NEE RAMBLES

Mm?  What are you supposed to say to that?  You wrinkle your nose, taking in the faded pixels of whatever first-person shooter he’s moved on to dominating now, and observe in silence the splatter of animated blood as he kills two people at once.  

“How long have you been playing that?” you ask, stepping over a mound of dirty clothes into the dense gloom of his bedroom. The bloodred sunset faded long ago, and the broken blinds are half-drawn against pale moonlight.  The only illumination, stark and artificial, comes from the screen.  His attention is back on the game.

“Nine hours.  Give or take.”  

You sit gingerly on his tangled sheets, running your fingers absently around the outlines of a few ominous stains.  His night table is cluttered with Bret Easton Ellis paperbacks, empty cups, spilled pill bottles, and-- your mouth falls open.

“Tomura, is that my underwear?!”  

This catches his attention, and he spins his chair toward you enough to meet your eyes in the darkness, his red irises glinting eerily in the half-light of his game.  His gaze flicks to your panties dangling from your fingers, then back up to your face as a shit-eating smile pulls at the corners of his mouth.

“Your fault.  You left ‘em here.”

What did you expect?  When has Tomura Shigaraki ever demonstrated anything anywhere close to shame?  You sputter over your next words as he glances back at the screen, jumping out of a window and shooting somebody out of a helicopter in a one-two motion.  

“And you kept them?!  What have you been doing with my underwear?” you demand, dropping them back into their little pride of place on his night table.  He laughs at this, the sound raspy and harsh, as he slouches again, bony knees drifting apart.  

“You know exactly what I’ve been doing with your underwear.”  

Heat seeps into your face in spite of yourself as you wrinkle your nose at the panties, suddenly imbued with ominous significance in their damp coil.  You’re not even sure you do know, nor that you want to, but you catch his drift well enough.  It’s difficult not to, the depraved man that he is.

“Eww.  I shouldn’t be surprised.  You are so gross.”  

He chuckles again, adjusting his sweatpants and throwing a lidded look at you over his shoulder as his tongue slides across his teeth.  “Damn right, bitch.  Hey.  C’mere.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” you snark as you stand, clasping your hands behind your back, to approach his chair.  You don’t mind it really, especially when you hear the ghastly things he calls people he doesn’t like.  Tomura sighs through his nose, groping behind him with his free hand, eyes fixed on the gameplay, until his large, rough palm makes contact with your ass.  

A lewd, satisfied grunt rasps from his damaged throat as he palms it like he’s never touched it before, pulling you closer, jerking your butt down between his knees on the chair.  You feel the solid heat of him at your back, the point of his nose pressing into the side of your scalp to inhale deep, his thighs pressing in on either side of yours.  

“My fault, pretty princess,” he mumbles, locking your waist up against his own with gloved hands still on the controller.  “Sugartits.”

You laugh, flinching from his overbearing affections, his rough skin sandpaper against your own, setting your every nerve tingling.  “Shiggy,” you giggle, leaning your head against his shoulder to look up at him, but more specifically the mic attached to his ragged headset. “Can’t people hear you?”

His eyes flick down to you briefly, focus wavering with that animal-satisfied smile he gets whenever your hips are pressed up against his.  

“Yeah.”  He bends the mic wire down with two fingers and grips your chin without warning, pulling your face up against his, your lips inches from the microphone.  “Say hi.”

You blink at him, then at it.  “Hi?”

A smile spreads across Shigaraki’s face, wider than his lips are accustomed to-- the crackle looks painful-- but he can’t seem to help it, releasing your yielding cheeks, resting his sharp chin on the top of your skull.  His foot bounces abruptly, and from this close you can hear a tinny commotion in his headset, people yelling as if from very far away.  Silent explosions rock his display monitor, and you can feel him grind his teeth with the way his jaw shifts on top of your head.  Three more players die in rapid succession at his hand, his chapped fingers blurred across the controls.  TEAM KILL!  a banner announces, scrolling frantically across the top of the screen.  

“Haha!  Did you accidentally kill your teammate?” you ask Tomura, twisting to look at him.  He bares his teeth in a grin, pushing his hips up into yours. 

“Accident?  No.  He called you a whore.”

“Huh?”  You wrinkle your nose, nonplussed; Tomura’s gamer friends were such freaks.  “Why would he do that?”  

“Why else?  He’s a degenerate misogynist scumbag,” he replied without missing a beat, his jaw brushing warm against the side of your head.  “I killed the other subhumans who wanted to run their mouths too.”

Laughing until you cough at the very idea of Tomura having some kind of ideological problem with misogyny, you lean back against his chest, gratified at the eager surge of his caffeinated heartbeat against your spine.

“You call me that all the time.”

His face is buried in the side of your head before you know it, mouth pressed against your soft hair, breathing in like he wants to devour you.  

“I’m allowed to.”

”Should I be thanking you for defending my precious honor in Call of Duty?” you ask drily as his knee bumps yours, insistent and affectionate.  

His breathing is rough, needy against the side of your face. 

“It wouldn’t hurt.”

—————— 🕸️ ——————

Dabi enjoys giving head as much as getting it, actually.  he likes the way you flinch and shudder when the burned skin on his face scrapes harshly against your sensitive inner thighs. he likes locking eyes with you across your heaving chest to watch you struggle to stay coherent, his slow grin against you exposing sharp teeth to your hopelessly overstimulated parts.

but this doesn’t stop him from plunging his fists into your hair when it’s your turn to get on your knees for him, gritting obscenities through clenched teeth and tensing tight as a bear trap as he tries to refrain from smashing his hips into your face hard enough to break your nose.  his knees cradle your head—sometimes his superheated hand cups the column of your throat to feel the bulge in it as he slides in and out.

the other thing. his body temperature skyrockets when he’s turned on, the fire inside him boiling to the surface to simmer behind his eyes and in his fingertips.  and in other places.  you better hope he doesn’t cum in your throat because it will leave burns all the way down.  (you have swallowed, once or twice, anyway—for once in his life, it left Dabi well and truly flustered, pupils so large they nearly turned his eyes black with the dopamine rush as he computed what had happened.  he probably abruptly called you a whore and then pulled you into his chest, his heartbeat slamming against your ear like a jackhammer, before getting you water and stroking your hair like he was hypnotized.)

a thousand wild horses couldn’t take this hc away from me: Dabi has a bizarre infatuation with pain.  the nerve damage leaves him with such a high tolerance that it registers as nearly orgasmic when it happens.  he’s constantly trying to get you to be rougher with him, eyes searing and delirious in the dim light as he murmurs in your ear.  “bite there again, pretty, make it bleed this time.”  “that slap won’t bruise. do it again.”  he contents himself with the darkest hickies you can suck into his damaged collarbone, but before he drifts off to sleep, or when he jerks off, the hazy images that imprint on his brain are more like you stabbing his abdomen with pocket knives or chewing his little finger off. it would be pretty hot if you killed him one day

steam hisses off of his overheated body and out of his mouth in copious white plumes when he finishes with a groan, muffled into the top of your head as he holds you. his wiry body spasms with aftershock.  if there aren’t tears streaming down your face from sheer overstimulation, and small, scuffed burn marks where his searing flesh ground too roughly against yours all over your body, he won’t be satisfied.  there’s almost never an ‘i love you,’ but this is his favorite feeling in the world— cooling down with you in his arms, listening to you try and catch your breath, your heaving chest pressed tight to his.  good luck trying to get up to pee. 

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