superbly multifandom : ill write for My Hero Academia, Crime & Punishment, The Magnus Archives, Avatar: The Last Airbender, Harry Potter, Starkid, et cetera ad infinitum
will write: fluff, comfort pieces, concept pieces, suggestive pieces/limes, X reader or character ships, occasional original content
will NOT write: graphic sex, ¡ncest of any kind, underage x overage ships, extreme gore, & certain kinks
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synopsis: you want your boyfriend to pay attention to you and not Call Of Duty, but he’s creative in how he splits his affections.
Arriving home for the night, you find Tomura the way you usually do: smoke-soft hair tangled into a knot on top of his head, slouched unrealistically far down in his swivel chair, kicking half-full bottles of Sprite, Mountain Dew, and other more nebulous liquids out of the way of his dangling feet. You can’t help but deflate.
“Tomura.”
His veins flex under thin two-finger gloves as he stabs buttons on the controller without even looking, his heavy-lidded, crimson eyes sliding to your silhouette in his doorway, cracked lips twitching at the corners. “Mm?”
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.”
—————— 🕸️ ——————
a/n: if youre interested in a specific pairing, scene, or prompt my request box is wide open babey
🕸 the unlucky combination of his corrupting quirk and abominable personality has made shiggy the most cringefail hermit 4chan-dwelling uber-virgin you can imagine. no hygiene, no boundaries, and definitely no sense of shame
🕸 he crouches on the bed and watches you sleep. he opens your mail. he reads your texts over your shoulder. basically kiss any privacy that you ever had goodbye
🕸 your unique immunity to his quirk makes you the first person he’s ever even come close to romantic involvement with, so naturally he is utterly fascinated by a body he can touch without killing it. he could spend hours staring at parts of you in isolation— he’s eerily captivated by your collarbones, your ankles. predictably, he has a thing for your hands
🕸 “made you something, bitch.” “get the fuck over here.” “you talk too much.” (affectionate)
🕸 tomura talks a LOT of shit. calls you names, spews misogynistic rhetoric and incomprehensible 4chan terminology nonstop, but you know it’s steaming bullshit because all it takes is a hand in his hair or a thumb across his cheek and he’s snapping his mouth shut, pupils dilating rapidly, drooling down his chin and furiously readjusting his sitting position
🕸 makes you sit in his lap and talk into his headset while he plays call of duty or whatever
🕸 this man is HUGE on pda. he’ll bite you, tug on strands of your hair, pass his gleefully trembling fingertips under the hem of your shirt. he gets to touch you, show everyone who you belong to, and prove to anyone watching that he, tomura, can pull?!! he’s giddy and drooling again. you will be pinned up against a wall with his tongue down your throat, and the more people watching the better
🕸 he’s so gross. he eats the weirdest things, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, talks with his mouth full, never washes his clothes or makes the bed
🕸 of course he’s violently attracted to you. that’s a given. but there was one specific moment a while into your relationship when you casually did something to care for him— ran a brush through his hair, or rubbed some lotion into a particularly bad raw spot— and he horrified himself with the sheer depth of love and obsession that instantly flooded his nerves. fuck, he was in too deep— it wasn’t supposed to get this way, where he’d do whatever you asked without a second thought and probably die without you.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
can you please do dabi as a bf again but more explicit (nsfw)? tysm
DABI AS A BOYFRIEND II
Not My Type: Dead As Fuck 2 - Motionless In White
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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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[ sorry this ended up way long + i have no experience writing this stuff LMAO but i hope you enjoyed anon 🫶 thank u for the request! ]
✣ he’s unthinkably pumped about you stealing and wearing his clothes. catches a single glimpse of you in his cloak and can’t form coherent thoughts
✣ gets cute aggression real bad. you can sense when he is actively fighting the urge to crush you to death
✣ the way he literally never stops smiling makes you learn his other body language so well you’re basically telepathic
✣ entirely lacks the ability to take his eyes off you. ever. he’s not even embarrassed about it either
✣ he will take any chance to smell your hair. sorry. he likes the way you smell in general and will plunge his face into any part of you given the opportunity. sorry
✣ i’m not at liberty to elaborate on this but he is a whimperer to the core. just extremely vocal in general. no shame
✣ pulls you onto his lap without thinking about it. especially likes when you study or read there in the semi-dark while he pets your hair
✣ maintains these everlasting, frankly alarming vendettas against everyone who’s ever wronged you. he’ll use his quirk to jerk them around and hurl them to the ground without ever dropping his smile
✫ incurably watches you sleep. you get used to waking up to it eventually. maybe.
✫ neck kisses all the time
✫ his communication skills are shit. you feel like a kindergarten teacher explaining to his expressionless face how to talk about our feelings
✫ he keeps a hand on your back or your shoulder or in your hair when you’re together, absently keeping track of you
✫ “you’re cute when you’re scared.”
✫ warm ass hands
✫ he definitely has a weird and scary thing for pain. “you want to touch the staples? yeah, you can touch them. you can rip them out of my face with your teeth if you like.”
✫ dabi doesn’t do nicknames. pet names are once in a blue moon.
✫ driest texter to walk the earth
✫ the self deprecating jokes are actually mad funny. sir please stop calling yourself crispy
✫ gets very um. creative about degradation.
✫ it’s all “come get in the shower with me” and then you stick a toe in and the water is two degrees away from freezing to ice. sorry not all of us have fire inside okay
✫ he doesn’t like you cautious around his injuries, even treating/tending them: “stop being fucking gentle with me.”