A Day tomura shigaraki x reader

NSFW MINORS DNI ive been doing a lot of loverboy shigs on here so hes kind of an asshole but not in a bad way! i tried to keep reader gender neutral again this is smut MINORS DO NOT INTERACT the block button and I are very close. 2.1k words cw: oral and penetrative sex

The hideout’s a festering pit, as always—a crumbling shrine to chaos and despair. The air’s thick with the sour stench of stale pizza, spilled beer, and the faint metallic tang of blood from some fight he doesn’t even remember. The walls are pockmarked with cracks, the floor littered with cigarette butts and crushed cans, and that flickering bulb overhead buzzes like a dying insect. He’s slouched in his shitty chair, a throne of chipped wood and peeling leather, crimson eyes glowering at nothing. His hair’s a tangled mess, falling over his face, and that grotesque hand sits propped on the table like a trophy. He feels like a walking disaster, all sharp bones and peeling skin, but you? You’re the one thing in this hellhole that doesn’t make him want to disintegrate everything in sight.

You’ve been together for months—long enough for him to stop questioning why you stick around, long enough for him to secretly crave the way you look at him like he’s more than a villain with a death wish. Tonight, you’re here for his birthday, and he hates it. Hates the stupid red velvet cake you baked, sitting there on the table with its lopsided “Happy Birthday, Tomura” in messy icing. Hates how you’ve tidied up the corner of the room, swept away the ash and grime just for him. Hates you playing house. Hates how it makes his chest tighten in a way he can’t stand.

You’re leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching him with that glint in your eye that drives him insane. Your shirt’s loose, slipping off one shoulder, and those shorts you’re wearing cling to your thighs in a way that’s begging for trouble. He scratches at his neck, leaving fresh red welts, and snaps, “Quit gawking at me like some lovesick idiot. It’s pathetic.”

You push off the wall, sauntering over with a sway that’s deliberate, taunting. “It’s your birthday, Tomura,” you say, voice smooth as sin. “I get to gawk at my boyfriend all I want.” The word “boyfriend” drips from your lips like honey, and he scowls, hating how it sticks to him.

“Boyfriend,” he mocks, voice a jagged rasp. “What a load of sentimental bullshit. You’re delusional if you think I’m that weak.” But his eyes betray him, raking over you—your collarbone, the curve of your hips, the way your hair falls just messy enough to make him want to grab it.

You drop to your knees in front of him, hands settling on his thighs, and he freezes, breath catching like you’ve stabbed him. His jeans are threadbare, patched with holes, and that faded hoodie hangs off him like a shroud. “I got you a present,” you say, low and sultry, fingers inching higher. “Guess what it is.”

He sneers, but it’s shaky, his pulse hammering under your touch. “Probably some sappy trash I’ll hate,” he mutters, scratching harder at his neck. But when your hands slide up to the waistband of his jeans, popping the button with a flick, his words falter. “The hell are you—”

“Wrong,” you cut him off, tugging the zipper down slow enough to make him squirm. “It’s better. Tonight’s all about you, birthday boy.” Your voice is a tease, a promise, and it pisses him off how much he’s already hooked.

He snorts, but it’s weak, his hands twitching at his sides. “What, you gonna kneel there and worship me or some crap? Don’t waste my time.” His tone’s venomous, but he doesn’t push you away—not when you peel his jeans down, not when you hook your fingers into his Minecraft boxers, a gag gift Spinner got him months ago, and yank them off too. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip, and he hisses, head tipping back against the chair.

“Fuck,” he growls, voice raw. “You’re such a goddamn tease.” He’s a mess—pale skin flaking, scars crisscrossing his arms, that wild hair half-hiding his glare—but you don’t care. You’ve seen him at his worst, and you’re still here, kneeling like he’s some kind of king.

You wrap your hand around him, stroking slow and firm, and he groans, a low, guttural sound that makes your stomach flip. “Happy birthday, Tomura,” you murmur, leaning in to kiss the tip, your lips brushing over the salty bead of precum. He tastes sharp, bitter, like desperation distilled, and it’s intoxicating.

His hips jerk, a snarl ripping from his throat. “Don’t—shit—don’t fucking coddle me,” he snaps, but it fractures when you drag your tongue along the underside, tracing the thick vein that pulses there. His hands fly to your hair, fingers knotting in it, not gentle but frantic, like he’s anchoring himself to you.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you lie, smirking, and then you take him into your mouth, slow and deep, until he’s nudging the back of your throat. He chokes out a curse, hips bucking up, and you hum, the vibration pulling a wrecked moan from his chest. You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard, and he’s unraveling—every twitch, every shudder, every filthy word spilling from his lips is yours to claim.

“Goddamn—fuck—you’re too good at this,” he rasps, voice trembling as he thrusts into your mouth, rough and needy. You dig your nails into his thighs, leaving red half-moons, and he groans louder, head lolling back. This is about him—his pleasure, his breaking point—and you’re determined to push him over the edge.

You pull back, just enough to swirl your tongue around the head, lapping at the slit until he’s panting, thighs trembling under your grip. “Like that?” you murmur, voice muffled against his skin, and he tugs your hair hard, a growl rumbling in his chest.

“Don’t get smug, asshole,” he snaps, but it’s toothless, his control slipping with every wet, messy slide of your lips. You take him deeper, gagging as he hits the back of your throat, and his breathing turns ragged, desperate. “Fuck, you’re—shit—gonna make me—”

He doesn’t finish, doesn’t need to. You feel it—the tension coiling tight, the way he throbs against your tongue—and you pull back just enough to pump him fast and hard, lips hovering over the tip. “Come for me, Tomura,” you whisper, and he snaps.

He comes with a guttural snarl, hot and thick, spilling over your lips, your chin, dripping down your fingers. You catch what you can, swallowing with a grin that’s all teeth and triumph, and he’s shaking, chest heaving, sweat slicking his forehead as he glares down at you. “You’re fucking vile,” he mutters, but his eyes are wide, dazed, like he can’t believe you’re real.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, climbing into his lap before he can catch his breath. He’s still hard, slick with spit and cum, and you straddle him, grinding down just enough to make him hiss again. “Only for you,” you say, kissing his jaw, his neck, the rough patch under his ear where the skin’s cracked and dry. His arms wrap around you, clumsy and tight, pulling you against him like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“Get off me,” he grumbles, but it’s half-hearted, his hands sliding down your back, gripping your hips. You smirk, nipping at his earlobe, and he groans, shifting under you. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“Good,” you say, sliding off him just long enough to tug your shirt over your head. His eyes follow the movement, hungry, and you toss it aside, kicking off your shorts next. He’s still slouched in the chair, cock twitching against his stomach, and you climb back into his lap, bare now, skin pressing against skin. “Ready for round two?”

He snorts, but his hands are already on you, rough palms dragging over your thighs, your waist, up to your chest. “You’re insatiable,” he mutters, but he’s pulling you closer, lips crashing against yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation. His tongue’s sharp, invasive, tasting the bitterness of himself on you, and it’s a mess of spit and heat that leaves you dizzy.

You guide him to the bed, a rickety slab of springs and stained sheets in the corner of the room. He stumbles after you, shedding his hoodie as he goes, revealing the lean, scarred expanse of his chest—pale skin stretched tight over bones, marred with old cuts. He’s not pretty to most, not by any stretch, but he’s yours, and in that moment, you’ve never seen anything more beautiful. You push him down onto the mattress, straddling his hips, and he glares up at you, crimson eyes blazing.

“Don’t think you’re in charge here,” he growls, but his hands settle on your hips, guiding you as you sink down onto him. He’s hot, thick, stretching you with a slow burn that makes your breath hitch, and he groans, head tipping back against the pillow.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you say, rocking against him, slow at first, letting him feel every inch. His fingers dig into your skin, bruising, and he thrusts up, rough and impatient, setting a pace that’s more battle than rhythm. “Fuck, Tomura—”

“Shut up,” he snaps, but his voice is strained, breaking as he slams into you again, deeper, harder. His teeth graze your shoulder, biting down just enough to sting, and you moan, hands bracing against his chest. He’s relentless, all sharp edges and raw need, but there’s something softer underneath—something that shows in the way he watches you, eyes flickering with something he’ll never admit.

The room fills with the sound of skin on skin, the creak of the bed, his ragged breathing and your gasps. Sweat beads on his forehead, matting his hair to his face, and you lean down, kissing him again, tasting salt and smoke. He slows, just for a moment, hips rolling instead of thrusting, and it’s almost tender—almost—until he flips you onto your back, pinning you beneath him.

“Thought you said this was about me,” he snarls, but his hands are shaking as he hooks your legs over his shoulders, driving into you with a force that steals your breath. “So take it.”

You do—every brutal, perfect thrust, every growl and curse that spills from his lips. He’s a mess above you, hair falling into his eyes, lips parted as he pants your name like it’s a weapon. You reach up, brushing the strands away, and he falters, just for a second, something raw flashing across his face before he buries it in your neck, biting down hard.

“Fuck—Tomura—” you gasp, nails raking down his back, and he groans, loud and broken, hips stuttering as he nears the edge again. You’re right there with him, heat coiling tight in your core, and when he reaches down, rough fingers adding to the intensity. You shatter, crying out his name, and he follows, spilling inside you with a shuddering moan that’s half-sob, half-snarl.

He collapses on top of you, heavy and trembling, breath hot against your skin. For a long moment, neither of you moves—just the sound of your mingled panting, the distant hum of the generator. Then he rolls off, sprawling beside you, one arm flung over his face like he’s shielding himself from the world.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

You laugh, soft and breathless, turning to curl against his side. “Worth it,” you say, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. He grumbles, but his arm slides around you, pulling you closer, fingers tracing lazy patterns over your spine.

Aftercare comes naturally, even if he’d never call it that. You slip out of bed, ignoring his half-hearted protest, and grab a damp cloth from the bathroom. You clean him up first, wiping the sweat from his brow, his chest, the mess between his legs. He twitches, sensitive, but lets you, crimson eyes tracking your every move.

“Stop fussing,” he mumbles, but he leans into it, letting you drag the cloth over his scarred hands, his cracked knuckles. You kiss each one when you’re done, soft and deliberate, and he scowls, yanking his hand back.

“Don’t get all mushy on me,” he snaps, but there’s no heat in it—just exhaustion, and something softer he can’t hide. You clean yourself next, quick and efficient, then crawl back into bed, tugging a threadbare blanket over both of you.

“Too late,” you say, resting your head on his chest. His heartbeat’s still fast, erratic, but it steadies under your touch. He doesn’t reply, just buries his face in your hair, muttering something incoherent about how annoying you are. But his grip tightens, possessive, warm, and you know he’s not letting go.

The cake’s still there, untouched, a sad little lump of red and white in the dim light. You don’t care. This—him, wrecked and sated, clinging to you like you’re his lifeline—is the real gift. Happy fucking birthday, Tomura Shigaraki.

this is like 99% smut and I wish I could say sorry but it's not my fault tomura's birthday aligned with my ovulation week lmao.

i'm giggling at my screen rn you are the absolute sweetest im so glad you enjoyed reading through <33

no need to worry about being a damsel i am a knight after all ;) NEVER DISTRESSED MY SWEET

HEHEHEHHEHEHE <- me as i kick my feet and twirl my hair

this is all i’m good for to my family now smh my head ://///

oh i’m so upset

maybe in another life.

utahime would benefit from having a super whipped gf

like yes, you tease her sometimes and it’s cute and sweet and silly but the second her tone gets even a little serious you’re shutting the fuck up and listening!!

like okay okay. making out w her right. it’s messy and a little loud and your grip on her hips is just a little too tight but she doesn’t mention it. she pulls away from the kiss, breathing out a small “need you” against your lips.

you kinda just cock your head to the side and smile a bit. “you already have me, ‘hime.” it was a small tease, just something silly and playful to irk her a little.

ohhh but the way she looks at you after you say that… her pretty eyes are all hazy and her brows are slightly furrowed. “no, i need all of you. please.” she’s not even frustrated with you, she just needs you in any way she can get you. what else can you do other than nod and bend to her every whim? and god, if you didn’t feel bad for making your girl feel like she had to beg for what she wanted.

so OBVIOUSLY u pay her back by making her squirt all over ur face. duh.

I FORGOT I POSTED THIS????

and what if i wrote a drabble abt tomura pissing in ur mouth. what then.

HEY YOU!!! Yes you!!! Use this post as an excuse to reblog an image (or images) of your f/o. In fact, Anyyyyhing related to them. GO!!!

tw: weed, reader gets visible bruises.

He isnt sure how his apartment became your after club crash pad, but you're here, on his couch. drink and a little high. Tomura knows you're fucking stoned from the way you sink into the couch, legs spread, head tilted back. It almost looks like sleep has taken you, but you'll occasionally look his way, eyes barely open.

"So the guy tried to fuck me, right?" you continue your story. "Pulls down his pants and he's completely soft. Like, completely. Like trying to jam a marshmallow into a keyhole."

Tomura grimaces so hard that he can feel the wrinkles forming. "Jesus christ."

"That's what I said!" you say. "He was like 'baby, I can't get it up, we're in public, blah blah blah.' It was barely public, for the record. A bathroom stall with a door? Like, come on, dude. Man up and fuck me."

Tomura can't stand these stories. He also thinks about them when he watches porn.

"Can't believe that shit ass perfume works for you." He snubs the roach of the joint in the ashtray.

"You like it so much, don't you?" you coo. "Makes your fucking mouth water."

With a scoff, Tomura rolls his eyes away from you. "I have dry mouth."

"Hey," you glance over to him with half closed eyes and a cocked smile. "Do you wanna do me a favor?"

Tomura is swimming on the moment. God, he hates how you know you're hot, how you sway that pretty body specifically for male attention.

"No."

"Aw," you say. "But it's something you'll really like."

With just a hooked finger, you drag your top down, all the way until they pop free. Jewelry catches the light. He knew your tits were pierced - you never wear a bra - but seeing them, pretty gemstones against your skin, makes his body go rigid.

"Suck on then?" It's not a request. It's an order.

Tomura thinks he's smoked too much pot. His lungs suddenly ache.

"Fuck off."

The fat of your tit jiggles when you flick at your jewelry bar.

"Fuck off. You're just horny because that guy couldn't fuck you."

But Tomura is already crawling towards you, staggering across the room, slotting himself into the space between your legs... Your ribs vibrate with a giggle as he desperately leans over, his chapped lips ghosting over your skin.

There's nothing soft enough on him, nothing worth touching you. He shouldn't do this, shouldn't be so fucking pathetic, and yet he presses his lips into you.

The metal is so warm in his mouth. He presses the flat of his tongue against it and breathes in, pulling on you gently.

"Not like you're a fucking baby." You pull him away by his hair, just far enough to give him a fucking look. "Suck'em like a whore."

His inexperience is showing. Tomura sucks until his teeth go hollow and your body rolls, bucking into him as your legs kick out. He toys with the bar clumsily, with his pointed tongue, wetting it with his tongue and testing anything for your approval.

"Yeah, fucking flick it. There you go." Your hand is shifting beneath him, working in jagged little circles. "Knew you didn't have dry mouth."

Oh, that pisses him off. Your smart ass attitude. He catches your skin between his teeth in defiance.

"Mm, fuck." Your back arches. "Yeah, use your teeth."

Up close, your perfume is less gummy bear and more complex. It's flirty, slightly floral, marked with the musk of your sweat.

"Fuck yeah. Mmm. Leave a hickey. Aa-- aaa--"

He does. Tomura will do anything you ask him to. He doesn't know where to put his hands; if he should be touching you or keeping himself away from you. Just as he starts to get a rhythm, you jank him back by his hair again. This time, your skin is glistening with his spit.

"I have another tit too," you direct his mouth to your neglected tit.

You're going to cum; Tomura can tell by the way you're whining and cooing and squeezing that fist in his hair. He can smell your arousal too, hear how your pussy clicks with its own wetness-

It's with a garbled, high sound that you come undone, feet sliding against the couch, torso twitching. Tomura pulls away when you push at his forehead, pulling in a breath he didn't know he needed.

"Shit." Tomura wipes the spit from his mouth.

"Hey." Your skin is blossoming with bruises. "Can you roll another blunt?"

That cuts through the haze of his arousal. He leans back onto his knees.

"Yeah. Sure. Fine. Whatever."

The rhythm of his heart just won't go down, not even as he rolls the paper and licks the edges. It's Spinner's weed, but he doesn't care about that right now, not when you're lounging like that, tits still out.

(He almost wishes that Spunner would come home and see you like this, with him.)

((He hopes Touya never comes home ever again. He'd see you like this and immediately flash that hot smile or whatever he does-)

"Tomu," you coo. "Wanna take a couple puffs and keep going?"

"What do you mean 'keep going?'"

Your knees fall apart, exposing your wet soaked panties, the cotton visibly damp-

"You can try to put that marshmallow in," you laugh. "If you're up for it."

i’m getting my nips pierced tmmrw. i am so scared. so nervy.