Happy Late Halloweennnn I Just Got Back From A Rave :3

backshots with his hand under your chin to force you to hold your head up and arch your back for him. extra points if he slides his fingers in your mouth and smiles at how quickly you start sucking on them

➺ wolf!suguru x lamb!reader x serpent!satoru

cw: suggestive, mouth inspection (you like their mouth), suguru wears a muzzle, teasing, gagging, spit, blood (dw it's only a tiny bit & he kisses it better :>) , biting, etc ..

the wolf!suguru and serpent!satoru brainworms are backkk :3

serpent!satoru wraps himself around you, holding you in his strong limbs, cool glistening scales press into your soft delicate skin, sure to be leaving little imprints for you to find later. his forked tongue peaks out from between his glossed lips as he sniffs around — you smell so sweet. his split tongue catches your attention, and like the naive little lamb you are disguised as, carefully, curiously, you bring your fingers to it. holding the warm wet flesh of his tongue between your fingers, just feeling it; it's soft. satoru grins evilly; you're so trusting, so daring as you play with his tongue and putting your little fingers in the serpents mouth. teasingly, satoru wraps his tongue around them, trapping your fingers in a tight hold. hugging them tightly with his tongue, until your eyes finally meet his like he's been wanting. he releases them with a satisfied glint in his eyes as you move your fingers along the textured surface of it, inching closer to his glossed lips, he says nothing as you do. you're entranced, your fingers drag higher and higher along his tongue, drawing teasing shapes on the way (he thinks he recognizes them as characters that spell out your name but that could just be his mind playing silly tricks.) you trace the shape of his sharp fangs, pressing ever so lightly against the sharp ends. it's not enough to break skin only enough to sting a little. when you pull away to look him, pulled from your own world by that pleasant sting at your fingertip you find that serpent!satoru's eyes are already on you, looking throughly entertained by all this, perhaps a little bashful as well if you look hard enough. a soft glowing pink at the tips of his ears, you aren't alone in enjoying this.

wolf!suguru is wearing a muzzle. you had insisted. his remarks the last time around having stuck with you a little more than you could have anticipated. so here you are, little lamb back in the wolves lap with a flimsy contraption made of metal and leather restricting his jaw from opening in full (or rather that that's the intended purpose) your drum your fingers against his chest, playfully. teasingly. his threatening teasing remarks land a lot softer with his jaw securely bound. your nails clink against the metal softly, the sound hitting your ears like your favourite song, there's a smug little smile on your lips and your eyes all too self satisfied as you look back into his. while still holding your gaze, you slip your two of your fingers through the small space between the metal bars of his muzzle, tracing over the shape of his soft lips. you press the tips at the centre to pry them apart, your two fingers glide across the surface of his sharp teeth and along the inside of his lips. suguru's jaw is locked, not allowing you further access into his mouth. suguru's eyes follow each of your movements. waiting, patient. hoping to see how far you will take this. you look up into his eyes, a little pout on your pretty lips, wordlessly pleading — he never says no when you do. loosening his jaw a little for you to slip into his mouth. you follow the curves of his teeth, and venture further into his warm mouth, pressing down against tongue. the wetness of it making your fingers slip further in he nearly gags. although your movements are limited by the metal against his face, you do your best to reach further into his mouth. wanting to feel his throat tighten around your fingers once more, to see another line of drool escape his lips, to hear the little sound you would've never guessed would come from the wolf. straining your fingers against the metal, reaching, you're about to do it again when his teeth come down on your fingers, biting into the soft skin enough for only a few crimson droplets to land on his waiting tongue. you gasp at that (more in shock than pain) pulling them away quickly, suguru catch's you before you get far, holding your wrist in place, keeping your fingers on his lips and your body secured in his lap. the metal you strain your fingers against begins to burn. suguru licks the blood still oozing from where he pieced your skin, kissing gently the little cut for good measure. his sharp purple eyes meet your now glossy meek gaze, the sight bringing that hungry grin to his lips. some leather and metal wont protect you from him if he did wanna bite. oh the little lamb isn't so self satisfied now.

now playing…

bring me to life by evanescence

↺ |◁ II ▷| ♡

yandere asylum therapist! suguru x reader

the official prequel to this oneshot!!! while it is in the same au, this one (and the other one) can def be read as standalones!!!! ^.^

cw’s!!: descriptions of violence (bashing someone’s skull in, knocking someone’s teeth out), gn! reader, no use of y/n, delusional sugu!!! (the best sugu imo :3), and i think that’s it!!!! ^^

wc: 1.2k :))

one more meeting. one more meeting and you’d finally be done with all of the infuriating hours spent in and out of various psychiatrists offices. one more meeting and then you could go back to your cell and fuck off like you knew the nurses wanted you to (you weren’t stupid, you saw the way the nurses glanced at you through their peripherals. it’s not like it wasn’t for good reason). one more meeting and then you could just choose whichever therapist you vaguely remembered the name of (probably the irritatingly serene one. she was more than willing to talk about herself when you refused to answer any of her questions and she seemed tougher than the others, like she wouldn’t crumble under a few threats from you.)

there were four security guards surrounding you while you walked. it was like a big, blaring alarm. “do not come close.” (as if the loud metal clanking of your restraints and the vibrant red of your jumpsuit wasn’t enough to signify that already).

three of the guards fell back when you made it to the door. the last office was in a strange spot, past all of the cells and a long hallway, all the way in the back of the institution. there was a plaque outside of this door, as if someone important was sitting inside waiting for you (you almost laughed at the thought. flesh can be cut and bones can be broken, can’t they? your status can’t save you from violence).

you barely got to skim over the name on the plaque before the door was open and you were unceremoniously shoved through it, your lips immediately parting to shoot a half-formed threat towards the guard behind you (probably something about bashing his skull in, you didn’t really premeditate your threats before dishing them out)… until you were interrupted.

“now now, is that any way to treat my patient?” the voice that cut in was deep. smooth and warm but not pleasantly so (not like a fireplace or a summers day, but like heated metal running along your skin. so hot that you don’t even register the pain until you’re already burned). there’s a hand on your shoulder before you even realize, the deep voice closer than before. you resist the urge to shudder at the touch.

“why don’t you go sit, hm? i can’t imagine those heavy restraints are comfortable to hold up like that.” you only respond by shouldering his hand off of you and sending the security guard a sharp glare, the metal of your restraints loud when you settle yourself in the chair in front of a large oak desk. you felt like you were at a business meeting rather than a preliminary therapy session.

“i’ll handle it from here.” is all the man says before the last security guard leaves the room. you don’t bother to look at him as he settles himself in the chair across from you.

it’s quiet for a long moment, the only sounds in the room being the soft shuffle of the papers he’s looking through and the ticking of the clock on the wall (god how you wished you could knock it off the wall. it seemed to be getting louder with every incessant tick). you were starting to wonder if he was planning on talking at all (you could only hope. you’d much prefer to sit in silence rather than watch yet another doctor desperately try to get you to answer their questions). your hopes were dashed as soon as they appeared.

“i apologize for the delay, that was rude of me. it’s just been quite a while since i last took a patient, i’m rusty with the procedures.” his voice finally cuts through the silence. you don’t say anything, you don’t even glance up at him. interesting.

“i’m sure you saw my name outside, but it feels rude not to introduce myself anyway. i’m dr. geto, the leading psychiatrist of this institution.” that catches your attention. your eyes are already narrowed in annoyance when you look at him, your brows only furrowing more when you took in his appearance. he was pretty. irritatingly so. you don’t doubt he had every nurse wrapped around his finger just because of that fact.

“you’re the leading psychiatrist? so what, is this some sort of last ditch effort to fix me?” you question, your sharp gaze continuing to watch him through your lashes. you hated how smug his expression was, how those purple eyes seemed to dissect you the moment they had a chance, how he smiled at your cynicism.

“if that’s how you want to think about it, then yes. though i would say that’s quite a pessimistic line of thinking, no?” you don’t say anything, so he continues. “i was the one who requested to see you. i stopped taking patients when i got promoted to this position, but you…” he pauses, considering his words. “your case interested me.” you scoff.

you can tell he’s waiting for you to say something, watching you with that same unsettling smile. you’re caught in a strange sort of staring contest with him, but it only lasts until he says your name.

and that. that’s what makes you snap.

it was nothing more than a soft utterance, something to call your attention back to him… but the way he said it, the way the syllables dripped from his lips like something so nauseatingly sweet while he held that agitating fucking smile on his face… you were convinced he was lucifer himself.

“if you keep smiling at me like that i will knock all of your fucking teeth out, do you understand me?” you lean forward in your seat when he doesn’t respond immediately, your restraints clanking with the movement.

“do you understand me?” you repeat. you’re not loud with your words, not at all. you’re deadly quiet, eyes wide and staring right at him. he manages to school his expression quickly, but you’re perceptive. you catch the flicker of surprise on his face.

he swallows before he speaks, his adam’s apple bobbing slightly with the action (you briefly wonder what it would feel like to cut through it). “… i understand.” his volume matches yours but he can’t hide the slight breathiness in his voice.

his heart is pounding so loudly in his ears he’s almost sure that you can hear it just as clearly as he can (he wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case, at least. he wouldn’t be surprised if you could read his thoughts with the way you were looking at him).

he briefly wondered if you were something divine, something sent down to punish him by seeing right through his facade. something that could see that he deserved to be in those restraints just as much as you did. the thought sends a shiver through him and he averts his gaze (which is only confirmation to him. why else would he be so distraught if not for some sort of divine intervention?)

you both make your own decisions when you’re escorted out of his office a few minutes later.

anyone but him is what you decide.

and he decides that he’s yours.

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 was going through your blog and oskskdkf it looks like you're having SOOO MUCH fun here with your mutuals 😂😭😂😭

You guys are absolutely hilarious (and dramatic) ndndjf I love the vibe you've brought here. Following!! ❤️😂✨

i am having. sm fun.

UR TOOOOO SWEET TYSM ML <333 i truly luv my mooties smmmm im glad u enjoyed watching us fool around LMAOAO and tysm for the follow im sosososo happy to have u here!!!!! <33333

posting an aizawa thingy later. be prepared (ominous)………..

anyways.

i could’ve fixed geto.

……………????????????????????????

hi so this is actually insane???????

grinding on a man’s hairy tummy while he’s lying down with an arm lazily bent behind his head. he’s greedily soaking in your every movement and sound, pawing at your tits with his free hand—pointedly not helping you get off because you insisted you could do it yourself…