A Concept: Dabi Dicking You Down So Thoroughly You Leave Deep, Dark Scratches On His Back. He Wears Them

the “good girl” after he cums & before he pulls out is what I live for

horror is a romance genre

I'm almost done with two mods, just need to take some screenshots and post them. But my mind seized upon an idea that just would not leave me alone until it was made real.

I had to get the devil's slutty, slutty forearms out.

I just pray I don't get banned from Tumblr for posting such obscenity.

his new high

Warnings: DUB-CON, Organized-Crime, Drug (Shimmer) Use, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness

Summary ~ You soothed his pain in a way shimmer never could, and now he’d rather destroy your dreams than watch you leave his arms.

The first time Silco saw you, it was in the fading light of a backroom chem lab. You were bent over a half-conscious man, stitching his torn arm with mechanical precision. His screams filled the room, curses and desperate pleas, but you remained calm, steady, your voice soothing. There was no hesitation in your movements, no tremor in your hands. You didn’t look up when he entered. Not even when the room fell into that particular kind of silence, the delirious ramblings of the injured man fading as he slipped into unconsciousness. It was the kind of silence that settled when someone powerful walks in.

You didn’t fear him. That was your first mistake.

“Most people flinch,” he said eventually, his voice a smooth rich timber. One eye gleamed with an unsettling interest. The other was ruined, unblinking.

You tied off the final stitch and set the needle aside. “Then most people aren’t busy saving someone’s life.”

Silco smiled, it wasn’t a kind smile.

He started showing up more often, sometimes to have you patch up one of his men, stitch a wound, or set a broken limb. Then came the calls for help with research, concoctions, healing. Gradually, he began to trust you enough to assist him in administering shimmer to his red eye. He always had a reason. But over time, those reasons began to wear thin. You were sharp enough to notice

“You don’t need me, Silco,” you told him one evening, after his lieutenant left with freshly bandaged ribs. “You just want something.”

He stepped closer, the scent of smoke and oil clinging to him, the faint metallic tang of shimmer still lingering around his skin.

“And you’re so sure that’s a bad thing?” he murmured. “Wanting something.”

The obsession wasn’t sudden. It was a drip. Slow. Poisoned.

A package on your desk one morning, a vial of rare solvent, only available in Piltover, wrapped in black silk. A gift of soft velvet-lined gloves, with a note: “To protect your hands. We can’t afford to lose them.”

A word to your landlord, suddenly, your rent dropped to nothing. "Consider it... gratitude," Silco’s voice had been like a velvet noose, tightening around you.

You told yourself you weren’t his. But his people stopped calling you by name. They started calling you Silco’s medic. Then, simply, Silco’s.

He kept coming back. Each time, it was a new wound, a dislocated shoulder, a burned hand, a poisoned operative. But he never left right after. He lingered, watching you as you worked. Sometimes, he brought rare supplies, claiming they were for your patients, but he always insisted on giving them to you directly.

He learned your rhythms. What made you laugh, when you skipped meals, how your brow creased when you were focused, how you chewed your lip when you were uncertain.

And somewhere in that quiet obsession, shimmer began collecting dust.

You never saw the moment it shifted. The moment his need for you went from admiration to something darker. Something possessive. Addictive.

One day, while you were restocking shimmer, you mentioned it, absently. “I’ve applied for a fellowship in Piltover. Medical sciences. If I get in... I’ll be gone for a while.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

You turned slowly, feeling the weight of his gaze, a cold burn against your skin. Silco was staring at you like you’d just ripped the breath from his lungs.

Piltover. The word alone was bile in his mouth.

“You want to leave?” he asked, too calm, like it was a simple question.

“For a year. Maybe two.”

“For them?”

“No. For me.”

He stepped closer. You could feel the heat of him now, the tension building between you. “You don’t need that. Everything you’ve built ... we've built, it’s here. These people need you. I need—”

He stopped himself, like he was choking on the words.

You stared. “You need...?”

He looked away, jaw clenched, before answering coldly, “The undercity needs you.”

But the lie hung in the air, thick and suffocating, like smoke.

After that, things changed. The guards around your clinic doubled. Your mail stopped arriving.

And one morning, you found a letter from the Academy , torn at the seal, empty, discarded in your trash bin.

You confronted him, and he didn’t even pretend to be innocent.

“You belong here,” he said, they will use you. Break you. Strip you of everything that makes you... you.”

“And you won’t?” you shot back.

He stepped closer. So close that you could feel his breath on your lips. “No,” he whispered. “I’ll worship you.”

“You belong here,” he repeated, the words trembling with a quiet madness that sent a chill skittering down your spine. “With the undercity. With me. Piltover would ruin you.....strip away everything that makes you… you.”

“Ruin me?” you shot back, your voice rising as you took a defiant step toward him. “You’re the one caging me! The guards, the missing mail, this—” You thrust the torn letter toward him, your hand shaking. “You don’t get to decide my life!”

His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Don’t I?” he murmured, closing the gap between you with a predator’s grace. The heat of his body was suffocating, the scent of him, smoke, oil, and that faint metallic tang, wrapping around you like a chain. His hand rose, fingers brushing your cheek with a tenderness that felt like a lie, a trap disguised as affection. “Everything I’ve done, the rare solvents, the gloves, your rent, it was for you. Because you’re mine.”

You jerked away, but the examination table pressed against the backs of your thighs, cold and unyielding, trapping you in his orbit. “I’m not yours,” you said, your voice wavering despite your resolve. “I’m not some… thing you can own, Silco. This is obsession, it’s not love. It’s control.”

His hand froze, his expression flickering...pain, anger, then something deeper, more unhinged. “Control?” he echoed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “No, my dear. It’s devotion.” He stepped closer, his body crowding yours, his breath hot against your lips. “You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The way we fit. The way you calm the storm inside me.” His fingers slid to the nape of your neck, tangling in your hair, not pulling but holding you in place, anchoring you to him. “You’re my salvation.”

Your heart pounded, a traitor that refused to still. You wanted to push him away, to scream, but his proximity, the raw intensity of his gaze, stirred something within you, fear, yes, but also a flicker of something else, something you couldn’t name. “You’re wrong,” you said, but the words lacked conviction, your voice barely above a whisper. His thumb brushed the pulse point at your throat, and you hated the way your body responded, a shiver racing through you, warm and treacherous.

“Liar,” he purred, his lips grazing your ear, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core. “You’ve never flinched from me before, not when you stitched my men, not when you held my gaze while dosing my eye. Why now?” His hand tightened in your hair, tilting your head back, exposing the vulnerable curve of your throat. His lips brushed there, a fleeting kiss that made you gasp, your hands instinctively grabbing his coat, unsure whether to push or pull. “Because you know what I want… and part of you wants it too.”

“No,” you said, louder, shoving against his chest. But he was immovable, a wall of lean muscle and unshakable will. His free hand slid beneath your shirt, fingers splaying across the bare skin of your waist, possessive and warm. The touch was electric, and you shuddered, caught between revulsion and a spark that flickered low in your belly. “Silco, stop,” you said, your voice trembling. “This isn’t right.”

His eyes softened for a moment, a glimpse of the man who’d once brought you rare supplies, who’d watched you work with quiet reverence. But the darkness surged back, drowning that fleeting light. “Right?” he murmured, his voice a low growl that vibrated through you. “Nothing in this world is right. But you… you’re perfect.” His lips crashed against yours, not gentle but desperate, hungry, as if he could consume you, bind you to him through sheer force of will.

You turned your head, breaking the kiss, but he didn’t stop. His mouth moved to your jaw, your neck, leaving a trail of bruising kisses that drew a whimper from your lips. His hand slid higher, pushing your shirt up to expose the soft skin of your stomach, his fingers tracing the curve of your ribs with a reverence that belied the coercion. “Silco, please,” you said, but the words were a plea, not a command, and he heard it.

“You say no, but your body begs for me,” he whispered, his voice thick with triumph. His hand cupped your breast through the thin fabric of your undershirt, his thumb brushing over your nipple, coaxing it to a peak. He groaned against your skin, the sound raw and primal, and you hated the way it sent a pulse of heat between your thighs. “You’re mine,” he said, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric, his touch both gentle and demanding, a paradox that left you dizzy.

You pushed at him again, but your hands faltered, your resolve fraying under the onslaught of sensation. His other hand moved lower, deft fingers unbuttoning your pants, slipping inside to find you already wet, a betrayal that made him groan low in his throat. “See?” he said, his voice a dark caress. “You want this. You want me.”

Tears stung your eyes as you shook your head, but your body was a traitor, responding to his touch with a heat you couldn’t deny. His fingers teased you, slow and deliberate, coaxing pleasure you didn’t want to feel. “Silco, please,” you said, but the words were softer now, your voice breaking as he pushed you toward an edge you didn’t want to cross.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, pulling back to meet your gaze, his good eye dark with need, the ruined one a void that seemed to swallow your protests. “Tell me, and I’ll make it good for you.”

You stared at him, torn between the fear in your heart and the heat in your body. “I…” you started, but the words caught in your throat. You didn’t know what you wanted. The uncertainty was a crack in your armor, and Silco seized it.

He kissed you again, softer this time, but no less possessive, his tongue exploring your mouth as his fingers worked you, pushing you closer to a precipice. When he pulled back, he lifted you onto the examination table, the cold metal biting into your bare skin, baring you to his hungry gaze. His hands were everywhere, on your thighs, your hips, your breasts, claiming every inch of you as he spread your legs and stepped between them.

His trousers were already undone, his cock hard and heavy against your thigh, and you gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders, unsure whether you were pulling him closer or pushing him away. “I’ll worship you,” he whispered, his voice breaking as he positioned himself at your entrance. He entered you slowly, deliberately, each inch a claim, a promise, a curse. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as he filled you, the stretch both painful and intoxicating.

He moved with a reverence that belied the coercion, his thrusts deep and measured, his hands cradling your face as if you were something precious, something sacred. “You’re mine,” he said, his voice a low chant as he drove into you, each movement pushing you closer to an edge you couldn’t escape. And as pleasure built despite your protests, you felt yourself unraveling, giving in to the storm that was Silco, his touch, his voice, his obsession.

He didn’t shoot shimmer anymore.

He had traded one addiction for another.

You were his new high now.

Toga: I don’t friend-zone people, I relationship-zone them.

Toga: You wanna be my friend? Too bad, we’re dating.

I actually think it's cool and sexy of humans to be so intrinsically social that we bond with fake people we will never meet like I think that's really cute and a side effect of a highly adaptive trait and not at all pathological

Late Night Tutor (BNHA)

Pairing: Shigaraki x Dabi x Reader

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: Heavy noncon, blood, minor knife play

A/N: Here’s some food uwu

This was a bad idea. A terrible one that you were so stupid to even consider. You frowned at your table, looking at the stacks of textbooks, paper, and pencils and highlighters. Normally, when you tutored people, you would do it at the library. And during the day time. But the two who hired you were so desperate that they insisted it had to be tonight and at your place. For whatever reason.

Keep reading

The Sweetest Torture - Karma Akabane

A/N: Here is my second comm, for @kyberhearts​ who so graciously let me run wild and splurge on indulging us with our God! She knew my nasty ass was going to get carried away and I was on my best behavior to write a good girl for her. Hope y’all enjoy! <3

Music Inspo: “End of All Days” by 30 Seconds to Mars; “Mirrors” by Natalia Kills; “Teeth” by Lady Gaga & “Flesh” by Simon Curtis.

Warnings: 18+ Content, Minors DNI.  (Smut: Masochist! Reader; M/s dynamics (pet/owner, master/slave), bondage, forced stimulation (use of toys), degradation, pain play, strike/impact play (slaps, flogger), knife & fear play, slight blood play, sensory depravation, dacryphilia, edging, squirting and rough af sex. Aftercare and a pinch of praise to follow.)

Word Count: 5.1k

“I punish you with pleasure, And pleasure you with pain.”

“You didn’t greet me at the door…how disappointing.”

The soft clack of boots against the floor echoed in your head like a countdown, fidgety fingers tugging and smooth the thin red straps that criss-crossed your curves. The closer the noise drew, the more your heart began to thud in your chest as if trying to mimic the same beat. Your eyes burning holes into the wood of the door, straightening up as the steps paused and the crystal handle began to turn. The sweetest smile curving up your lips as it was thrown wide to reveal the man you had been impatiently waiting for, tired eyes landing on you as he cocked a brow.

“Welcome home, Master~” You purred, hands folded neatly behind your back, leaving your lingerie clad body on display for his hungry gaze.

“That’s why, is it…?” Karma mused idly, closing the bedroom door behind him and strolling toward you as he began to pop the first several buttons of his white dress shirt while eyeing you up.

Coming to a halt in front of you, he tilted his head as he ran the back of his knuckles along your cheek, smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth at the way such a simple touch had your lashes fluttering and your lips parting with a content sigh. You had missed this, his hands on you, more than you had even realized until this moment. Karma had been gone on ‘business’ for several weeks now and you had wanted to make his homecoming special–surely he had missed you just as much, right?

“It’s such a shame, I’m exhausted, pet.” He mused, tone raspy as he roughly patted at your cheek with a click of his tongue, stepping to move around you.

“I thought…you’d like to unwind, sir. I wanted, want, to help.” You explained as you took a side-step to place yourself in his line of vision again, swallowing hard as you caught the way his amber hues began to darken.

“You thought?” He asked with a skeptical brow, letting out a light laugh when you eagerly nodded in reply, knuckles grazing your heated flesh again until he gripped up your chin. “We’ve been through this before, darling, thinking isn’t your strong suit is it?”

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if a hot evil villain tried to seduce me to the dark side i would simply say fuck yes

Okay but on the exhibitionist Drabble with erasermic, imagine aizawa s/o looking mic dead in the eye as she’s getting railed and just saying “am I doing a good job, Yamada-sensei?”

Warning: teacher role play

Jesus fucking CHRIST WOFJOEKS.

Shouta’s fucking you just right, cock harder than you’ve ever felt it. Knowing Hizashi’s there, watching him absolutely dominate you, made him lose his cool.

He pushes down between your shoulder blades then moves his hand to hold your cheek against the mattress. The view is perfect. He loves watching you take every inch while you pant and moan his name, every so often answering his “who do you belong to?” with a fucked-out, “y-you sir!”

Hizashi has died and gone to heaven. You look so good getting fucked. Your body’s just so sexy and pliant as Shouta pounds you into the mattress. His eyes are half lidded, and he’s pumping his cock to match Shouta’s pace.

The tension between you is palpable. Those heavy, hypnotic malachites watch your every move, his lips slightly parted as he slicks a bead of precum over his tip with his thumb.

“So fuckin’ good-“ he mutters, only to hear you moan his name and Shouta comment on how tight you just got.

You look him right in the eyes and ask, “Am I doing a good job, Yamada-Sensei?”

It turns him on so much he almost bursts then and there. He groans long and loud as his hand works frantically up and down his length, tightening and twisting as he focuses more on the head-

“Fuck baby, yeah you are. You gonna be a good little girl and let him cum inside you?”

You nod and whimper, meeting Shouta’s thrusts with greedy little jerks of your hips.

“You want us to teach you a lesson? Make you our cute little teachers’ pet?”

Shouta groans at that, hips moving faster as he grips yours with a knuckle-white grip. You’re babbling now. An endless steam of “yesYES please cum in me pleaeplease!” and then Shouta’s giving you what you want, cock throbbing hard as he fills you with rope after rope.

The sight pushes Hizashi over the edge. He bites his lip, thumbing the underside of his cockhead as he shoots all over his abs and tattood chest, stroking loose and easy until the last throb.

His hands flop to the side, stomach heaving as you all try and catch your breath.

“You know I’m never gonna knock again now, right?”