#psa: shigaraki fingerf*cks like hes playing on a controller sorry i dont make the rules

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

Shigaraki Kinktober - Day 4 - Hate Sex and Bondage

Shigaraki has very few memories of spending time with animals.

Sensei never kept any around the house; he always said they were too much work to train, with little to no reward. The few times he was forced to leave his room as a teenager and venture into the streets to get groceries, he might have seen a dog, or two, maybe some squirrels. Nothing more.

But he has this distinct image in his mind of an afternoon spent at Garaki's lab, looking over with boredom at vials of bizarre substances while the doctor talked to Sensei about things that didn’t interest him at all back then. He's maybe nine in the memory, tall enough to see over the counter, but not enough to reach anything with his scrawny arms and still decidedly unpredictable hands.

But the one thing that did catch his eye in the lab was a cage. It was small, smaller than a shoe box, or a box of cookies. Inside, there was a small rat looking rather in bad shape: its fur was dull, patchy, with bloodied marks over its small body. Its beady eyes stared right back at Shigaraki, pleading so desperately to be let free, yet filled with unforgiving anger he recognized well.

“What did the rat do to be held like that?” he asked.

The two men paused their conversation, and the doctor laughed, an unpleasent, gurgling noise, while Sensei only smiled.

“Oh, Tomura, the poor rat didn't do anything,” Garaki had explained with a chuckle, walking over to the cage. He poked a fat finger between the metal bars, just enough for the rat to smell him but not close enough to bite him. It had felt oddly cruel. “It was just unfortunate enough to be exactly what I needed for my experiments. Nothing more, nothing less.”

The memory is coming back to him so vividly, he thinks, because you look exactly like that rat in its cage.

“Did you decide to start talking yet?” he asks you once again.

“Fuck you,” you scowl at him, your eyes so dark he has to wonder if anyone had ever looked like him with such hatred and lived to tell the tale. “I'll never tell you anything.”

You spit at him from the chair you're bound to, narrowly missing his shoe by a few inches. He tsks in disappointment, bending down to collect the liquid off the dirty floor with his index. It shines under the flickering neon light, and he smiles at the look of utter disgust on your face.

“It's not a good idea to waste your saliva like that. Who knows when’s the next time I'll feel like giving you water…”

He gets closer to you, wagging the wet finger close to your plump lips. You're almost snarling at him.

“Wanna take it back?” he coos mockingly. He toys with your bottom lip, forcing his digit into your warm mouth. Not a second passes before you bite down on it, hard, and he curses as he pulls his hand back to safety. The wound is shallow, but he's got a perfect print of your teeth on his skin, now glowing with a mixture of saliva and blood. You look at him triumphantly, but you lose your bravado the second he starts chuckling. Soon, he's openly laughing, holding onto the finger in absolute delight at your reaction.

“C'mon, is that all you got?” he manages to snicker in between breathless laughter. “You can't even bite like a real sewer rat! No wonder hero society is collapsing.”

You shake your chair angrily, trying to get out of your restraints. It's no use, and you both know it: the cold metal chain binds your hands, legs, and neck firmly in place, making it impossible for you to use your quirk. Attached like this, still all dressed up in your hero outfit, you look like a children's doll still in her box, bound with tie wrap until its owner decides to free it.

“I got an idea,” you snap at him. “How about you uncuff me and I can show you just how much I can bite?”

“Tempting,” he admits with a crooked grin, “but I have a better idea, hero.”

He pets your hair with his bloodied hand like a twisted parody of affection, and you recoil from the touch. But the chain doesn't let you get far, and you grit your teeth as he keeps caressing your hair with false compassion.

“How about you stay like that, all tied up like a nice little present for me, and I have fun with you until you tell me what I want to know?”

You scoff, throwing him a defiant smile that makes his pants feel tighter. He loves it when they have some fight in them.

“You're even more pathetic than the UA reports said,” you taunt him, looking straight into his eyes; a cornered animal trying to act like it's the predator. “Is this the only way you can get anyone to fuck you?”

He doesn't take the bait; he knows he's still in control. Slowly, he gets on his knees, and rests his head against your thighs, looking at you from under his eyelashes with a smirk. The restraints are too tight for you to hit him with the force of your knee, and you seem to have realized it, so you stay nice and put, looking down at him with fiery loathing. Good.

“How about we make it a game,” he suggests, raspy voice syrupy sweet, “so we both get something we want out of it. If I can't make you cum, you're free to go. I'll even drive you back to UA myself. Isn't that nice of me?”

He's broken that bold protective shell you’ve put around yourself, he can tell: even though your eyebrows are still furrowed and your eyes are still throwing him daggers, there's a glimmer of something else there. You're considering it.

“But if you do cum, and I win,” he continues, feeling high off his own words, “then I'm not letting you go until I want to let you go. Even if you talk. And that might be a long, long time…”

He lets the sentence trail on, one hand making its way to your thighs and caressing the skin. So, so smooth. Nothing like his own. Maybe that's why he wants to touch you so badly.

“How do I know you'll keep your word?” you ask distrustfully.

“You don't,” he answers plainly, lazy smile still on his face as he plays with the hem of your costume, so close to what he really wants to touch. “That's what makes it a game.”

You stay silent for a few seconds, weighing your options. He knows what you'll say before you even open your mouth.

“Deal,” you accept, lips straightned in a thin line. Your serious game face. The excitement is coursing through his veins like adrenaline; he's got you.

He doesn't give you a warning when he rips the bottom of your costume, revealing your tantalizingly pretty pussy.

“Hey!” you hiss, obviously displeased he's ruined your costume.

“No panties underneath,” he comments, ignoring your protest. “I really have to wonder what kind of hero you are…”

A first proding finger starts tracing your warmth, not quite pushing into your hole.

“The kind of hero that going to win against a villain,” you throw back at him, glare still defiant. He makes a point of slightly digging a nail into the sensitive flesh, and you suck in your breath to stay silent.

“Doesn't look like I’m doing too bad,” he snickers, “but maybe I should keep going, to make sure.”

You glare at him, challenging: “D-do your worst.”

“If you insist.”

Soon, one finger becomes two, and two fingers become three. You're so wet there's almost no resistance every time he trusts his digits into you. He thinks of mocking you for it, but you're already trying so hard to stay silent, heavy breaths echoing in the empty storage room. He's palming himself with his free hand, getting off how badly you're trying to maintain your hero dignity.

He wants to break you.

He pumps his fingers in faster, rougher, and you can't help but gasp. You close your eyes, in what he can only assume is a mixture of pleasure and utter embarrassment.

“Its not polite to look away from the man making you cum on his fingers. Didnt't they teach you that at UA ?” he reprimands with a sick grin. He's winning, and you know it just as well as he does. It's not your fault, really: Shigaraki never loses a game.

“Y-you…” you start, interrupting your sentence to take a shaky breath, “you haven't m-made me cum y-yet-”

“That's right, he concedes, not slowing down the ruthless pace into your pussy. “We should get to the finishing moves, shouldn't we?”

As his fingers bottom out inside you, he curves them sharply, feeling for the spot he knows is hiding just nearby. When you cry out, your metal chains rattling, he knows he's found it.

It's amusing how badly your body tries to spread your thighs further apart for him, when your mind must be well aware the restraints won't budge any more. You're shaking as he abuses that spot over and over again, face contorted in pleasure, biting your tongue to stay silent. But it's a lost battle, and it only takes a few more seconds for you to let out a deep, exhausted moan as you cum all over his fingers.

His smile can't get any wider as he admires the clear juices coating his scarred hand. You're having trouble catching your breath above him, panting like an animal.

“Still think you can take me, hero?”

He makes a point of whispering the word as a last cruel jab, reminding you of how low you've fallen.

But then, you surprise him.

You smile.

“Round 2,” you spit out, parting your still trembling thighs apart again. And oh, for a little caged rat, the anger burning in your eyes is such a delight that Shigaraki thinks he might keep you locked up forever.