#palbabor-writes commissions

[palbabor-writes]

Shigaraki noncon fic when 👀

oh. well, how about now?

Culmination

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!OC

Warnings: this is an example of a DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, seriously, this thing has full on tw.non-consensual sex, verbal and physical abuse, fingering, cunnilingus, stalking, breaking and entering, and a terrible no good very bad shigaraki, like for real - this is a DARK FIC - so shoo if that isn’t your thing, tw.noncon, tw.physcial abuse, tw.head trauma, tw.degradation, tw.stalking, tw.blood 

just, you know, all of the warnings - take all of them 

Word Count: 5041

That skirt looks good on you.

The shortness makes his eyes narrow, sharp vermillion glinting in the moonlight, but he can’t deny that he likes the way it hugs your hips and temptingly hikes as you bend to collect your mail from the brass box by your entryway. The silhouette that’s illuminated by the dull light of the streetlamp is nothing short of breathtaking and he hungrily licks at his battered lips, tongue tracing over the scar that splits his skin.

Notes: This is a commissioned fic for @kugutsuu! While it is pretty close to a reader insert, I did take the liberty of using her OC in this & because of that the descriptions are little more honed in and less neutral, plus, uh, she has a name. Shout out to @libiraki for the beta edit & all of her comments *smooches*

Culmination cul·mi·na·tion /ˌkəlməˈnāSH(ə)n/ noun the highest or climactic point of something

“This is not wise,” Kurogiri warns, voice steady, low, “it is also not something that he would want for you.”

“Mmmph, what the fuck do you know? You always like to act like you know him better, like you’ve got some kind of upper hand on his thoughts, his plans. You’re not fooling anyone, I know he tells you fuck all too, Kurogiri, you just like to pretend you’re superior to me. Well, too fucking bad. I’m sensei’s successor. I’m the one who he trusts and no one, not even you, Kurogiri, knows him better than I do. Got that?”

“I apologize. I do not mean to offend you Shigaraki Tomura, I only seek to warn–” Kurogiri pauses, mist like form shivering as he debates his next move. Tomura is still young after all and has much to learn. His inexperience and sheltered upbringing are likely directly to blame for this situation. It’s not his fault that this has happened. They should have been prepared for it. He, himself should have known better, should have planned some stratagem, something to counter this burst of... hormones... from his charge. “If you are caught, if she reports you to the authorities, or if she knows a hero, then all will be for naught. We’ve got much to do, and our master would not be pleased with this distraction, successor or not. You know this Shigaraki Tomura, I know you do.”

“She won’t,” Tomura drawls, a wicked grin curling his lips upward, baring a sharp row of gleaming teeth. It hurts his skin when he smiles like this, but he can’t help it. He’s too excited, too piqued. Fuck, he’s even half hard, picturing just how your face will fall, how the swell of your lips will quiver, shake, when you see him at last. You’ll know what’s going to happen, you’ll have to, and if you don’t, well, he’ll make you put it all together.

Kurogiri is muttering something about propriety and consequences, but Tomura isn’t listening. He’s too busy scooting closer to the edge of the bar, hips pressing against the wood until the ache that rests within his bulging pants has lessened.

“I can see that you are not listening.”

“Oh? What the fuck gave that away?”

He’s thought about how he’ll go about it.

Should he sneak behind you on the train? Or carefully shadow you home; weaving his way in and out of the alleyways, padding over wet pavement, breath hot under his dark hood, hands flexing in his pockets, cock throbbing behind the pinch of his zipper, until you’re at the sanctity of your door?

No.

That one sounds like something out of a thriller. Besides, you’re a woman; you’re skittish. He’s seen how you look behind you when you hop up onto the street, the way your neck strains, twisting, leaning forward, peering into the gloom. No doubt your ears will be pricked, wholly attuned to the smallest sound. Besides, if he opts to grab you outside of your apartment, what if you scream?

He’d do his best to clap a sweaty palm over your curled lips, avoiding the threat of your teeth, smearing that alluring shade of lip gloss, that you always insist on applying as you leave the office, all over your face as he muffles the gasp and shrill cry you’ll let out. But it’s risky. Something might eke out, might bleed over to the ground units, or he might just lower all five fingers. It wouldn’t be on purpose and he’d hate to see you splattered all over the ground, your too hot blood leaking through his fingertips, flecking skin and pretty white bone painting the crime scene he’d leave behind a vibrant red. Your red.

There’s also the added worry of your height.

You’re taller than him. Not by too much, he reasons, sucking his teeth as his cock twitches within the confines of his dark jeans again, picturing your statuesque form. Just enough. High enough that he’d need to strain his arms a little more. However, he doubts that he’d underestimate the difference. He’s stood next to you on the platform of the train, too often to count now, and he’s got the image of you engrained upon his psyche. Even now, if he shutters his twitching eyelids, he can see your outline, knows just where you’d fall, where he’d be able to press, to grab.

It’s almost nightfall, and it’s a Friday. That means you’ll be out a little later tonight. The risk of the doorway, while tempting, will need to be ruled out. Too likely someone else will stumble into the complex, will see him pushing you up the stairs, see his hands sinking into those soft waves of brown hair, his fingers sliding over your neck, plucking at your skin, forcing you to comply.

Besides, your window will be easier.

That skirt looks good on you.

The shortness makes his eyes narrow, sharp vermillion glinting in the moonlight, but he can’t deny that he likes the way it hugs your hips and temptingly hikes as you bend to collect your mail from the brass box by your entryway. The silhouette that’s illuminated by the dull light of the streetlamp is nothing short of breathtaking, and he hungrily licks at his battered lips, tongue tracing over the scar that splits his skin.

Should he let you get undressed? Let you take a shower? Brush out those silken locks and slip into something that’s easier for him to slide off of you? How long does that take? Ugh.

He’d like to ram you into the wall, jerk that plaid tartan up and dance his fingers under the sweep of your ass, exulting in each sound you gift him. You’ve got a nice voice after all. He’s heard it, once or twice, as you chat with your coworkers, or friends, on your phone. He’d like to see how sharp he can make it, or maybe it will drop even lower, rasping out shallow breaths as he drags each moan from you, or squealing as he sinks one long finger into that soft, petal pink, that he imagines your cunt looks like.

His dick feels like it’s going to burst. One hand drops to the tent it’s created and strokes a soothing rhythm along its length. He’s not worried about not lasting. He’s fucked himself to completion too many times today for that. He’d slink into his darkened room, he’d picture you, your porcelain skin, the cut of your jawline and the tremble of your lips as he worked himself into you. It always clears too fast, as he makes it through the levels of your arousal too quickly and all too soon he’s splashing thick ropes of his release over the dark material of his shirt and the bunched fabric of his boxers.

It had eased the itch, had gotten him through the day, gotten him to this cold balcony, but it’s not enough. Not anymore.

Ah. You took a shower.

Your hair is damp, and it clings to your shoulders, pooling moisture around the dip of your collarbone, staining the front of that shirt you’re wearing. It’s white and he can see the tips of your nipples as the wetness seeps downward, aided by the tug of gravity and the shaking strands of your hair.

Fuck. He’s not gonna make it much longer.

He wants you to hop in bed, to curl into the sheets, tuck yourself in, let your heartbeat slow. Relax, relax, relax echoes through his mind as he watches you pull your downy comforter back, hands patting at the ache, teeth biting, leaving indentations, half moons of strain and impatience. Not long now, he reasons, not long now.

Your light snaps off and he lunges forward, bracing himself against the slippery brick, fingers carefully scrabbling over the ledge of your window sill. The panes groan when he applies that jerk of pressure to them. Part of him wants to just decay the fucking thing, but he’s not sure he can control it, not when he’s like this. Drool froths at the sides of his lips and he flecks the droplets against his hands and the smooth glass, steadily jimmying the warped wood upwards, ignoring the pinch in his shoulder and the pounding spasms that are racing down his clawed fingers.

There! Finally!

The hinges splinter, and he topples inside, hitting the rough flooring of your apartment with a thud. His feet are already under him, bracing his fall, and he allows himself to hunch forward, frigid breath streaming into a fine mist as he looks up, searching for you.

The noise of his entrance had startled you. Your wide eyes and clutch of the soft duvet between your fingers give that much away. Good. That’ll make this first step easier.

He’s on the bed in a heartbeat and, for a brief instant, all you can see is red. His eyes are bright, glossy, feverish, glazed over with some kind of manic fervor, and that shimmering vermillion makes your gut twist. You need to move; now.

It takes a second for your body to catch up with your brain. You weren’t groggy, or sleep fogged. Shit, you’d barely fluffed your pillow before you heard the window smattering to bits, but this whole situation is a heady mixture of confusion and pulse thumping terror for you. What the fuck–no... who the fuck is this? Your first thoughts drift to plausible reasons. Is this a robbery? Some kind of misguided hit? Maybe it’s a villain who’s fleeing from a hero. Maybe... maybe it’s... a mistake? Please, let it be a mistake. You can feel your fingers shaking as you scrabble away from the lean jumble of dark limbs that’s doing its utmost to corner you. Each time you kick your feet out he’s already there and you can hear his unsteady breaths as he looms closer.

“W-what are you... who the-wha-... what do you w-w-want?” you stammer, tongue clumsy behind your chattering teeth. Adrenaline is coursing through your veins and it’s making you shake and slur your words. Your eyes snap downward and you scan your bedside table, looking for something, anything, that will get this creep the fuck away from you.

“Shhhh–” the strange man whispers, ducking his head from his dark hood and shaking out his chin length white hair. You don’t want to look at him, so you push yourself against the headboard, bare feet bracing against his bent knees. “You look so much prettier up close.”

“What t-the fuck?” you spit out, throat clenching with fresh horror. He’s seen you before? Is he crazy? Is he some kind of stalker? “If you don’t get away from me... right... right now... I’ll... I’ll call the cops. Don’t!” you shriek out, voice cracking as one of his hands wraps around your upper arm. His touch is cold, clammy and you flinch, body jerking so sporadically that you fall onto your bedroom floor.

Your bottom skitters across the wood, but you don’t waste any time on the pain, instead you surge to a distorted crawl, nails grabbing, feet wobbling as you make for your bedroom door. He’s on you in an instant and his weedy body is trapping you under him, mouth close to your ear, his warnings a gnarled stream of hot air. His fingers wrap around your throat and you gag as he yanks you backwards, knocking what little wind remained in your lungs out.

“Do something like that again and I’ll kill you,” he hisses, long nails pinching into the tender flesh of your neck. “I don’t know why you want to be on the floor for this, but I’ll play along. Now, be a good girl and keep still.”

His free hand laces its way up the thin material of your sleep shirt and he hastily gropes at your breast, pinching and pulling on your nipple until it distends prettily into his chilled touch. You bite back a cry when he twists the bud, thumb swiping over the hurt until it blends into a potent mingling of startled pleasure. “Mmm, perky–” he gasps out, licking his sloppy tongue over your pulse. The hand that’s holding the pressure against your throat loosens and you jolt forward, squirming against his grip.

“You- you disgusting pig!” you grit through clenched teeth, shaking your head and straining your thighs upward until they’re burning from the effort. “Let go of me! Right now!”

“You sound even better than I imagined…” he muses, nose poking against the side of your face, unperturbed by your distraught movements. “Smell good too. Did you wear that scent just for me? Mmm, I bet you did. It smells even better on your skin. I had Kurogiri get me some, so I could put it on those panties of yours. You left them in your bag, at the gym. Bet you didn’t even notice they were gone, did you? I was too quick for you. Ahh, but they smell just like you! Aahaha... ahh, I did such a good job with that find. Bet it’ll be even better when it’s fresh...”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” It comes out sharply, likely way too abrasive and challenging, at least for this situation, and the second the question leaves your lips, another burst of adrenaline lances through you. It’s honestly not helpful. All of those fucking things you hear about it, how it’s supposed to give you this superhuman strength, or the will to push your way out of danger. Yeah, no. It just makes you jittery and makes his steady gropes against the small mounds of your breasts spark an extra dose of tender sensitivity, something that pools into your gut and radiates outward. Shit.

“Ooh, you like that, don’t you?”

It’s not an exaggeration. You’d let out the breathiest whine when he trailed his steadily warming fingertips away from your peaked nipple, horrifyingly bleating out against its loss. He chuckles as he moves onto the twin, prodding and plucking disjointedly at the pebbled tip, shifting backwards, off of you, spreading his legs and resting his knees on either side of your shaking thighs, easing up on your throat and letting you gulp down a few hungry pulls of air. You can hear his mirth increasing as you brace your hands against the floor, steadying you within his loosening grasp.

“See? It’s so much easier when you don’t struggle. Although... I think I would like to hear you scream, at least once... maybe later… hmm?”

You shift your head and glance back at him. He’s watching you through hooded eyelids, that blazing red muffled by the fall of his dark lashes. The smile that’s lingering on his cracked lips is keen and he wets his skin with a swift lick, pink tongue pausing against a sharp canine. Your stomach drops when he tilts his chin upward, silently motioning for you to turn around.

He scoots back, giving your long legs room to maneuver underneath you, but he keeps one hand braced against your heaving chest, lazily popping from one tender breast to the other. “Get up,” he rasps out, eyes hungrily roving over your crumpled shirt and tear-streaked face. You bat your fist against your cheek, mind whirring, trying to see some way out of this.

“You don’t have to do this,” you bargain as you stand, teeth snagging on your lower lip and pulling, fingers curling into your palms, jabbing until you can feel the skin breaking. “I won’t tell anyone... I won’t... I won’t report you...I... I–”

“You finished?” the man sighs, visibly rolling his eyes at your garbled pleas. “I’ve waited for this long enough, you know... way too long. And I don’t wait for anything. Now get on the bed and shut your mouth, before I shut it for you.”

Your knee hits the side of your bed and your eyes drift to that broken window, eyeing the shards of glass that lay gleaming, like diamonds in the moonlight. He’s quick; but is he that quick? He’s not off the floor yet and he’s turned his head, satisfied that he’s broken you...that he’s got the upper hand...if you...no...don’t think...just go!

Legs are tense as they race forward and your hands are already outstretched, grabbing, snatching, lacing into the glass and gathering the pricking fragments into your palm. It hurts, but you ignore the pain, wheeling toward the window, to the crisp freedom that the night air promises. To...to…

The world shifts again and a bright burst of white streaks across your vision. It shimmers, hanging for an instant, dazzling you with all the colors that exist in the spectrum; soft blues, vibrant purples, hazy oranges, cheerful yellows, and then they all flicker out, swallowed up by the voracious pull of black.

You can’t move your hands, or your legs, and everything is awash in deep, mottled splashes of consciousness. The plush softness of the bed makes you feel dizzy and you try to shift, but something isn’t right. There are pins and needles in your hand. Why are you holding them? That’s a stupid thing to do... what if you bleed? What if... oh... oh God…

That man is still here. Who is he? Did he even say?

“Who... who are you?” you ask, voice dreamy, eyes falling over the pale dip of his unclothed ribs, wandering up the curve of his face, pausing on each imperfect splintering of his skin.

“I’m Tomura,” he answers simply, that eerie grin spreading over his lips. The false safety of your confusion flutters and there’s a pounding at the back of your head. You twist your neck, tongue too heavy in your mouth, lapping over the traces of old copper that rest between your gums. There’s something on your stomach. Red. It’s red. It looks pretty in the moonlight and you sigh, curious why your legs are spread like that; it’s lewd. To be sitting in front of Tomura with your legs wide open, naked cunt clenching and pulsing against the cold.

“I’m Lydia,” you say blankly, eyes blearily looking for that vibrant rust that’s watching you so closely.

“I know,” Tomura laughs, gleefully barking into the stillness of the night. “Fuck. You really don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember?” you echo, brows furrowing, arms trying to pull down again. Something’s holding them. Strange.

“Hmm, I told you not to struggle. Not my fault you didn’t listen.” His fingers snap in front of your face, refocusing your wandering attention, and you groan at the noise, wincing away from him.

“Stop,” you whine, shaking your head, knees touching as your back arches. Why can’t you move? And...and why...why are you naked? Questions keep drifting across your mind and as Tomura slides closer, a chill shakes its way up to your skull. “Don’t!” you gasp out, suddenly horrified he’s prying your legs apart.

“Shut up,” he grunts, one hand applying a pressure to your neck as the other dips between your hips, easily parting the folds of your slit and poking haphazardly over you. Your whole spine curves upward, sinking that questing digit lower, his finger pad brushing across your entrance. “Ah! Look at you, what a greedy little bitch. Acting like you don’t want me...fuck...you’re soaking…”

His voice drops to a hush as he leans back, eyes following the steady in and out motions his index fingers are creating within you. His nails are sharp but you kinda like how it scrapes and pulls, enjoying the drag down your sticky walls as he works more of your arousal into his hand. With a hiss he shifts his hold, rotating the digit and cupping his palm under the swell of your ass, holding you up as he pushes deeper.

“Shit, Lydia,” he growls, leaning over your prone form and sinking his nose against your neck. “You’re so warm and wet for me. Look at you!” He’s fully gloating now, and he pulls out of your cunt with a slick pop, lazily passing the gossamer strands between his splayed fingers. “Such a little slut… I wanna see what it tastes like!”

Something warns you to move and you wriggle backwards as he plants himself directly above your slippery pussy, scooting along the sheets until he has to grab you. His fingers are rough, sure to leave bruises and that tingling sense of danger returns as his damp breath fans over you. The slither of his rough tongue makes a strangled gasp escape your clamped lips and your hands flail again, working more of that tingling pain down your arms.

He’s clumsy, but fuck, he’s eager and that makes all the difference. As soon as he finds the quivering button of your clit, you’re too far gone to think anymore. Even that nagging worry fades away as he suckles and presses those uneven lips to the bud. The stick of his dry skin creates this breathless sensation and you buck upwards, feet working past the roped stockings he’s... wait... what? Stockings? Why... why are those there? What’s going on? Wait. When did you take off your clothes? When did... oh... oh no...

Your hips crash back to the mattress, and it dislodges his grip on your thighs. Some lingering instinct makes you bring them together, trapping his pale head and fixing him with a flushed stare. For a breath, he’s still, but you can practically feel his rage and impatience, bubbling away, just beneath the surface.

“Bitch,” he snaps, head lifting, wavy hair scratching against your sensitive skin. “Why can’t you fucking listen? Or just sit fucking still? Such a goddamn cunt. You know what? You know what you’ve done? Huh? Do you? Lydia? I’m fucking done. Thought I’d at least let you get something out of this, try to keep you happy, to see if it was fucking worth it. Kurogiri’s always going on about how I need to grow up, to calm down, well, fuck that and fuck you!”

That’s right. He broke in.

That’s why he’s here. That’s why...he hit you...no...he knocked you out...fuck, he’s going to kill you...he’s going to…

His hands are like a steel vice and he clamps his fingers against you so tight you’re worried he’ll come back to you with his palms covered in your blood. Wait. The glass. Are you bleeding? Your eyes fall back to that streaked stain on your stomach and your blood goes cold. With a shudder, you look up at your clasped hands, finally taking in the strap of his dark belt and the bloom of copper that’s dried between your curled fingers. It must...it has to be from the glass.

Tomura punches the headboard, and the reverberation makes you startle, a high-pitched squeak falling from your lips. “Look at me Lydia,” he demands, cold digits curling under your chin and forcing your head upward. “Look at me while I ruin this pussy of yours.”

As soon as the words leave him, he’s impaling you on his cock and you’re staggered by the sheer girth of him. Your legs slip and convulse, heels grinding into the sheets until you hear the fabric rip. The stretch is too much...it’s too much... it hurts…

You think you say something along those lines, but Tomura ignores you, too engrossed in the sheer heat and pull of your cunt. He throbs when he finally bottoms out and you feel a fresh burst of tears stream down your cheeks, hot in the night's chill air.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust, already pulling back as soon as your breath slips back into your lungs. The cants and ruts are shallow at first and he sucks on his thumb before he applies it to the cherry red of your clit, fiddling with you inexpertly. “Easy, you dumb slut, you’ll take my dick off if you do that again. Fucking relax…”

Relax? Who the fuck is this brat? All he’s doing is jolting into you and complaining with each stroke. What a whiny, good for fucking nothing baby. No. Incel’s a better word for what he is.

“What- what’s the matter?” you snarl, eyes narrowing up at his pink tinted cheeks. “Just fucking cum, you pathetic little bitch. Bet you can’t last, bet you can’t...ah…”

That ass! He swiveled his hips and somehow managed to hit that spongy patch of nerves that sits toward the back of your cunt. A dark leer splits his face when he notices your reaction and he carefully lines himself up again, hips jutting forward until he sees your eyes roll back. “Not so mouthy anymore, huh?” he gloats, index finger joining his thumb, pinching at your clit.

He keeps up a teeth chattering pace, but each time you gasp he purses his lips and scowls down at you. Finally, when he’d actually sent a scattering of stars across your vision, he pulls away, leaning back on his haunches, eyes following the steady in and out progression of his dick. “You’re too wet,” he grumbles, sucking his teeth and fixing you with a disgruntled glare.

“Wh-what the hell does that mean?” you bite out, vainly trying to swallow down another series of moans. This fucker, he’s actually building you up to an orgasam.

“Need you to be tighter,” he grouches, hands pulling away from your dripping pussy and working on the ties that hold your ankles. As soon as he’s got the sheer fabric off, he looms back over you, reaching for your clasped wrists. The belt has cut off your blood flow and your arms inelegantly flop to your sides when he frees them. You almost want to try to make a run for it again, but he’s still keeping that steady push and pull of his cock going. That dedication and perseverance to his own enjoyment, it’s kinda impressive, if you wanted to look at it that way that is.

“Get on your stomach,” he imperiously commands, voice falling to a low hush, closer to a rasp. You balk, but he doesn’t give you the time to move, yanking himself out of your cunt, flipping you over and shoving you down. “Lift your ass. No. Higher. Yes. Keep still, or I’ll miss, and if I miss more than once, well, let’s just say you won’t like me much then.”

“Don’t like you now,” you mumble, words muffled by the bundled sheets that are under your lips.

You must have arched your hips enough because he slides in cleanly. The swell of his length makes you gasp out a long moan and you can hear his giggles, sharp and jangling behind your head. “Such a fucking slut! Ahhh, this already feels better.”

The trusts he’s giving you are shallower in this position, but you can feel every vein that races along his length as they pulse and throb against your over sensitized walls. He’s ramming into that sweet spot at an alarming rate and you can feel your cheeks heating up. You want to grind back but the hump of your ass prevents you from moving much, instead, Tomura makes up for your lack of movement with each cant, grinding his bony hips into you with a low crunch.

There’s something slick that’s falling over your shoulder blades and you crane your head around, peering through the umber haze of your hair. Ugh, gross, he’s drooling. The line of saliva is perfectly connected to your back and you watch it gleam in the low light. When Tomura notices your gaze he licks his tongue across the strand, shattering the connection as he brings a hand to the back of your head, pressing you down into the mattress.

“It’s not enough,” he groans, leaning back and examining your prone backside. “Cross your legs.” It’s not a request, but you’re genuinely confused by his demand and you shake your head under the blanket of his four fingers. “Tch, dumb bitch. Here.” He shifts upward and you almost fall to pieces at the stimulation. The tip of his cock is tapping and pressing at the ring of your cervix, and you can feel every fiber of your being quaking as he sinks past that last barrier. “There we go,” Tomura gloats, threading your legs over each other and leaning into you.

He’s heavy and the spidery trail of his leftover saliva makes him stick to you uncomfortably, but you don’t care. As terrible as this is, you want him to keep going, you’re too close for him not to. This whole thing is a fucking travesty, but you’ll be damned if you don’t end up getting something out of it. The grunts and whines he’s giving you must mean that he likes it too and you do your best to hold on as he picks his way back to those steady pounds and thrusts.

“Tighter! Keep your legs together! I’m almost there. Come on! Fuck you, tighter!”

You do as he says and clench your thighs as tightly as you can, squeezing until you’re shaking. Finally, finally, he rams back into that spot, the tip of him forcing its way to that intimate part of you and hurtling you into a release that leaves you absolutely breathless under him. It must have been enough for him too, you think, feeling the telltale pulses of his cock and that rush of cum as it splatters into your waiting cunt.

Tomura collapses over you and you groan at the added sting of his full weight. Lazily, his lips fall to your ear and his stuttered breaths pass over you as he pulls back, tugging his softening length from your battered pussy. Once he’s out, he shoves your partially lifted head back down, laughing at the sight of you, clearly delighting in his success.

“Keep still Lydia,” he begins, nails scratching over your tingling scalp. “I’m not done yet.”