Looking At Pics Of Myself From Middle School Nd Thank The Lord I Grew Up Sexy. Holy Shit.

“a lil smth smth” ended up 975 words of pure filth bless

writing a lil smth smth abt choso sucking strap. u guys see the vision right.

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 so badly wanna write the preliminary meeting that i mentioned in the yandere suguru thing…………. i just think it’ll be funnnn teehee ^^

Aaaaah your response was really comforting, i would rather just stay on anon because I'm still embarrassed but i really needed to let this out, the person is ysaefinn

OMGGGG i had a feeling hehehehe

i can def promise u that vale is an actual angel!! they were my first mutual on here :33 genuinely one of the sweetest ppl everrrr ur in good hands if u ever decide to get off of anon!! ^^

hihihi guyssss!!

mdni!! <3

just here to say that satoru would fall into a five minute long giggle fit after cumming rlly hard. like voice cracking, stomach hurting, tears in his eyes giggling. and don’t u even dare look at him as he’s going thru this bc he’ll only start laughing harder. hes delirious and pussydrunk and just fully braindead so don’t even question him!! ^^ he would never laugh at u dw ^3^

I’m nosey so feel free to share your answer in the tags 🌚

“you don’t believe that sex is the most intimate thing that two can do together?” you repeat sukuna’s previous words with a raised eyebrow, skepticism lacing every word you spoke.

“i had concubines before i was devoted to you. do you really think i see intercourse as something significant?” he doesn’t even spare you a glance, all four of his eyes focused on carefully peeling the fruits resting in the bowl in front of him (mangoes, to be specific. a special order he put in with uraume for you). your eyes narrow at his words.

“so you don’t see intercourse with me as something significant?” that earns you a roll of his eyes.

“i don’t recall those words leaving my lips, woman.” he glances at you with a bored look, already much too used to your antics and the nonsensical conclusions you often pulled from his words (“it’s called reading in between the lines, ryo.” you had insisted. he chose not to debate you on it).

he sighs when you go silent, seemingly waiting for an explanation from him that would fix the small pout gracing your lips. he would’ve let you sulk if you were anybody else, but you weren’t.

“i realize the significance humans place on it now that i am yours, but i partook in the act purely for pleasure before you. it was simply to fulfill my fleshly desires.” he doesn’t need to look at you to know that the frown on your face still hasn’t faltered. in fact, the displeased look on your face probably only deepened upon the mention of him being intimate with other women.

“human customs are foolish, that will never change.” his hand lifts to your lips, a cube of mango held delicately between his fingers. he continues speaking only after feeding you the fruit.

“but if my stubborn little wife sees it as something of importance, then it shall be so.” he says the last part with a sense of finality, as if it was a part of his life that he accepted a long, long time ago.

you contemplate his words for a moment, your posture easing against the lavish pillows of your shared bed. you stall on swallowing the piece of fruit on your tongue, considering a question in that ever curious mind of yours.

“what’s significant to you, ryo?”

he pauses for a brief moment but doesn’t answer, simply bringing another piece of fruit up to your lips (whether the action was out of care or to keep your mouth occupied was unclear).

his lack of an answer was as good of an answer as any, though.

this was significant to him. the way he cut and fed you soft fruit with hands that had slaughtered armies, handling you as if you were made of fine china. never yelling, never arguing.

the king of curses devoted himself to you because deep in his heart he acknowledged his subservience to you.

that is what’s significant to him.

mmmmmfffff smth smth smth perv geto smth smth smth………

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:· ·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:· ·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻

roommate!geto who you are weary to move in with at first, but as soon as you meet him you feel perfectly comfortable- like you’ve known each other for decades~

roommate!geto who insists on calling you “baby” and “doll” all the time

roommate!geto who you cuddle up with in your shared living room every thursday night to watch movies~

he’s already sitting on the couch with open arms when you come out to the shared space, “what’re we watching today baby?”

roommate!geto who has to excuse himself for a minute (or two) when he sees you walk out of you room in sleep shorts that expose the curve of your ass and a tank top with no bra.

roommate!geto who gets hard whenever a sex scene comes on, he knows you can feel his length pressing against your back, but the fact he knows you can feel it turns him on more~

roommate!geto who always sneaks touches. <3

nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck while you “platonically” cuddle during the movie. taking in the scent of your freshly lotioned skin~

grabbing your waist to guide you when you’re at parties, shielding you from any boys that might be around,

pressing his hips against yours whenever he stands behind you,

tucking loose strands of your hair behind your ear mid conversation.

roommate!geto who drives you everywhere- he doesn’t mind because he loves spending time with you <3

roommate!geto who you give little fashion shows before you go out clubbing with your friends. “you look beautiful doll”

roommate!geto who despite loving your outfit can’t stop thinking about how some guy might hit on you at the club

roommate!geto who cannot shut up about you to satoru~

roommate!geto who starts taking up skirt pictures of you to show satoru what has him going crazy-

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:· ·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:· ·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻

a/n: ok i finally got the courage to get this out of my drafts. pls lmk if it’s actual shit 😭

also i didn’t proofread or anything so there might be mistakes- sorry again!

cw for drug mention :3

i need to stop hitting this cart cuz i’m thinking abt which meal each of my mutuals would be. if they were meals.