*ꏂꋪꋪꄲꋪ*

You haven't been feeling well. 

Every waking minute felt like a gargantuan effort to keep breathing, to keep blinking, to keep putting one foot in front of the other. You had a perpetual fever and a cold sweat forming rings of perspiration on your night clothes- you couldn't find the strength to change, much less shower or eat. Concerning eating, your stomach felt like a black hole consuming you from the inside out. No matter how much food you stuffed down your face (entire loaves of bread, boxes of cereal, frozen fish and shrimps, raw eggs, uncooked cuts of meat), it never quelled the ache.

Alfred had been the only one to note your deteriorating health, and when he had the time in between taking care of the rest of the family and patching them up after patrols, he tried his best to soothe your pain. The painkillers would give you five blissful hours of relief, dreamless sleep, before you find yourself startling back awake, the pain in your stomach worse than before. Maybe it was appendicitis? 

Alfred tried to do a preliminary check, but found nothing indicating illness or organ failure; you can actively see his patience for your pain decreasing. You're not making it up; you feel like you're dying. Alfred doesn't seem to think so, he's stopped giving you those little white tabs of heaven- codeine, then cocodomal, then just paracetamol, before just soothing lemon tea. You're not making up this pain. 

You haven't been feeling well. 

You've been hearing a voice in your head- auditory hallucinations from mental exhaustion, you had tried to reason-. The guttural foreign tone of the voice, the way it'd whisper to you in the dark of night as you tossed and turned, clutching your stomach, the way it promised relief from all your pain if you simply gave into it- you were starting to believe you were on the verge of psychosis. You avoided mirrors; the first time seeing those black pools of all-seeing nothingness had been enough to send your heart into overdrive and freak you out enough to start crying. 

Tim had found you shortly after, holding your knees to yourself as you wracked out tired sobs. He'd been concerned at first, trying to find out what was wrong, when he discovered no physical injury and your almost nonsensical ramblings about seeing something else's eyes in the mirror, he remembered Alfred's words about your 'illness'. 

It made sense, Tim reasoned to himself, that you were acting out to get attention; the rest of the family was very busy with vigilante life and couldn't spend much time with you, but you were eighteen now, too old for childish shenanigans like faking illnesses. He'd helped you back to your room like a parent humouring a child about checking for monsters under the bed, and tucked you in, closing the door after him- leaving you to the dark, to the pain, and to the voice that cooed at your loneliness and despair. 

You haven't been feeling well. 

It was apparent now as you stumbled slowly to breakfast. Alfred had summoned you from your room, at his wit's end with your Munchausen's act. He declared that you'd feel better after getting out of your bed and having breakfast with the rest of the family while forcing your curtains open and opening the window- the light stung, and the shrill chirping of the birds rang in your ears. He'd left your door open for you to follow. 

Maybe you were just making all this up? You thought to yourself as you held the porcelain basin with shaking, sweaty hands. Eyes downturned from the mirror, you refused to look into it even now, a nauseating feeling in your stomach forming as you thought about the monster that was waiting for you inside it. What the fuck were you thinking? There was no monster, no pain, no illness; you were fine. Alfred said so; you weren't sick. The piercing pain in your stomach was probably just hunger pangs. You could smell breakfast; your disgust with the smell of grease and cooked meat was probably hormones or something.

You shove your feet into your slippers and stumble slowly to breakfast. You were dizzy, so dizzy. Your breathing was short. The pain in your stomach was spreading to your lungs. The sounds of your family laughing and chattering made you want to cry at how much it was grating on your sensitive ears. You pushed open the door to the dining room, and no one looked your way besides Alfred, who was nodding in approval at your effort to rejoin normal activities before resuming his usual tasks. 

You wanted to cry for him to come back from the kitchen, your head was feeling fuzzy and warm, and you could barely breathe. Something is wrong! Something is wrong, and your family isn't even looking at you.

Dick is teasing Jason about the new romance book trilogy he's obsessed with. 'They're ignoring you.'

Tim is debating with Damian about some details of a case. 'You don't even exist to them.'

Stephanie is laughing as she fills Cass in on the details of her patrol last night. 'You exist to me, you're all that is.'

Bruce is reading documents on his tablet while also listening to Duke's words about his latest basketball game. 'You can be so much more, we can be so much more.'

You clutch your hands to your head. This voice- why won't it shut up! You're not crazy, you're not hearing voices, you're not in pain, you're not dying. Why won't your stupid body get the memo? You're not trying to be an attention seeker- how can you be if your family doesn't even look at you when you're standing right here? You're a good kid, the best one could ask for, the kind that doesn't even get upset that their family doesn't actually know them, the kind that understands that the needs of the many, the needs of Gotham, take precedence over their need for love, to be noticed, to be held or comforted. One kid doesn't matter in the face of an entire city. 

"-Will you sit down?" You missed the first part of Alfred's words, his impassive, perhaps slightly annoyed expression stings, he must think you're on your Munchausen's act again. You find the family looking at you, really looking at you now. Your shaking figure, the dark eye bags, the sweating and pale face. 

Bruce looks back down at his screen, "Do as Alfred says, kiddo." That's it. The first acknowledgement in months, followed by complete dismissal. The rest of the family does the same. Why won't they look at you? Resuming their previous conversations as if you're not falling apart right in front of them. Why can't they see you dying in front of them? Like one more step isn't going to make you spew onto the white marble floor.

There's bubbling rage in your stomach.  You exist, don't you? Why won't they look at you? Can't they see you? WHY CAN'T THEY SEE YOU? "WHY WON'T YOU LOOK AT ME?!" The words spill from your lips before you can even think about stopping them, like something else is forcing them from your throat. It's all but snarled out, your voice cracking with anger and pain and everything you've been suffering over the last weeks.

The table stills in utter shock. Never once had you dared to raise your voice like that at authority figures or family members.

Bruce places his tablet down, ready to presumably lecture you or something- he doesn't know how to approach this. You'd never been a rebellious kid- well behaved to the point he'd wished you'd do something stupid like a normal kid, he just wanted you to be a normal kid like he never got to be, like your siblings never got to be. This was the first time he'd ever seen you act out, a little late for a rebellious phase, but he'd take it.

He doesn't get to even speak because you're suddenly hunching over and vomiting onto the floor. Dark red spewing from your mouth as you cough and gag on the blood. 

Jason, who's closest to you currently, leaps from his seat to avoid being hurled on. "Jesus fucking christ!"

Alfred's immediately by your side, pushing your hair back and shoving a bucket in front of you for you to empty into. Your chest is hurting more from the heaving, and you can't help the tired, pathetic sobs. Alfred's petting your hair, tone heavy with guilt, "Oh dear, oh dear, you're okay."

You think it's Bruce beside you also, big hands pulling your shirt up enough to scan over your stomach, looking for bruising- any indication of trauma which could result in internal bleeding- people don't just start throwing up blood for no reason. He finds nothing, and that worries him more. The rest of your family is whispering, watching in concern when Bruce picks you up in his arms like a little kid. "Ready the medbay, Alfred. Timothy, I want to know when this started and how." 

"On it," Tim follows after them, opening his laptop to the manor security footage. If you'd injured yourself here, he'd find out. 

"Where does it hurt?" Alfred is asking as Bruce lays you down on a bed. You gesture to your chest and up, sobbing as you choke out, "All of it, it hurts- I told you it hurt, I told you- I told you!-"

He shushes you, pushing you some morphine for the pain, "-I know, I know, I'm sorry, dear, I'm sorry." He exchanges words with Bruce over you, but the immediate absence of pain finally gives you enough relief to sleep- you've been awake for three days at the point. Your eyes flutter shut, and the dreamless void is a welcome embrace.

"Nothing?" Bruce sighs.

Tim rubs his forehead, the gesture he does when something is particularly confusing him; it doesn't happen often. "I've checked all the manor's footage from when the symptoms started, the week beforehand, the school's footage too- nothing happened which would cause this. We're gonna need Dr Thompkins, an MRI and a tox screen, most likely, because I can't tell you what happened or what to do to fix it." 

He's tucking your still form into the bed properly, like he had done weeks ago, thinking you were just pretending to be ill. God, he was supposed to be smarter than this; he, of all people, should have caught this. Now his ignorance has resulted in his baby sibling on the verge of being hospitalised or... he can't even consider that you could be dying. He won't let it happen. 

"I must personally apologise, Master Bruce." Tim glances over at Alfred. The usually stoic butler is bearing an expression he's never seen before: remorse, guilt, and anger. His hands are shaking as he clasps them together, looking over your bedridden form. "I had dismissed this as some juvenile attempt to gain attention. The progression of this ailment is a direct result of my indolence, if I hadn't failed to act, perhaps we may have sooner-"

Bruce raises his hand to stop the butler, "What is done is done. We're all guilty in part for letting someone under our roof deteriorate to such a state without notice. How quickly can Leslie have the clinic ready for us?"

"She says in five minutes, she was already working late," Tim looks up from where he's in correspondence with the doctor, "I'll come with-"

"No." Bruce picks up your sleeping figure. He remembers holding you like this when you were so much smaller, when all of you could fit on his chest entirely, little feet cupped in his hand, precious head tucked under his chin- when had he stopped holding you? "I need you to find whatever you can- if this was an attack meant for us, we'll need to know the source to find an antidote or cure. Contact Oracle if you have to."

Tim nods in understanding, even if his tensed shoulders betray his hesitation. The other members of the Bat-family who have gathered in the other atrium of the Batcave are ready to volunteer to go in his stead. Damian is particularly impassioned, arguing something about 'blood siblings' and how you're 'the heir' (everything he's refused to acknowledge you as until this very moment- if anyone realises, they don't call him out), and that means he must obviously be the one who accompanies his father to the hospital. 

Dick is the one who ends up going as the oldest; he's driving as Bruce holds you in the back seat of the Batmobile, cleaning the dried blood from the corner of your mouth. You feel too thin, malnourished, the fat of your cheeks sunken in- the more he gazes at your face, the more he realises how obvious it was that something was wrong. Why hadn't he just looked at your face and seen this? How can he hold the title of the world's greatest detective if he can't even clock a life-threatening illness in his own child? 

"Bruce. We're here." Dick's voice is pulling from his thoughts, and it's a blur as they get you inside the clinic. Leslie's waiting, and her usually steely resolve falters when she sees you. She's never met you before, which is a good thing; she's never had to stitch you back together, pump poison from your system, snap bones back into place like your other family members- you were the one kid Bruce had told her was a civilian. So why were you here now?

She's filled in on the details as you're wheeled to the MRI machine, she almost curses them out right then and there- you'd been like this for weeks, and they hadn't brought you here sooner? She manages to maintain her professionalism by a hair's thread, instructing Dick and Bruce to wait in the adjacent room as she situates you inside the MRI machine. 

She enters the observation room to Dick pacing and Bruce muttering, "How long until we can know the results?" His dark eyes watch you through the glass as Leslie begins to activate the machine, the high-pitched whirring audible as the lights flash on. 

"Usually it'd-" Her words are cut off by the sound of your screams. Bruce's blood runs cold, and Dick freezes.

It's a sound of abject torture; it's a sound he never thought he'd hear from you, never wants to hear it again- your legs, the only thing visible of you to them right now, are seizing violently- "Turn it off!" Bruce shouts, already rushing from the room towards where you are, Dick close behind. Leslie quickly powers down the machine, and the bed extends out.

You're awake now, gasping desperately as you sit up quickly. Bruce is holding you by your arms, "Hey, hey- breathe, breathe, in and out, sweetheart." You clutch onto him as you take in shuddering gasps. Dick is rubbing your back, and Leslie is the last to come in, stethoscope on and flashlight prepared to take lucidity tests. 

You follow her directions, following the light and letting her hear your heart, "Are you doing okay? Any pain, on a scale of one to ten, one being not much and ten being excruciating, describe your pain levels, please."

"S-seven," You're slumped over in Bruce's arms, stomach still aching, the pervading hunger is all that's on your mind. 'No more machine.' Oh, and the voice is back.

'We hunger. We will eat or die.' Sure, disembodied freaky voice in your head, let's eat. You don't care anymore; you just want the hurt to go away. 

You're barely there as Doctor Thompkins explains that she wants to keep you for observation as they wait for the results of the MRI, the little they managed to get, that Bruce and Dick can come back in the morning and that you'd have the very best care as you stayed here. When had you been changed into a hospital gown? You're led to a bed that's not your own, and the door closes behind the nurse after she gets you ready for bed. It's silent for a beat.

'You wish for the pain to stop, little human?' Yes, creepy voice, just make it end.

'Permit me control of the vessel.' Fine.

It's been three days since you went missing.

Leslie had been the one to break the news, apparently, the day nurses went to check on patients during the shift changes and found you absent from your room. The nurse questioned Leslie whether you scheduled to be discharged during the night as soon as the senior entered the clinic for her shift. The answer was an immediate denial and panic. One phone call later, and the Bat-family were made aware. 

CCTV footage was provided to them and showed you slipping from your bed, clad only in a hospital gown, and through the window, an unlucky blind spot of the clinic security footage, as they were unsure which direction you headed after. It completely confused your family as to why the hell you'd run away. Were you delirious from your ailment- were you being threatened- feeling neglected, did you hate them?

The first night was spent in bat costumes, searching the streets, interrogating the usual suspects for any hint of involvement, asking for favours from contacts. It all led to nowhere; it's as if you vanished off the face of the earth. The second day and night were spent the same way. Bruce tried to distract himself from all the possibilities of what could have happened to you by focusing on the investigation- trying not to imagine finally finding you in some dingy warehouse, face beaten beyond recognition, cold and still, the Joker's laugh echoing-

Jason's warm hand brings him back from the present. Bruce has been staring at the hospital footage of you for three hours at this point. He wipes the sweat from his brow, the tension is shoulders hunching them painfully. "We'll find 'em, but we ain't gonna do shit if you're exhausted; we need you at full capacity." 

He knows Jason's right, the lack of sleep was going to do nobody any favours. Before he can argue, the rest of the family is also forcing him out of the batcave and to bed. Alfred's there to make sure he actually enters his bedroom and not his study to continue the investigation.

Bruce permits himself to rest a while, lying in bed. The silence settles with the silk sheets, and for the first time in years, Bruce cries. He just wants his kid back home; he'd never let you out of his sight again when he found you. He can't sleep, not like this. So he finds himself walking to your room.

It's a mess from your weeks of hell, in pain and being dismissed about it. The bed is unmade, the floor a mess, and the place smells of you and sweat and something that might be mango-scented oils. The room is undoubtedly a reflection of you. Unlike the rest of the house, which is decorated in sleek black-and-white gothic style, your room is bright. Your bed frame is yellow, and your sheets are burnt orange.

Your decor is a burst of sunset colours, and the walls are littered with pictures, drawings and posters. Your favourite TV shows and bands, there are pictures of you smiling beside people your own age that he doesn't recognise, your friends? You have a bookcase full of books- some he'd read, some he didn't recognise. There are awards on your shelves, a little Oscar statue for drama, a metal star award for reading, a medal for first place in long jump- he'd never seen any of them before.

There's a whole thick folder of atleast forty certificates, your very first from grade school about creative writing, progressing through to 'for asking good questions all week,' effort, learning, determination, 'football skills', working well, good behaviour, 'advanced reading', 'coming up with scientific theories and how to test them', 'ambition', scripts and picure pamphlets of the school plays and musicals (you'd been in eight- he'd never been to any of them), an acceptance letter for being student principal in middle school, choir letters- a concert tour to Italy that he'd signed off on and paid for but never fully read or realised.

There's a picture of you from kindergarten, and he stares at it. Your little cheeks, big round eyes, chubby hands holding up your mess of a painting proudly, your smile wide on your little face, and god damn it- he just wants his sweet baby back. He'll show up, he promises; it's not too late. You could still need him.

He falls asleep in your bed, your picture clutched to his chest.

It's on the fourth day that you show up.

You casually stroll downstairs to where the family is having a sullen breakfast. They pause at the sight of you- fresh, no longer gaunt, alive, sitting at the table like you haven't been gone for the better part of a whole week. Alfred freezes in the kitchen doorway.

You spread some jam on your toast. "Morning."

Dick drops his fork. Jason and Tim are looking at you, mouths agape; Damian's brows are furrowed in confusion, and Duke beside you is staring wide-eyed. Stephanie and Cass exchange worried glances. 

You're taking a bite of your toast when Bruce stands and rushes to you, enveloping you in a massive hug, "Oh- hey, wow- watch the toast-"

"Watch the toast?!" Dick sputters at your blase words. "Where the hell have you been?" Damian demands. "I thought- we thought-" Stephanie blinks.

"We've been looking everywhere for you. You- you're not ill anymore?" Bruce cups your face, analysing and evaluating; he finds a healthy flush, a lack of those bruise-like eyebags from before, no fever. You seem perfectly fine, better than ever even. 

"I've- uh. I've been around. Hah." Your voice sounds strained. "I'm fine, seriously." 

"Around? Where? Answer me, clearly-" Bruce's expression becomes more suspicious and concerned. 

"I said I'm fine. Would you lay off?" You extract yourself from his grip, getting up to return to your room.

Feeling you slip from his fingers again, a wave of panic washes over him, and Bruce moves to grab your arm. Your body suddenly moves by itself, turning your back to him to judo flip him over your shoulder. Your family gasps, jaws hanging open even further. It's a movement you have no control over, and you know who's responsible.

Venom! What the hell!? We're trying to be lowkey! 'He is what you would call an asshole who has neglected his spawn. I have no sympathy.' You're gonna get me caught!

Suffice it to say, being the teenage civilian you are, being able to judo flip your two-hundred-pound father is an impossible feat, which no doubt raises even more suspicion about where the hell you've been and what has happened to you. Bruce stares up at you from where he's on his back, winded, completely dumbfounded. 

Alfred startles forward, "Master Bruce!-" 

You run past your family, who are jumping to their feet and raising their voices in alarm, and out the closest window. What the hell else can you do when you're hiding a cannibalistic alien parasite in your head? 

'Parasite?!' Sorry, symbiote.

Said symbiote is also responsible for the string of decapitated bodies that your vigilante family would soon find all over Gotham. You won't force them to make the decision to send you to jail if you never get caught by them. It's not like they'd be missing much in your absence anyway. They never did before. 

'I'd miss you.' You're just saying that cuz you'd die without your 'perfect' host.

Your hands held your knees as the man kneeling behind you pressed his tongue into you, you hissed and ran your fingers back into his hair, “it’s good…” you moaned and tugged on his hair, before he pulled back and bit down hard on the back of your thigh.

You and Shigaraki had a very stranded relationship, you both despised each other, not only that but you were a hero, nothing top ranking just a sidekick on a good day and a community servant any other day, so some would probably wonder how a nobody in the hero world was able to become so entangled with the leader on the League of Villains, to which the answer is quite underwhelming, you both simply ran into each other, he helped you by killing a villain you were fighting and you thanked him by breaking his nose, only to have him somehow follow you home.

That had been several months ago and Shigaraki had made it a habit to visit you every two weeks to a month, you’d both meet argue and fall into having hot passionate sex, today was no different, as soon as Shigaraki walked through the door of this run down motel you jumped on him, tearing his clothes from him and shivering him up against the wall as you pressed yourself to him.

“You’re so needy… I really hate that” Shigaraki hissed and smacked your ass cheek, you moaned and tugged his hair tighter, “shut up and get licking…” you chuckled and heard Shigaraki groaned at your pulling of his hair, he grabbed the backs of your thighs and pressed his face roughly into your cunt, he rubbed his nose between your folds and switched between suckling and blowing raspberries on your clit, you whined and fell forward as your knees buckled, your legs shook and a tightness coiled in your lower stomach, “you taste so good for a dirty whore” Shigaraki moaned against your clit as his held your hips up and worked you quickly over the edge, you nodded and looked back at him as you rested your chest against the ground, “I’m so dirty for you… please” you begged as you toppled over the edge and came hard on his face, he smiled against your lower lips and licked a long trail over your cunt before tracing your tongue up your back, he roughly kissed your neck as he rubbed his tip along your folds, wetting his cock and pumping it slowly, you moaned and grabbed at the floor, begging Shigaraki to take you, “please Tomura, I need you” you sobbed as he slowly slid into you, filling you completely.

Shigaraki huffed out insults as he rolled his hips, holding you steady and giving you his full length in hard thrusts that shifted you both forward and gave you carpet burns on your knees from the friction, “this hole is the only thing you have to offer… without it your worthless” he laughed and threw his head back, shivering at the way you squeezed around him, “say it… tell me your worthless” he hummed and watched as you took a shaky breath, “I’m worthless without your cock in me” you whined and rolled back into his hard thrusts, “I’d rather die then not have you in me” your walls began clamping down on him, milking and desperately squeezing him of his cum, “a filthy cum dumpster… a loose whore” he hissed and wrapped his hand around your neck, lifting his pinky finger only slightly, he tilted your head back and forced you to arch your back, “say it… tell me just what you are” he groaned as he felt your cunt pulse around him, “I’m your cum dumpster…” you sobbed and reached a hand up to cup his rough cheek, “I’m a used up whore” your eyes watered and you shook as you fell underdone, you opened your mouth and cried out, coming around Shigaraki, the man moaned and pressed his lips to yours, sliding his tongue in your mouth as he came deep inside you, fucking his cum as far into you as it’d go.

Shigaraki pulled back and gently rested you onto the ground, he rubbed his hands over your back and kissed your sweaty skin, “you’re the only thing in this world I couldn’t destroy” he hummed and rubbed your waist gently, pulling your hips up as he pulled out almost all the way before pressing into you fully, he continued this several times before your rolled back into his, “you know…” he said and you looked back at him with a soft smile, you hummed and waited for him to continue, “I love you… a lot” he hummed and leant forward, he pressed his face into your neck and ground his hips into you, “I love you so much Tomura…” you smiled brightly and felt your face heat up, your body tremble and a warmth of pleasure never felt like that before all thanks to his words.

Main Masterlist

Kinktober Masterlist (coming soon)

Day 20 - Daga Iketeru:Cutie pie.

Yandere Batfam Fics!

- Yandere Batfam & Neglected Reader: pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, ... - Dick's Characterization - The Family's Dynamic (Drabble) - Damian's early thoughts on Reader(As of pt.3) - If Y/n bonded with Constantine Instead - With Bared Teeth & Prayers(Yandere Batfam X Neglected Reader) (Dark!!! Werewolf AU): Prologue, pt.1, pt.2, ... - (Y/n)'s love Interest!!! Spoiler: He's crazy too! - Dichotomy of Conner Kent's Situation(Lore Important) Yandere Jason Todd x Reader Fics!

- But You Belong to Me (You Belong to Me): Prologue Pt.1, ...

But the way you're acting now—seems more concerning.

“Yeah,” is all he warrants as an answer. Though, he was curious as to yours as he begs the same question, “What about me?”

A smile graces your face then—there’s a comfort to it, a mild and affectionate one, unexaggerated, honest, as you smoothly swing your leg over his lap.

A look like that has no place on your face, especially when regarding him, and yet he finds himself hoping for more. He lays his book aside as you lean forward and doesn't stop you when you cup his face in both your palms.

“As far as I'm concerned, you’re not just the prettiest boy in the world—you're the only boy in the world.” You say it with a kiss, lips just as soft as the words leaving them. It shocks him, though he accepts and gives it back.

You close your eyes, laying your chest against his—he keeps his open to look at you. Observing and assessing.

You’ve truly become a whole other person altogether. A far cry from the tough hero you once were—the one who’d beat him within an inch of his life and leave him to choke on the blood.

“Will you stay with me today?” you ask against his lips—playing with his hair, looping the curly tresses around your fingers.

There’s a neediness to your voice, a certain desperation, a sadness—something lonely and something that reminds him all too much of himself. He feels both a strong urge to reject and soothe it all at the same time.

“No, I gotta go,” he says despite it. He had business.

You hide your face in his neck and continue with your tracing, now on the scrapes striping his throat where he’s raked his nails time and time again. “When will you come back?” Your tone comes out even sweeter, only a murmur mushed against his skin.

It nearly makes his heart twist. “It’s better I don’t answer that.”

It’s funny. Though the thought had struck him, he didn’t gauge any ill intentions. You could be asking, acting, plotting some escape based on the hours of his absence—yet somehow, with the way you nuzzle into him like that, as though you’re pouring your all-too-candid grief into him, he can't sense any other ulterior motive.

“Last time you left at this hour, you came back all beaten and bruised,” you mutter, now with a hint of bitterness—as if you’re cursing whoever hurt him under your breath.

It’s ironic. He sneers lazily, almost fondly, at the old memory. “You’re the one who used to beat and bruise me, remember?”

He’s truly curious if you do. Or if something’s spirited your past life away and left you like this—no longer an aspiring young hero, but something whose only value is warming his bed at night.

You arise, an appalled look of affront upon your face.

“No, that can’t be right,” you very nearly cry, as if the very thought was killing you. “I would never hurt you—I love you too much.”

Apparently, you don’t remember who you were at all.

“Love me?” he all but croaks. It’s a laughable prospect, and yet he doesn’t even smile. There’s something awful in his gut that prevents him. “Don't be stupid. You can't love me.”

Your face doesn’t drop its grimace, only further tears with forlorn outrage. “Of course, I love you!" you insist. "You’re my whole reason for living...”

You look so despaired—wrecked from his dismissal. The tears well quickly then slip down your face just as fast—and yet it isn’t the same crying as you used to. This time, it’s quiet—in wait or in dread as you beg the question, 

“Don't you love me?”

It’s an unexpected one, and it quickly proves to be an existential one—even more so than your unnerving confession. Despite not wanting to, it leaves him to dig through the muck in his head he’d long ignored, down in the dark where he’d tried burying the truth he'd felt oncoming. He'd wanted to deny it, reject it, amend it, simply because it confused him too much to acknowledge—complicated things—changed things he didn’t want or need changing.

He wonders if it’s somehow proof of fate—even though he despises such a concept. That, no matter how much you practice free will, no matter how many knots you make upon the red string, the world will pull and straighten it out, and you’re left to realize you’d brought it all on yourself.

First, he took your quirk, then he took your body—your mind shortly followed—and now it seems he’s managed to take your heart, too. 

There’s nothing left of you that isn’t his. 

There was a time he’d frolic at the thought of having reduced you to such a pathetic ghost in a shell—back then, he’d do anything to destroy you—he’d surely shatter you into a million little scattered pieces if presented with the chance, make sure you were broken for good. 

But that was the old him. Or rather, that was his dream for the old you—the hero he loathed down to his rotten core.

But the pretty misty-eyed thing looking down at him now, aching for his answer, wasn’t that person anymore.

And the truth is, the person you are now scares him more than that hero ever did. 

You were… well, you were the person who warms his bed at night, the person who traces his scars and plays with his hair—the person who wraps themselves around him and keeps him from falling apart when he stumbles through the door into the tiny little room he keeps you a prisoner in. You're his.

This time, his heart does twist. He’s never before spoken the words that dance on his tongue, or if he has, they’ve been long forgotten and come out as dust balls as he affirms them now, 

“Yes. I love you.”

There’s a flash of hope in your eyes, though it just as quickly diminishes—as if you don’t believe him.

Your lip warbles as you confirm it, “No, you don’t.”

More tears run silently down the tracks on your cheeks, gathering at the tip of your chin before dripping upon his chest—each one like a gunshot through something hollow.

“If you did, you wouldn’t go. You wouldn’t leave me here in this room, all alone.” Your nails curl into your palms where they rest atop him. You bow your head as though you can’t bear to look at him, as if it hurts. The next words come out beneath your breath, “How am I supposed to compete with the whole world?”

You’re making him feel like dying. The continuous twists of his heart feel as if you’re about to tear it right out of his chest.

He sits up and lifts your face. It’s strange, even with his two-finger gloves on. He doesn’t think he’s ever held you like this. Though, suppose it’s been a night of many firsts already. And here comes another,

“As far as I’m concerned, you are my world.”

There you are, the one thing he doesn’t wish to destroy.

Your sore eyes become round, then swell with different tears. There’s a hitch in your breath as you sigh through a shuddering sob, throwing your arms around his neck and clinging to him tightly—your body jostling while you rub your wet face into his neck, holding him close for comfort as if you're scared to ever let go.

He returns the gesture, though somewhat hesitantly, wrapping his arms around you and laying his head to rest against your shoulder.

And then, as he holds you—for the first time ever, fear of actually losing the fight ahead strikes him.

He hadn’t much cared about the outcome before. Either he’d destroy or be destroyed.

This wasn’t as simple. As said earlier, this complicated things.

But then again, it was even more of a reason to go.

“But I still have to leave.” 

You part from him—the betrayal in your tone demanding his justification, “Why?”

Suppose, in some ways, this actually made things simpler—as that was a question he had no problem answering.

“‘Cause there are monsters outside…” He rests his forehead upon yours, gazing back into those terribly glassy eyes looking back at him as he speaks to you about your dear old colleagues. “Monsters who want nothing but to take you away from me.”

If only they could see you now, they’d know… you no longer want to leave him.

“So I have to go out there and make sure they have no chance,” he explains, almost like a vow, “You’re mine, and I’ll destroy anyone who says otherwise to keep you that way.”

The way your eyes melt makes him feel all fuzzy. It’s a special type of glee, a victory before the battle even begins—to see you root for him—so deep in love with him that you’ve forgotten you’re celebrating the onset of death to all of your former friends.

They probably wouldn’t be able to take you away from him even if they somehow managed to invade this very room. You’d sooner die than betray him.

And that makes him feel all the more ready for the war ahead.

“So kiss me good luck, and I’ll come right back to you soon.”

His room was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow spilling from his monitor. The familiar click of buttons and the muffled chatter of teammates filled the air. 

You pushed the door open just enough to peek inside - and there he was.

Tomura looked ethereal in that light. His white hair fell over his eyes, his lips pressed into a thin, concentrated line, and one hand dragged across his forehead as he focused on the game. His fingers - those beautiful, deadly fingers - moved deftly over the controller.

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips - they’d gone dry from how hard you were breathing. One hand slipped between your thighs almost on instinct, brushing against slick pussy lips that made you hiss softly. You were still soaked and still aching.

Smoothing your skirt down and tugging at the hem of your tank top, you gathered what little composure you had left and stepped into the room.

Tomura barely turned his head to look at you but a low hum escaped his throat in acknowledgment of your presence.

Kicking off your sneakers, you crossed the short distance between you and him. 

Finally, his crimson eyes flicked toward you for half a second before returning to the screen. “Hey,” Shigaraki whispered absentmindedly, thumb tapping the joystick.

“Hey,” you breathed back.

You placed your hands on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath his shirt, and with one firm push, you guided him back until his spine rested fully against the couch. 

His grip on the controller didn’t falter but his crimson eyes flicked toward you again, filled with pure curiosity. 

You didn’t give him time to speak.

You swung a leg over his lap, straddling him, the heat between your thighs pressing right against the outline of his cock beneath his jeans. You grinded your wet pussy slowly against him, letting the damp heat between your thighs smear against the rough fabric of his pants. A soft sound escaped your throat before you could bite it back.

Tomura’s smirk spread. “Can’t wait, huh?” he murmured, voice low, the faintest hint of amusement threading through it. “Are you trying to make me lose this match, babe?”

“Maybe,” you whined against his ear, shifting again, feeling his dick harden beneath you.

The headset on his ears crackled with the familiar buzz of his friends’ voices, a chaotic storm of laughter, commands, and curses flying across the comms. 

Shigaraki’s fingers twitched over the controller, hands steady despite the heat crawling under his skin. His crimson eyes were narrowed at the glowing screen in front of him, yet every ounce of his focus pulsed down to where you straddled him, soft thighs bracketing his narrow hips.

His zipper had been yanked down in one rough motion then, his cock springing free - flushed, heavy, and truly aching. Tomura didn’t waste a second: he dragged the swollen mushroom head of his cock through your slick folds once, twice, teasing the heat of your entrance before driving forward in one ruthless thrust.

His headset crackled with the distant sound of his teammates talking, but it all faded into white noise beneath your strangled gasp and his guttural groan against your skin. His fingers clamped down hard on your hips, forcing you still as he buried himself to the hilt, stretching your pussy wide until your trembling body molded perfectly around him.

The short skirt he adored clung desperately to your plush thighs, lifting higher each time you rolled your hips. The white tank top you’d chosen was already riding up, hem bunched under your ribs from the way your chest pressed against his. Every drag of your body against his made his smirk deepen, a predator enjoying his prey offering itself up willingly.

Your nails scraped across his shoulders through his shirt, enough to tell him exactly how badly you wanted him. Every slow rise and fall of your hips teased him with unbearable friction, his cock already throbbing inside your pussy, trapped between his opened jeans and the damp heat of your delicious wetness.

A quiet whimper slipped past your lips before you could bite it back, the warmth of your breath fanning against his Adam’s apple. 

Tomura’s teeth found the curve of your neck instantly, biting hard, sharp enough to drag a muffled gasp from your throat but not enough to mark you. “Pathetic little slut. All you’re good for is taking cock, aren’t you?” He leant forward and bit in your shoulder, hard enough to leave his teeth mark on your soft skin.

A nod of your head confirmed his words. “Yes, I am your cockslut,” you whispered quietly.

His cock twitched in time with your hips going up, throbbing deliciously under your weight. Each tiny grind drew another desperate sound from you, and he could feel you trembling, trying to keep the sounds low, trying not to lose control. 

“Shhh, Y/N,” he reminded within a growl, low enough for only you to hear, his palm covering his mic as his pinky curled outward so as not to decay it. His breath was hot against your ear as his teeth grazed your shoulder again, biting lightly this time, more of a warning than a promise. “I’m in the middle of a match. Don’t make me let them hear how needy you are for my dick. Understand?”

You nodded frantically, face hidden against his neck as you clutched his shirt like it might save you from drowning. 

Shigaraki could feel your body shaking, the way you tried to keep quiet even as your hips rolled against him again, slick dragging over the lengthy contour of his dick.

“Look at you,” the white-haried man’s voice turned even darker, and his mouth pressed to the curve of your neck where he grazed his teeth against your heated skin, leaving an angry, bruised hickey, “Such a desperate little slut for me. Grinding on my dick while I’m trying to play. You’re pathetic, babe.”

His free hand slid down from your waist, gripping the back of your thigh hard enough to leave his fingerprints stamped on your skin. Without warning, he pushed your skirt up past your hips, palm dragging over the wetness covering your parted pussy lips, smearing it cruelly against your clitoris as he gently spanked the bundle of nerves. “Oh fuck, you’re soaked,” Tomura chuckled quietly, rubbing circles against your clitoris that made your breath catch. “All this slick just from me being gone a few hours? Do you even know how fucking pathetic you look right now?”

The controller hit the couch with a dull thud as he put it aside. He didn’t bother taking off the headset or muting the mic. Instead, his hands shot out, fisting the hem of your tank top and tearing it open with a rough pull, fabric splitting under his strength. 

Your breasts spilled free, soft and flushed from the heat between you, and Tomura’s hands were on them instantly - gripping, kneading, claiming with shameless greed. His pinkies stayed lifted, trembling slightly in the air, the constant restraint in his deadly touch only making it more intoxicating. Then his mouth found your flesh as Shigaraki sucked one of your nipples between his teeth, tongue swirling around the peak. A shudder ran through your body as his hips bucked up, driving his cock deeper into you, and you tipped your head back, biting hard into your lower lip to stifle the sound he’d forbidden you to make.

“Keep that pretty mouth shut while I make you cum, yeah?” Shigaraki hissed, his voice low and venomous as he let your nipple slip from between his teeth with a wet pop sound. “They don’t get to hear a single sound from my girl. Not a whimper. Not a breath. Got it?”

You nodded erratically again, trembling as his hands gripped your ass, giving it a proper squeeze. Then a slap came. One, then another. 

Tomura leaned back, wings of white hair falling around his face like a curtain, crimson eyes locked on yours with feral hunger. “That’s it,” he rasped. “Now, ride my dick like your life depends on it,” he ordered, voice hoarse and commanding. “Show me how bad you want to milk my cock dry, little one.”

You rocked your hips down against him, and his breath hitched despite himself, the first crack in his composure. 

Tomura’s hand moved from your ass to the back of your neck, tangling in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to make you arch against him. “Just like that,” he rasped, smirk curling at the edge of his lips. “Such a good girl you are.”

Your nails sank into his shoulders, muffled sounds spilling from your lips as you fought to obey, but every sharp thrust of his cock dragged another broken moan from you. 

Shigaraki didn’t slow down. He didn’t ease up. The dark sound of his chuckle filled your ear as his grip in your hair tightened.

The couch groaned beneath you as you rode him harder, hips slamming down fast and mercilessly. 

“Tomura…?” A voice cracked through the headset, hesitant. “Why are you breathing like that?”

A snort from another teammate followed. “Looks like he’s about to throw another tantrum. We’re probably gonna lose this round, guys.”

The words only made him growl, the sound dark and possessive as he buried his face in your neck. “Shut the fuck up,” he replied to his teammates while his lips were grazing the sensitive column of your throat. “And focus to not fuck this round up, idiots.”

You bounced against him, slick walls gripping his cock tight, sending jolts of friction that made it throb harder. Each snap of your hips drew another low, guttural chuckle from Shigaraki, and you caught a sharp rasp in his breath that was almost a growl of approval. “Yeah, just like that… “

Spinner’s confused voice crackled through the headset, “Uh, Shiggs? What do you mean by that? You truly sound kinda weird.”

Tomura’s lips curled into a dark smirk as he spat back, voice still rough and low, pretending it was all about the game. “I said I thought that the way FrostByte picked his moves would secure the win. That’s why we should play just like that.”

Little did they know, every word he’d spat was meant for your ears alone. 

Your chest pressed against his, thighs trembling around his hips, lips parting as you licked them, eyes glinting with heat. You nodded obediently, bouncing harder on his cock, letting your slick walls grip him tight as you rode him as if he was a wild stallion. Your hands slid up to your chest, cupping your breasts, kneading them hard, twisting and rolling your nipples between your fingers until they were painfully hard and sensitive. 

You ground down faster, pressing your hips hard against his, letting your nails dig into your own skin, twisting your body as you tried to find every possible angle to drive him deeper into your needy cunt. 

His thick, veined cock pulsed inside you, twitching with every squeeze and twist of your slick walls, and the low, guttural growls rolling from his throat drove you to bounce even harder, desperate to feel him stretching you fully before he emptied himself deep inside your cunt.

The friction, the heat - it was too overwhelming. You felt consumed by the rhythm you two had fallen into, a perfect storm of need, control, and raw desire.

“Look at you,” he whispered in a wry tone, a cruel smirk curving his lips as he snapped his hips up to meet yours, “Bouncing on my cock like a needy little toy. You can’t even think straight, can you? Just a dumb little hole for me to fuck.” His teeth grazed your earlobe before he bit down just hard enough to make you gasp.

A soft, broken whine slipped from your lips before you could stop it, and Tomura’s brow creased in irritation. 

His hand came up, delivering a light slap to your cheek - not hard enough to hurt, but sharp enough to make you gasp and meet his eyes again. “What did I say?” he asked, voice low and edged with warning. “Stay quiet.”

You nodded quickly, breath trembling, eyes wide and glistening with submission. 

The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched you try to compose yourself. “My perfect little whore, taking every inch of me like you were born just to please me.”

You slowed your movements, trembling as your velvety walls clenched tighter around his cock as it penetrated you, that telltale coil of heat building low in your belly. Rising slowly on shaking thighs, you ground your hips upward until only the swollen tip of his cock remained inside your pussy - throbbing, slick, and aching for release.

Your gaze found his - those crimson eyes glinting darkly beneath his fringe - and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just that look, raw and consuming.

Then you slammed back down, hard. Your mound collided with his pelvis, the sound sharp and wet, and Tomura’s breath escaped in a ragged hiss, head tipping back as a low groan tore from his throat. His hands tightened at your hips, rough enough to make you gasp. “You teasing me now?” he rasped, eyes flashing as they found yours again. “Don’t pretend you’re innocent, you little cockslut.”

Your lips parted slightly, releasing nothing more than a soft, barely-there moan.

“Such a good little thing,” he went on, voice low and sharp, every word vibrating against your skin. “So desperate to please me that you forget how to think. My pathetic slut. The only thing on your mind is getting your needy hole fucked well, huh? What, you thought I wouldn’t notice? I saw that look this morning. You were staring, devouring me with your eyes, begging silently, ‘Fuck me, daddy.’ Your little fingers didn’t do the trick, did they, hmm?” he teased.

Heat flushed your cheeks, pure shame burning through your entire being, but it was far too late to stop. Instead, you rode his dick harder, grinding down with reckless need, your hands pawing at his shirt as if it was the only anchor keeping you upright.

Every thrust of his hips sent his dick deep in your wet pussy, hips pistoning with a force that was dangerously close to feral. Tomura started panting like a rabid dog. It was a sign he was close to his orgasm. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, jaw clenching. “So tight, so wet for me. My little girl’s such a good fucktoy.”

You moaned, a sound swallowed almost instantly by the bite of his lips along your jaw. 

Through the headset, muffled laughter erupted from his friends. One of them teased, “Dude, are you coming or something?” 

Another chimed in, voice laced with mockery, “Wait, are you getting a blowjob right now or what? You breathe like a creep, Shigaraki.”

“Don’t stick your noses in things you don’t understand.” Tomura’s crimson eyes narrowed as he replied to his teammates that were teasing him.

A chuckle broke through from the headset. “Surely getting laid, huh? That’s gotta be it,” Spinner teased.

You couldn’t help but bite your lip, cheeks burning as you increased your bouncing, grinding down harder on his throbbing dick. Every slick, desperate motion drew a sharper, ragged growl from Shigaraki. 

And then it happened - your boyfriend’s body tensed, his chest tightened, eyes darked, and within a single moment, he spilled himself deep inside your abused pussy, filling you to the brim with his thick, warm semen as your walls tightened convulsively around his dick, milking him dry of his precious seed.

A low, guttural grunt tore from Tomura’s throat as his body shuddered, hips snapping forward in a merciless last thrust. 

Through the headset, laughter, whistles, and claps erupted. 

“Damn, man, that must have been one hell of a fuck!” one of his teammates called, voice teasing.

Tomura’s rasp cut through, “It was fucking perfect.”

One of Shigaraki’s teammates cursed loudly through the headset, frustration dripping from every word. “Damn it, Tomura! Because of your distraction, we just lost the match!”

A soft chuckle came from Spinner. “Relax, take it easy, it’s nothing. We’ll win the next one, no big deal.”

Yet Tomura didn’t even register his online teammates’ complaints or Spinner’s chuckle. His focus was entirely on you, every ounce of his attention dedicated to making sure you reached your peak as well.

You let your hips continue to bounce a few more times, riding the aftershocks of his cum inside you, your core tightening and quivering until your own orgasm ripped through your tired body. Hot wetness flooded your pussy, leaving you gasping and shivering atop him as your mouth formed a large O. “T-Tomura, aaahhh, it feels sooooo goooood…”

Tomura’s hand brushed your cheek, and he let out a low hum of approval. “Such a good girl,” he praised, thumbs tracing your jaw briefly. Then, Shigaraki snatched the controller back into his grip.

You moaned into his ear, lips trailing the column of his neck as you pressed yourself closer to your boyfriend. “Can I stay like this?” you asked in a shaky voice. “I love having your cock inside me, especially after we cum.”

A deep, low chuckle rumbled from him, crimson eyes flickering with a hint of softness. “You really are shameless, huh,” Tomura chuckled. “Fine, you can, but don’t get in the way of my next match. I’m not losing this one.”

@pixelcafe-network @tiny-roki-todoroki @unhinged-bratty-boy @shonen-brainrot

@carstaiu @skittlez2932 @mmari-07 @neon-gothicc @leven-and-ashley

@cemetarygoth @fayrt4tte9383 @is-isaakagain @irkedpomeranian

@gooniestgooner @azzzurrrasworld @theshxaverse @arthurbristow

It was touches and the looks he gave you, he knew you were religious and, while he didn’t shame you for it or judge your beliefs, he did use them to poke fun at you. It had just reached a new level, a level you hadn’t been expecting, nor did you know how to handle it.

If you sat next to him, he’d move closer, till your thighs were touching. If you were in the kitchen, he’d help you cook, but he’d move you to the side by holding your hips and moving you himself. If he was squeezing past you he’d be sure to brush against you. Little touches that just made you shiver.

Then came the verbal assault.

You’d catch him staring at you and question him. “It would just be so easy to reach over, y’know? I’m bigger than you, I could do whatever I wanted… with your consent, of course, sweetheart.” It was the name he gave you that made your mind spin.

One day you were at his place and watching movies, he was sitting just a little bit too close, as was the new usual. His arm was thrown over your shoulder, holding you gently. He started leaning in closer and closer, you wondered what he was planning. Dave rested his head on your shoulder, leaning on you as you normally did to him.

“No one’s ever touched you before.” He spoke suddenly, making your cheeks heat up. “I could be your first, make you feel things no one else ever has or could.” You shifted, an uncomfortable heat brewing in your gut, one you’d been noticing more lately. Especially when you were around him.

“Dave…” you trailed.

“You don’t get it, how bad I want to feel you, your body against mine.” He continued, a rasp to his voice. “How bad I want to see you under me, shivering and trembling from my touch… I want to feel you wrapped around me, every time I so much as smell you all my blood rushes down and I-I need you so bad because no matter how many times I jerk off to the thought of you it’s not you.” His hold on you grew tighter, possessive.

He didn’t stop you when you tried to get up and leave, he watched you go, but he didn’t miss the slight wobble in your step.

Later that night, it was nearing one in the morning, you were still wide awake and unable to shut your eyes, so they stayed glued to the ceiling. Something felt different, your body felt odd and you couldn’t figure out why.

You began to toss and turn, trying to get comfortable. A pillow between your legs seemed to do the trick, really good. You kept squeezing it, unsure why but you did, it felt like something.

Something came to your window, it scared you at first but it was just Dave, he snuck through your window all through high school. He climbed in, much quieter than the first time he did it. “Don’t get up.” He ordered, coming over to your bed. “I like seeing you like this.” He stood at the end of your bed, watching you shift. “Riding that pillow, wishing it was me.” Your body stilled, going rigid. “Yeah, that’s exactly what you were doing.” He began taking his clothes off, starting with his shirt and pulling it over his head, then undoing his belt and getting his pants off. Finally, his boxers came off, and he was standing naked in front of you.

Your eyes widened at the sight of him, the girth between his legs, how tall he stood, cock pressed against his abdomen. “On your back.” He ordered. “And move the pillow.” You did as he asked, hesitantly, but you did it.

He crawled onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs. He spread them further apart, giving himself better access. Your nighty pushed up, bunching at your hips, leaving just your panties between you and him, his hot breath fanning over you.

His fingers dipped into the thin fabric of your panties, tugging them down slowly to reveal you cunt to him. Dave licked his lips, gaze never leaving you as he peeled the piece of clothing off of you and tossed it to the side.

He blew on you gently, watching you twitch and your body react, the way you instinctively tried to pull away but couldn’t because he was holding you. “You don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to do this to you.” His voice was low and gruff as he spoke. “How badly I wanted to ruin you, you innocent fucking virgin.” He didn’t miss your little twitches.

Dave stuck his tongue out and licked a stripe up your pussy, savouring the taste as it hit his tongue, groaning softly to emphasize his enjoyment. He dove in fast after that, licking and sucking and slurping like his life depended on it.

Your body convulsed, hands flying to his hand and pulling on his hair. “Ah! Oh-oh my god!” You moaned, breathing coming out ragged. You looked down at him, it was a sinful sight, his cheeks wet with your juices now.

You looked to your nightstand and grabbed your rosary, clutching it in your shaky hand. Dave chuckled against you and looked up, grinning. “What, gonna pray? Pray for the sexy man to go away?” He teased, hot breath fanning over you.

You screwed your eyes shut, as if that would make him go away. The beads pinched the flesh of your palms as you muttered prayers, begging for forgiveness.