#whump bnha

[fan-dweeb]

When I say I want dabihawks whump, what I mean is I want Hawks to randomly FaceTime Dabi in the following scenario

Hawks: heyyyyyyyy Hot stuff

Dabi: Hawks???

Hawks: s-sorry. But I think- I think I might need some help

Dabi: Hawks??????

Hawks: ‘s jus’ a small scratch. But I can’t-

Dabi: Hawks??

Dabi: Hawks!

Dabi: Shit that’s a lot of blood

Dabi: You know bones are supposed to be inside your fucking body right?

Dabi: I’m on my way birdie, hang in there

[d1s1ntegrated]

clothes stealing is so real and true to me… freak behavior is beloved… but wat if it was kinda switched? like you wuld steal and hoard shigaraki’s shirts and garments lwlwwl… i feel lik he wuld kinda go crazy abt it since his freakiness is being reciprocated and wuld make him all the more lovey and obsessed idk…

-💊

oh yeah. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴 mode activated....heh......

paparazzi

creepy(or is this just canon?)!shigaraki x creepy!fem!reader

summary: life's more fun when you're being fucking crazy.

wc: 4035

cw: stalker behavior, gore-esque writing, mental illness, compulsions, loss of virginity, masturbation, cnc ment, crying, suicidal ideation, biting, rough, dead fucking dove. teehee!

a/n: i'm putting dead dove on here cause i know a lot of this might be a hard read but i'm in a mode that is so ferocious and unstoppable. consider this my shibuya incident part one. also this isn't fully proofread sorry!!!!!!!!

⊹˚₊‧꒰ა𓆩✧𓆪໒꒱ ‧₊˚⊹

There's blood. There's so much blood. It soaks through his shirt, his hoodie, his jeans. The smell is nauseating as he trudges into the base, breathing lamented and head spinning.

The stench of death clings heavily to the pale man as he throws himself into a barstool, flinging his hoodie and shirt to the floor with a disconcerting slap. His face is bruised and beaten- a sore loss in his eyes, regardless of the number of bodies piled high in a corner of the city.

The hideout is dead silent as everyone disbands, leaving him alone at the bar with Kurogiri. Without a word, he's poured a drink in a highball glass, taking it with one swift gulp. It does little to settle the defeat staining his chest, as he groans and retreats to his room. Maybe time for a shower, maybe time to just fucking give up. Sensei will be furious at the failure, he's sure of it, and the thought of it causes him to grit his teeth and slam an already-shaky first to the door.

You hear the noise from across the hall. As you trek into the bar, you notice the deafening silence and the pile of soiled clothes on the ground. You grab them to your chest swiftly and head back into your room, the sticky chill staining your hands.

You have a laundry basket dedicated to Tomura. It's hidden in your padlocked closet, next to all of his trash you've picked up over the past few months. When the League let you in, it was a gracious gift from God; but they left you here to do the "behind-the-scenes" work. You didn't have room in your heart to care- mostly because it meant you had more time to yourself, to sneak into Tomura's room and lay in his bed and dig through his wastebasket. They paid little mind to you, which was another blessing: they knew, with your silencing quirk, you yourself tended to be more...timid.

It's not that you didn't want to speak, it's that the more energy you spent speaking, the less energy you had to utilize your power when needed. So most of your communication was based off of hand gestures, bowing, blinking, and facial expressions. You didn't care much to learn JSL, since you liked being the quiet kid growing up. Your isolation made it that much easier to focus on your interests, hobbies, and...obsessions.

The lock opens with a click, and you grab a bag to throw the clothes into. Best not to soil the rest of the "cleaner" (aka, dry) clothes with these. You take a moment with the clothes, running your fingers over the shirt with a lazy drag, pinching the crusting hem with thumb and forefinger. It sticks to your skin, pulling away slowly, and your heart swells. Was Tomura hurt? Or was this someone else's blood staining the delicate cotton? It don't matter to you- it was Tomura's shirt, that's all that mattered now. You bring the garments close to your face, taking a deep breath into the material with a chill. The sickly sweet tang yanks at your senses, the pungency of sweat causing you to recoil a moment as you discern what exactly happened. With a grin, you shove the clothes into the baggie and toss it into your basket- you'll deal with cleaning them later.

With a shuddering breath, you head to the bathroom to wash your hands. The water runs murky as you rinse them off, the entire situation feeling very poetic to you.

Silently shuffling back to your room, you catch the brief hush of conversation coming from Tomura's closed door. You put your ear up to it and wait, the anticipation gnawing at you as you listen for his voice again.

When you don't hear it, you clench a fist and storm back to your own room. You'll listen in later; you have better things to do.

Turning the lock swiftly, you dive back for the laundry basket and yank out a pair of sweatpants and toss them to your bed. His sweatpants, unwashed and worn copiously- they were one of your favorites. The scent was intoxicating: salty and musky and sweet. You bury your face into the crotch of the pants, reaching for between your legs. The ache was too much to bare, the heat swelling inside of you from all of the excitement and frustration forcing your fingers inside yourself with a painful curl. You liked to imagine it was him, taking absolute control of you, breaking you down and hurting you, decaying you from the inside out with painful and rugged thrusts. It was a sickening pleasure to hold, the idea of your nefarious boss stretching your walls with the same animalistic rage he has on the battlefield, but it was a pleasure all the same. And what is pleasure meant to be if not indulged?

Your fingers flit at a wicked pace as you imagine him, bloody and sweating, cursing into your ear. His raspy voice so demanding and impure, the recollection of the sound was enough to drive you insane. You abused the swollen of bundled nerves with haste, letting the shaky moans and drool soak into the pilled sweatpants, leaving a lewd lip-print on the inseam.

It was almost sweet, in your mind. I mean, if he could see how devoted and loyal you are, maybe he'd pay more attention to you. You could be a genuinely impressive partner, you know this. You crave it. His validation, his love and care, it's all you wanted. Instead, you got handed the short end and wound up being his admirer from afar. Unfortunately, not everyone is meant to be the muse. Someone has to be the artist. And that, that was your bitter fate.

You ride out the sweltering orgasm with lowly cries and moans, the shame slipping into you faster than your fingers. It was wrong. It was wrong and you knew that. You had to wash and return his clothes at some point, you'd have to throw out the old used tissues and empty cans and stained rags. It was vile. And the smell battering into your nose was now revolting, the cocktail of blood, cum, sweat, spilled drinks, and other fluids was enough to make you gag.

You didn't choose to feel this way. It wasn't normal, but you just loved Tomura so much, you'd do anything to have even a sliver of him. Just a taste. This was the closest you could get. But no amount of reassurance or self-validation was enough to cure the oncoming wave of guilt.

You sat there for a moment, fingers pruned and head spinning, when an aggressive knock rapped at your locked door. You hurriedly threw the pants back into the closet and locked it, jumping to answer the knock.

Unlocking it while smoothing your hair, you suck in your teeth. Tomura, shirtless, pantsless, loomed in your doorway with an unwavering rage.

"I need clothes, all of mine are fucking missing, did you do laundry?" He shoves his way past you, rummaging through your dresser.

You shake your head and point to the unwashed laundry basket next to him. This one was "normal"- out in the open to pose as inconspicuous, a veil for your shameful fetishes.

"It stinks in here. The fuck?" his face screwed as he yanked a pair of your sweatpants out of the drawer. Droplets of water spindled down his powdery locks, and be smelled like the cheap shampoo in the bathroom. He must've showered.

You shrug and quietly murmur out an apology. He rolls his eyes and digs into his neck before looking at you, his eyes locking in on your chest.

"Why is your shirt...there's blood on your shirt." He points and your eyes widen, glancing down to where you were previously hugging his tattered clothes to you. You bite your cheeks as he pads closer.

Stupid. You were stupid and didn't notice the old blood, you were too busy getting off.

He comes dangerously close to you as he examines you. "It's not yours" he researches, "whose?"

You shake your head. Play dumb.

He thinks for a moment before pushing your door closed with his foot.

"Liar, you did grab my laundry. Where is it, it needs to get washed now." his rasp hugs your ears just as you'd fantasized mere minutes ago. He's so close, so pretty.

Your mouth is dry, but you swallow the cough down as he hovers over you. "It's already in the wash" the lie saturates your tongue bitterly, knowing that if you aren't fast enough, he'll catch on. He's not dumb by any means, and he picks up on patterns pretty easily. So you keep your chin up, and look him dead in the eyes as you lay it on thick for him. You dig into your dresser and pull out a pair of old sweatpants, to who they originally belonged you can't actually remember, and a plain black tee that fits you a little too snug for comfort.

Handing the pile of clothes to him, he clicks his tongue and begins to turn to leave, but he stops. The old floorboards creak under his weight as he turns on his heel and, before you can stop him, he starts literally sniffing the room out.

"Seriously, it smells like something died in here, and it's pissing me off." The tall man's annoyed tone presses you deep in your chest as he approaches the dingy closet door. He wiggles the handle with three lazy fingers, but it won't budge. Your eyes instinctively squeeze shut as he turns to you.

"Why is this locked? You got bodies in here we don't know about?" he keeps his fingers on the knob, tapping a finger rapidly against the old metal.

"That's just my stuff, Shigaraki". You keep your eyes locked on his hand, his other two fingers dragging dangerously close to the handle.

He turns back with a huff, clearly thinking for a moment before grabbing the knob with a full hand, and the metal turns to dust at his feet. The door swings open, revealing a very pungent and sickening image. You can't see his face, but you can feel his lead-stare on the shameful swath of clothes and memorabilia littering the interior of the musty closet.

Your first instinct is to run. Your second is to scream, to distract him, to do literally anything to peel his bloody eyes away from your guilt. But before you can do either, he re-fastens his low hanging towel wrapped around his legs- he still hasn't put on the clothes you've handed him, and now, he probably won't wear anything you give him- and he spins around to you, an indescribable expression painting his scarred face. There's nothing left for you. Your fear, mixed poorly with the sting of desire, rattles your bones as he tosses the clothes onto your bed, approaching you with the undeniable glint of amusement on his lips.

"Those are mine" his voice is a low, rasped whisper in your face, and he points back to the pile inside the closet, "those are all mine, aren't they?"

Swallowing the knot in your throat, you avert your eyes from his and nod slowly, the weight of your own head like an anvil as you force your body to move.

He backs away from you now, straightening back out from his hunched stance, cracking his neck. The room feels dark now, heavier than before, even with the unnerving scents fogging your sinuses.

He moves around you, circling you like a shark. He drags one long, crooked finger across your jaw as you clench your teeth, trying your best to accept your fate. You had fun while it lasted, right? Who's to say this wasn't the end you'd imagined anyways? You fucked up, sure, but your last terrifying moments were at least spent with the man you loved the most, touching you and breathing so close...

He snakes a freezing hand to your throat from behind, clenching you with four lanky fingers, wrapping his other arm around your torso to pull you into his chest. His towel falls to the ground, you hear the sound of heavy wet fabric hit the floor, and feel an incessant prodding against the soft flesh of your ass. Your breath hitches as you realize, wholly excited and panicked at your questionable fate. Your head spins with agony as he hugs you close, your breathing fastening as his ragged whispers taint your petulant mind further.

"You must really love me, huh?" his grip tightens, "You love me enough to steal my clothes...my garbage..."

Your eyes feel heavy. You try to nod, to respond to him. It's a strained, sad sound, as you confess your ultimate sin to him.

"Y-yes". You find yourself too scared to say anything else.

It's funny to you. Even after all the atrocities you faced, all of the blood and sweat and gore you came to, this felt...wrong. You knew, deep down, that you deserved this. That you were sick, and the best way to cure sickness was in death. But his hands, his iron grip on your soft flesh and fragile neck, the pinching and prodding and poking...it felt so wrong. Like this wasn't supposed to happen. If you had only done it differently, if you'd been normal and simple and wrote home to your mother from time to time. If you'd never set foot in the dingy bar to begin with, if you hadn't dropped out of school, if only you'd learned how to ride a bike and have friends and be a better person this wouldn't have happened to you. You didn't ask for this necessarily, but you caused it, and this was your cross to bear. Even if the cross was sodden with tears, leaving splinters in your tired hands, it was yours. At this point, you'd be nothing but ashes and dirt, it didn't matter anymore.

You let go. You let your body, shaking and sweaty, give up. He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, kissing the tender spot with a scratchy lip. Your tears fall, fat and hot down your paled cheeks, unable to speak a coherent thought. "I'm sorry" you repeat, over and over, as his kisses and bites grow in intensity, and you fear for the worst.

Your mantra is interrupted by his thumbs, caressing your streaky cheeks and wiping the tears away.

He leans in close to you, pulling your chin up with his index finger, all other fingers curled into his palm.

"Did I scare you?" he pries into your mind with his ruby eyes, his face...not at all angry, or bloodthirsty, or even annoyed. Instead, his gaze is soft, curious at most. You lock in to him, allowing yourself to answer honestly- because if this is the end, you won't be a liar.

"I'm sorry. I stole it all. Your clothes, your trash, your cups and trinkets and napkins and even the blood-soaked things and I'm sorry, please" you rush out your words as if you're on a timer, and as you catch your breath, he simply listens. "I took it all, because it's as close to you as I could get. I-I'm sick, I'm rotten, and it scares me. It scares the fuck out of me, it's so dirty and disgusting and I can't stop the compulsion of wanting you and needing you in every way I can have you, even when I try. I know you hate me, I know you're going to kill me, and I'm sorry. Just know I'm sorry, and I love you, and even if that's disgusting and sick I at least deserve to be able to tell you that".

The words spill out. You don't mean for it all to happen. But it does, and it feels like vomit, and you hold back a gag before you fall to the ground, feeling defeated and empty for once in your life. It's weightless, even with the noose of guilt tight around your throat.

He sits down on the old floor with you. He pulls his towel over him, covering his lower half. He sits there with you as you sob, thick heavy cries soaking into your sleeves. The adrenaline rush wipes clean through you, the horror being the only thing left.

"You actually do love me?"

His words slice through your sobs like a sword, and you swear he sounds almost juvenile as he says it. Like a child begging you to keep a promise.

You sniffle and look up, a weak smile splayed across your puffy face. It's answer enough.

His eyes widen and he comes in closer to you. You see a part of him shatter and splinter as he takes in your words. He bites a lip back and takes a deep breath, his eyes glossing over and he stares off past you. He stands then, reaching an arm down for you to pull up on as he brings you to your feet.

He doesn't speak, but he drags the large basket out of the closet and throws his towel into it. He reaches for the sweatpants on the bed and throws them on swiftly, and with a loose grip, holds the basket and exits the room.

You pull the stained shirt off and replace it with an old sweatshirt before sitting on the bed. You bite your nails, staring at the wall. It feels numb now, like a veil of darkness was thrown over your inner psyche to protect it. You cry, but it feels shameful, because you're in the wrong here. Right?

He comes back a few minutes later, closing the door behind him and re-locking it. Without another word, he pushes you back on the bed, planting a genuine, hungry kiss to your lips. His hands tangle in your hair, and you panic before feeling the slip of polyester against your scalp. His gloves are on.

He pulls away from the kiss, his breath heavy, and you stare at him, frozen.

"Say you love me" he says, lips inches from yours.

"I do, I love you, I have for-"

He doesn't let you finish. Instead, he shoves his tongue into your mouth and drives his hips into your thigh. You tense, but not out of fear this time, as you taste the desperation and sweetness on the villain's tongue. You feel that wave of obsession build back up inside of you, and you wrap your arms around him and pull him closer, begging him for more.

He bites on your lower lip and pulls, and with one hand, begins to slide your sweater above your head. You hastily fiddle with it yourself, pulling it off and moving down to your bottoms, peeling them off your legs, unable to wait any longer. You let go, differently this time as your core heats and coils up, a silent plead for the man.

His face twists to an excited grin, his eyelids heavy as he pulls the sweatpants off. He shoves your underwear to the side, prodding at your bare beat with his throbbing tip mindlessly. He leans back down, kissing the exposed parts of your chest, your skin prickling at the contact. He nips at the flesh, pulling your bra back to expose you fully, and he gropes at you eagerly. His fingers flit over the soft buds, his own noises spilling from his pretty lips as you throw your head back.

You reach down, taking his impressive length into your hand, and guide the weight to your entrance. His eyes widen, and you realize, you've both probably never done this before. But he shakes off his virgin anxiety as he presses into you, the size stretching you and snapping you painfully. He groans out, gaining some semblance of confidence and sadism as he hears you cry out in pain.

"You love me?" He thrusts fully into you, the searing heat wiping your thoughts away for a moment. "Mhm" you respond, and he pulls out until just the tip is resting against the tight walls.

"You really love me?"

You nod, "Yes". He thrusts into you, sending another shock of pain into you.

"You really fucking love me?" His voice is louder, more rampant, more...commanding.

"Y-yes, Shigaraki" you cry out, and he thrusts into you now with a fluttering speed, unable to hold himself back any longer.

He wraps his hand back around your throat, clasping it with his fingers as he fucks you, rough and careless. "You touch yourself to the thought of me?" He asks, his teeth bared.

You nod again, and smile pathetically up at him as he ruts into you. He grasps your hand with his free arm, yanking it to between your legs where he shoves himself inside of you.

"Then do it". He says, eyes rolling back a bit as you clench around him at the sound of his domineering commands. The pressure on your throat eases for a few seconds as you adjust your fingers between the two of you, pressing into your swollen clit softly. You try to massage it slowly, but his thrusting makes it much more difficult, as he slams your fingers against your clit, forcing you to be much rougher than usual. However, the feeling of his slamming pumps, combined with the torturous pressure against your nerves, sends a brand new level of pleasure to soak into your core. You throw your head to the side, overcome with the aching of an approaching orgasm.

He removes his hand from your throat, and you take a deep breath in. He leans down, kissing your jawline and bringing himself closer so that his thrusts are that much more intense. His body, splayed against yours, sticking to you with the slight sheen of sweat, drive you incredibly mad. You tangle your free hand into his baby blue locks, pulling him to kiss you as you feel your orgasm crash over you. Your hips buck up, fulfilling the craving to feel all of him inside you, smacking your cervix, bruising your walls. He groans out into your mouth, biting down on your lip as he sputters inside of you. Your walls clench around him like a vice, squeezing every drop of cum out of him. His moans and whimpers aid in the rush of endorphins as you cry out, your eyes squeezing shut as it all hits.

You both come down fast and hard as he collapses against your chest, cock still throbbing inside of you as the aftershock washes over him. You pepper his face, forehead, with kisses, taking in the scent of him. It wasn't unfamiliar, per se, but it was much better coming from him and not a piece of dirty laundry. It was sweet, salty, and musky, like the ocean and sour apple and new leather.

You don't speak as he pulls out, laying on his back, wiping his bangs away from his forehead. He sighs, and you pull your underwear over your legs. You decide to stay quiet, not wanting to shatter the moment. You both lay there for what feels like hours, the moonlight rippling through the cracked window and ripped curtains.

He speaks after a while. It comes as a shock to your ears. "I..."

You turn to face him as he speaks. His eyes are focused, and he's clearly calculating his next few words meticulously.

"I love you too".

The words splice through the void in the pit of your stomach. The wilting, rotting feeling dissipates inside of you. If even for a few seconds, you try your damndest to preserve that feathered feeling. It feels pure. And very very real. You don't know why, but after everything you've done, everything he's done...this feels like a revival. The lustration of his acceptance, his reciprocating, heals more than death ever could.

And it feels...good. To be sick, finally. Because at least you know you aren't alone.

⊹˚₊‧꒰ა𓆩✧𓆪໒꒱ ‧₊˚⊹

[pandoraspurgatory]

Ghosts of Hanahaki

Tomura Shigaraki x Fem!Reader. Implied established relationship. HANAHAKI disease AU

Graphic themes ahead, Minors DNI. TW below

TW: Su1c1de in graphic detail, death, vomit, blood, major angst/whump. No happy endings here! You’ve been warned

Tomura wheezed, he couldn’t yet decipher what was sweeter, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth or the hint of magnolias on his tongue.

His lungs burned, what left of his shallow body paced around the leagues home, his footsteps accompanied by the sound of retching and laboured coughs. He grimaced in pain as the petals fluttered out of his mouth with each hack, chrysanthemums weren’t so beautiful when covered in mucus and blood

The league had little to no fight left, not for Tomura, he was long gone. The house was a filthy mess, what was once a home filled with laughter and enticing schemes, was now a cesspit of despair and utter loneliness.

The bath was still stained with blood even months later, what left of you settled in the grout of the bathroom tiles. Scrubbing the remnants of you felt like a final farewell nobody was yet ready to confront.

Mouldy bumpers and half smoked cigarettes lay littered in the dining room, a memoir of Dabis attempt to ignore the situation. Toga had left weeks ago, hopefully to someplace better, you always wanted her to do bigger things anyway.

Hanahaki disease wasn’t near as much of a threat as it used to be, not with the quirks and technology possessed by people in this day and age. It was painful of course, but easily treatable with specialised medication and a hint of shame walking out of the doctors office.

Not Tomura though, the moment this started and a small pink petal escaped his lips, he made his decision to rot in the shame of his fatal mistake. Atoning for his ignorance in a slow form of suicide.

Tomura knew of the cures, with how rotten, heinous and sex obsessed society was, most of the population was bound to develop Hanahaki at least once in their lives. In some cultures it was almost a right of passage, a fucked up version of loosing one’s virginity.

2 months ago the unthinkable, though painstakingly unsurprising finally emerged through the cracks of your well played facade.

Instead of going out in a blaze of glory, surrounded by your comrades as you fought to save society and liberate the slums of the streets… You died convulsing and choking on rancid tasting vomit in a battered porcelain bathtub, wrists slit and eyes dull.

It was hours before you were stumbled upon, taking effort to end yourself while the league were out of the house, it seemed like the most polite thing to do.

It’s what you attempted to convince yourself, in truth you didn’t want your mind to be swayed, or to risk any chance of survival. Truely believing it was better this way, and maybe it was in the long run, it’s not like finding out is an option after the actions you imposed on yourself.

_________________

Tomura walked through the half broken in entryway, Spinner tailing close behind him. After slumping down on the couch, Spinner poured two glasses of whiskey into the fanciest cups they had, handing one to Tomura as he loaded up his league of legends disc.

Solo mode did have its perks of course, though Tomura found it much more stimulating fighting against his best friend. It was often crudely competitive of course, though a quick dose of dopamine before whatever mission was forced on them next.

Through laughter and slowly sipping at their drinks, as well as yelling at painfully long loading screens, the distant sound of dripping slithered its way into Tomuras ears.

He was easily overstimulated in the best of situations, however with the clearly unpaid wifi bill disrupting the game paired with the cheap whiskey dancing on his tongue, he felt himself slowly slip into frustration.

“Fucking Toga, left the tap on again, just another water bill on my ass”

Spinner smirked, taking a quick swig before responding “Relax it Shig, your Master will pay for it, you know that… your girl home?”

He ran his hands through his greasy hair, groaning in frustration, muttering something under his breath about how Toga should know better “yeah, probably having a nap, she’s sleepy”.

Minutes went by quickly as the game finally loaded after Spinner blew the grocery money on the wifi bill. The quickening dripping sound only drilling into Tomuras ears more each second. With a unsatisfied groan Tomura forced his way off the couch, kicking over a Mountain Dew can as he trudged his way into the bathroom. Spinners rapid clicks of the controller didn’t drown out the sound that came from the other end of the house moments later.

The shrill cry pierced his ears. He didnt need to think twice about who it came from. Spinner had heard Tomura in all his moods, whether it was a raspy laugh at a shitty joke, or a grating shout at the wifi failing. Spinner consistently recognised the voice of his closest companion.

He hadn’t heard Tomura like this before, Spinners legs moved faster than his thoughts as he sprinted towards the bathroom, he didn’t know what to expect. For all he knew it could be the second time Tomura encountered a spider in the toilet, though something was amiss.

The scene was gruesome, scalding bile threatened to force its way out of his throat as he looked at the situation before him. The League of course was no stranger to murder and death, but to those who deserved it, those who single handedly carved their own macabre demises.

You laid in the bathroom, in an old t shirt of Tomuras. Your eyes wide open and face covered in vomit and half digested pills. Spinner had never bothered to notice how strong blood smelt prior to this moment, it was sharp and metallic, enough to make him want to collapse. Your wrists dripped onto the tiled floor, mimicking a tap not screwed tight enough.

Blood pooled on the ground below, slit wrists coagulated with dark sticky clots that melted to the floor. How long had you sat here? 2 hours? 3?

The silence was broken by Tomura, his voice shaky on the brink of a mental break, he hissed through clenched teeth.

“She’s sick Spinner, get a glass of water and I’ll put her into bed”

He was taken aback, he knew Tomura wasn’t the most mentally stable man out there, though this had snapped something in him.

“Hurry up Spinner!” He begged, taking long dragged breaths as he rocked back and forth, holding your face in his hands. “She needs to go rest!”

Spinners heart raced. The empty look in your eyes, the purple marks indicating blood pooling under your skin, the way your joints cracked as Tomura attempted to move you.

People would have to be blind to miss the fact that rigor mortis had embraced you before Tomura did.

Dabi and Compress arrived soon after, it took hours of pleading, convincing and restraint to pry your cold and stiff body from Tomuras desperate grasp.

__________

Dabi knew

Spinner knew

Compress knew

Twice knew

They all knew that Tomura didn’t have long left, it was no use fighting the inevitable. The only good parts of him rotted into the tiles, just like you.

What was the point of curing his disease when he wasn’t rejected, but cruelty abandoned by the one who claimed to love him to most?

Only a matter of days later flowers sprouted from Tomuras body. The final stage pastel petals brought much needed comfort to him, much like the hands of his family he dawned on his body when you first met.

The reminders of the lives he took worn on his body as he took his last breath in the bathtub, a last ditch effort to be closer to you.

As much as the league tried to convince him it wasn’t his fault, it was his antidepressants clasped in your hand when he let go of your body.

[sickiehugs]

Midoriya and Bakugo both managing to get themselves sick during a mission, but neither one wanting to admit it. Bakugo refuses to show any sign of what he considers "weakness" while Midoriya prioritizes the mission over his own wellbeing. However, both of them realize the other is unwell, and they end up trying to force each other to rest while denying their own sickness

Ohh this is so good!!

At the end they just... rest together...

They don't even suggest it, they just end up being like "...whatever" and snuggling, then just promising eachother to pretend it never happened.

[haine-kleine]

i adore Dabi's japanese dub with all my heart, the inflections and the way he grumbles constantly are just so endearing but every time i hear the english dub i can't help thinking how this one does actually sound like someone whose internal organs were permanently damaged in a fire.

kind of explains why he was so quiet for his entire Dabi career when Touya has proven himself to be a certified yapper. hearing his changed, damaged voice when he had first woken up from the coma was so unpleasantly shocking, he had started a habit to consciously keep quiet.

[emeraldotter]

where am i

[juche-jane]

https://www.deviantart.com/piggyh0g/art/1064145281

this art was also inspired by "Monoma time loop" fanfiction. I can't get out of my head thoughts about all hardships this kid had to go through in the plot

[fadobeijaeu]

"it's so loud, its unbearable"

this was so mf sad. he's feigning disdain and annoyance but pino's got nothing but a look of resignation. of course a plane is gonna be loud, but such an obnoxious reminder of a job he wants but could never have is unbearable

[dgalerab]

yooooo just found the buildings brush in clip studio?? hell yeah.

(part 1)(part 2)(part 3)

[ravenwingdark]

A little sneak peek at a project I’m working on. What’s Shoto up to now?

[parsnips-and-meth]

Boiling Over (Part 1)

Hi! This is my first time posting an exclusive tumblr whump piece - I hope you enjoy. This one features some Todoroki whump, BKTD and a little bit of Dadzawa. Includes: Fever, Vomiting, Vertigo.

__________________________

He should have listened to Bakugou. 

            Shouto had woken this morning in a feverish haze. Shirt clinging with sweat, ears ringing. He’d nearly fallen and cracked his head open on the desk trying to get out of bed. But he’d put it down to quirk overuse – yesterday had been intensive. It wasn’t unusual for his body to overcompensate… or undercompensate. 

            He’d sat panting on the tatami mats, right hand pressed to the back of his neck. It had been soothing, and after a few minutes, he felt more centred. Certainly not bad enough to miss training. Besides – he was sure his temperature would regulate by lunch. 

            He had been wrong. 

            Bakugou was glaring at him over his mapo tofu. He stabbed around in the sauce for a while as Shouto shivered, yet to even pick up his chopsticks. There was nothing appealing about his soba today. The sight of the noodles sitting slumped and wet like fat, brown earthworms made his stomach churn. 

            “You’re an idiot,” Bakugou hissed, a cube of tofu circling his mouth. Shouto swallowed. “I told you to stay in bed.” 

            Shouto could feel a twisting burning in his chest. He pressed his left hand to his sternum and activated his quirk. 

            “Go back to the dorms,” his boyfriend ordered. “Go back or I’ll fucking kill you.” 

            “There’s only one period left,” Shouto murmured, closing his eyes. The lights in the cafeteria were beginning to coagulate and blur. 

            “I don’t care,” he growled. “You look like shit, Icyhot.” 

            Shouto frowned but didn’t open his eyes. “That’s not very nice. You’re supposed to be nice to me.” 

            “I am nice to you, you stupid fuck.” Bakugou’s calloused hand landed on his cheek, thumb stroking back and forth. “God, Sho, you’re burning.” 

            He opened his eyes and shot Bakugou a soft smile. The blonde just squinted further, clearly not placated. “Just one more period,” Shouto said, “and then I’ll go straight to bed.” 

------------

He should have listened to Bakugou. 

            He didn’t even remember changing into his gym uniform. But he was wearing it – he could feel every single fibre of it tearing at his skin. The grey expanse of Gym Gamma was so wide, so bright today. 

            Oh god. Not once in his life had he ever felt this awful. 

            He was paired with Kirishima for a round of quirk combat in close quarters, but neither he nor the redhead had moved an inch. Shouto could feel his stomach bloating against his waistband, could feel its contents seething. He snaked his right arm around it, hunching his shoulders and taking deep, shuddering breaths.  

It hurt. 

            The sounds of their classmates around them were building, fights underway. Still, Kirishima waited, watching him nervously. Shouto wondered why he didn’t jump at the opportunity – there was no way Shouto was winning this one. 

“Hey, man.” Kirishima’s voice was quiet, “you wanna sit down? You don’t look so good.” 

“Mm,” Shouto grunted. “I��m okay. Just need a minute.” 

“Dude –” 

He straightened up, pushing his shoulders back. A deep, rippling ache spread up from his stomach to his throat. He could taste acid. “Let’s go,” he said, pushing his right foot forward. 

The fight didn’t last long. His ice was sloppy, arching just past where Kirishima stood, and the other boy skidded round and started barrelling towards his left side. Fire licked its way up Shouto’s arm, but the heat was searing, unbearable – his head throbbed, and his vision narrowed, a rotten, sour taste flooding his gums. He put out the flames as his knees buckled, catching his fall with one hand, and clamping the other over his mouth. He could hear Kirishima shout, but it was indecipherable over the tinnitus. Shouto’s oesophagus burned, stomach cramping and knotting, and he burped, saliva sticking to his palm. 

He felt vile.

“You idiot.” Bakugou was next to him. When had he got here? “You stupid, fucking idiot. You never listen.” Shouto shuddered, and he felt his boyfriend’s hand run up his back, gentle, soothing. “You gonna be sick?” 

He couldn’t answer. He dropped his hand and belched again, rocking forward over the floor. Hot saliva rolled off his tongue and hung from his lips in strings. Bakugou moved his other hand up to cup Shouto’s forehead, pushing his hair back. 

“Yaoyorozu, could you make us a bucket, please?” That was Aizawa. His teacher stood in front of him – Shouto could see the scuffs on his black boots. “The rest of you can wait for me in the changing rooms.” 

Shouto heard lots of whispering and shuffling, and then blessed silence. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to breathe – in, out, in, out. A bucket was put in front of him, along with a flannel and bottle of water. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Yaoyorozu asked, voice trembling. 

He heard Bakugou scoff. “He’s chronically stupid.” 

Shouto lurched forward with a dry retch, forehead hitting the rim of the bucket. He moaned, gulping in another round of air. In, out, in, out. Cool fingers brushed against his skin, followed by a hiss. 

“Christ, kid. That’s a nasty fever.” Aizawa took out his phone. “I’m going to call Recovery Girl. Let her know we’re coming.” 

The nausea was so rampant he could feel it in his eyes. Shouto reached out and grabbed at Bakugou’s knee. “No,” he mumbled, “don’t… can’t move –”

He was cut off with another unproductive gag. He felt like he was choking. Bakugou brushed a hand through his hair, hushing him. “Not yet, Sho. When you’re ready.” 

He sobbed as another cramp ripped through his stomach. “Katsuki.”

“It’s okay, Sho. It’s okay, you’re okay –”

He heaved violently, and this time a slurry of undigested food made it into the bottom of the bucket. Bakugou was holding him steady, mumbling things Shouto couldn’t quite hear, couldn’t quite understand. But the sound of his voice was enough. He burped, bringing up another mouthful of liquid, and then his back was arching as his body tried to wring itself dry. Round after round of vomit, until he had nothing left but spit and dry air.

The stench of the bucket was cloying. Bakugou pulled him back even though he was still gagging, rubbing his back in circles. “I think you’re done, babe. Here, come on. Breathe for me.” 

Shouto hiccupped, leaning back into the blonde’s chest. “I – I don’t feel well.” 

“No shit.” Bakugou used some of the water from the bottle to dampen the washcloth. He tilted Shouto’s head and began wiping away the bile and spit sticking to his chin, the snot under his nose. Aizawa took the bucket to wash out, and Yaoyorozu took his place in front of Shouto, smiling softly. 

“Want to try a bit of water?” she asked, holding out the bottle. Shouto groaned, pulling away from her. The nausea had just barely let up – he wasn’t sure he was ready to swallow anything yet. 

“Hey. Have just a little,” Bakugou said, taking the water from her. He unscrewed the cap and pressed the bottle to Shouto’s lips. “Dehydration is dumb.” 

He felt it wash over his tongue. It tasted acrid and did little to settle his stomach. He pushed the rest away and belched into his fist, shivering. 

“You think you can stand?” Aizawa asked, returning with a clean bucket. After a few measured breaths, Shouto nodded, clinging to the bucket as Bakugou eased him onto his feet. Yaoyorozu moved to stand on his other side, taking some of his weight. His teacher’s gaze was scrutinising, brow furrowed. 

“Let’s go. I want you checked out sooner rather than later.” Aizawa held the door open for them as they left the gymnasium. “But tell me if you need to stop, alright?”

“Mm,” Shouto said, not sure what he was agreeing to. Colours and sounds were starting to melt together. He leaned into Bakugou on his right, eyes searching. “Kats-ki?” 

“I’m here, Sho.” He pressed a chaste kiss to his boyfriend’s temple. It was scorching, even on his right side. Bakugou bit his lip and tried to temper his anxiety. “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he murmured. “I promise.” 

[pandoraspurgatory]

MASTERLIST

♡=fluff | ꕤ=angst | ★=NSFW | ☁︎=comfort | 𖤐=whump | ꩜=Sensitive topics

Rules for requests

Multi Character

MHA Boys Porn Preferences - Izuku, Bakugo, Todorki, Denki, Kirishima, Shigaraki ★

Bakugo Katsuki

Desperate - Fem!Reader ★

What Friends Are For - (Fem!Reader) helps Katsuki masturbate ★

Canon!Bakugo Headcanons - (Fem!Reader) Canon Katsuki in the bedroom ★

Turbulent- (request) Katsuki Bakugos porn preferences in depth ★

______________________________

Tomura Shigaraki

Ghosts Of Hanahaki - (Fem!Reader) Hanahaki Disease AU ꕤ 𖤐꩜

[sickiehugs]

I loooove thinking about the dynamics between the characters in MHA, this show is a goldmine for sickfics. 

Once they move into the dorms, everyone is interacting with each other all the time. Colds would spread easily with how close class 1a is 

Characters that aren’t familiar with needing to be taken care of clashing with characters that would be all over their classmates with no hesitation if they found out they were sick

Characters that are less than naturally caring having to take care of a classmate bc no one else is around for whatever reason

Characters that would try to fight through it and inevitably make themselves feel worse

There are a lot of pairings in the show, and a lot of them have great dynamics for sickfics.

Some of my personal favorites include but are not limited to: 

Midoriya and Ururaka (they’re both sweethearts, they would be so so so gentle and caring with each other)

Midoriya and Bakugo (they’re both so terrible at communicating that they end up fighting the whole time, but it’s clear they both care about each other and want the sickie to feel better as soon as possible)

Tamaki and Togata/Hado (there is no way Tamaki hasn’t gotten sick from using his quirk too much, there is simply no way. Good thing he has two friends that would absolutely take care of him and help him feel better, no matter how embarrassed he may get)

Monoma and Shinso (No matter the situation, Monoma is dramatic and Shinso is deadpanned. If Shinso wants Monoma to shut up, he can just use his quirk on him, and if Monoma wants Shinso to stop resisting being taken care of and stay under the damn blanket, he can use his quirk and copy Shinso’s. There a lot of potential with the brainwashing quirk.)

And then of course there’s the wonderful world of illness affecting quirks!

Todoroki — If he had a fever, could he cool himself down with his right side? Would his left side make it worse?

Bakugo — If he had a fever and was sweating a lot, would he accidentally make explosions and have to be careful what he touched?

Tamaki — Bless this guy’s soul, if he caught a stomach bug he would be SO screwed

I could 100% write more but this is already super long and I’m getting embarrassed lmao

I hope you feel better soon!! <3

Oh these are all so good!! No need to feel embarrassed, I enjoyed it! I especially love thinking about how bugs could spread in the dorms, oh and how flu season would be...

A personal hc I have about Todoroki is that if he gets a fever, one of his sides activates, 50/50 on which one. He'll either be insanely hot and sweaty, or freezing cold. And it's more intense depending on how high the fever is, and his other side wouldn't be able to help with it.

So if it's a low fever, he'd either be sweating buckets, face bright red, just miserable and no amount of AC or ice packs can cool him down... Or, wracked with chills, constant shivering, under a pile of blankets in a little cocoon...

I haven't thought about high fevers with his hot side, but with his cold side he'd also leave a trail of ice whevever he went, frosty breath, just sooo cold... poor guy

[haine-kleine]

a slightly surrealistic take on why the Dabi is never around:

when Touya was still in coma, AFO didn't let go of his plan to prepare the boy as his future vessel. the state of his body allowed AFO to take more risks with him, and thus he gave Touya an experimental quirk he engineered, one that could give him Yoichi back. the quirk can take the user to the alternate universe where his greatest desire is fulfilled, while still keeping them tethered to their original reality, allowing to freely move between the worlds if they so desire.

when Touya woke up from the coma and ran back home, the shock of what he saw there had activated his new quirk. he is thirteen again. he is also the only son of Todoroki Enji, Fuyumi is now his only sibling. his hair is red again, like it used to be, like it always was supposed to be, and he doesn't burn anymore, the grotesque skin grafts only an uncomfortable memory. his father looks at him with such pride it takes Touya's breath away. he got so used to having to beg for sideway glances from his dad, like the very sight of Touya makes him ashamed. this new world is a dream come true, everything he ever wanted put directly into his palms. his body does not betray him, his father entrusted his dream to him, his heir, his only heir, his mother and sister supporting him instead of turning away from him.

and then he remembers Shouto. little Shouto, who was born perfect, born to replace him. he remembers attacking him when he was just a baby. he was so little then, and he vividly recalls the burning hatred that consumed him, how much he wanted Shouto, that perfect thing, gone.

Shouto was never born in this world. as Touya thrives in this dreamlike reality, he can't help thinking about the missing parts. did his dream kill Shouto? did it kill Natsuo? is he worse than the father he left behind in that horrible world, the father that made children like objects to be used? the more he thinks about it, the less enjoyable this new world becomes to him. his mother, who looks at him and at Enji with such open fondness, his sister who is his best friend now, who proudly tells her classmates about her brother, who is training to become the greatest hero, his father who doesn't even seem like the same man he had been chasing for nine years. his own selfish happiness. is all of that worth the price two little boys paid for it? is he truly so self centered to think his happiness is more important than the lives of his own brothers? had his father not stopped him, would he have actually killed little Shouto?

as he starts dwelling on this more and more, missing his little brothers, fixating on the guilt of erasing them from existence by proxy of being born the 'right way', he activates the quirk again. in the new universe he is 10 years old, and as soon as he sees Natsuo he bursts into tears. his little brother worriedly asks what father did this time, and Touya can't form any reply, pulling Natsuo in a tight hug. this is the first time Natsuo's brother has hugged him. later, when Touya calms down enough to stop squeezing Natsuo like he's going to disappear, the boys leave their shared room. what Touya sees next doesn't make any sense.

'Touya-nii, Natsu-nii, let's play!' a tiny boy with a gap toothed smile and rosy cheeks holds out a ball to them.

Shouto had never been allowed to step foot in the hall on this side of the building. father never allowed them to even look at each other directly. Touya's breath catches in his throat, his heart starting to beat rapidly. he hears the loud footsteps that are about to be followed by screaming, why did Shouto think this was a good idea to come here-

then the real Enji passes them by, reminding Shouto about the afternoon training, ruffling Touya's hair on his way to leave.

if the previous world was a dream come true, this one is extremely confusing.

eventually he learns that the difference here is that he had never attacked Shouto, and his father had never isolated his youngest brother from the rest of the siblings. all four of the Todoroki children are allowed to spend time together. remembering the heavy weight Natsuo and Shouto's absence put on his chest in the previous world, he decides to let go. it was him who wanted all of his siblings, and he already got to live his dream once. his vulnerability to fire is back, and the memory of burning alive is suddenly a vivid nightmare keeping him up at night. he looks at his mother's calm, relaxed face, as she watches a movie with the children. he thinks back to the stitched up, unfamiliar face he saw looking back at him in the hospital mirror. he thinks back to Fuyumi-chan's words, from when they were little. she doesn't want to see him hurt. he doesn't want to be hurt either. is it really so bad to let go? he glances at his family. Shouto is snoring his icy snot bubble with his head on their mother's knees. Natsuo is gripping Touya's shirt tightly, pushing his head into his shoulder, pretending he is not crying about the sentimental scene that is happening on the screen. Fuyumi is invested in the movie, but after hearing Touya's snort glances at their younger brothers and exchanges a grin with him. the calmness he feels here is like a warm blanket, the comfort such a faraway memory he had almost forgotten this feeling. would it really be so bad to let go and enjoy it?...

he wakes up once again. he is not at home and he is alone this time. 'wake up, sleepyhead', ghosts of children whisper to him, and the dread starts to sink in. he is back in his original world, the garish scars on his whole body as stark as he remembers them. he learns that two years have passed since he woke up from coma. he is no longer a middle schooler, Todoroki Enji's heir training to become the number one hero, nor a ten years old boy surrounded by an accepting and caring family. he is an adult, covered in self inflicted scars, with nowhere to go to. he feels like a child who had his candy taken away. it's so unfair! were those worlds just dreams his sick mind hallucinated while he was in another coma, and who on earth had been taking care of him this time?

this sends him back to the first alternate universe. he is back to being Enji's pride, separated from his brothers.

this goes on for a long time, as he clumsily learns to control this world travelling quirk. he spends as much time as possible in the two worlds, using them to escape the progressively glaring reality of the time slipping through his fingers, becoming a disfigured homeless adult having to fend for himself. on a particularly nasty night, his hunger and loneliness equally suffocating, he decides to come back home. if being away from his family is the main problem, then he can simply come back, can't he? maybe, if he stayed when he came back for the first time, if he didn't start crying and ran away from the sight of his father training his youngest brother in his place, if he revealed himself, they would have accepted him like they did in the second world. he misses the comforting chill of his mother's touch. he misses his father, the memories of the monster who beat his mother and his youngest son drifting away in the mess of the conflicting memories he made as a world traveler. he looks down at his reflection in the muddy puddle, the street lights painting his rough features red. he takes a deep breath, and heads in the direction of the Todoroki mansion.

he doesn't even get past the gate before Endeavor's sidekick almost arrests him. Enji joins in to the chase, and the cold derisive detachment his father looks at him makes him stumble. he escapes on pure adrenaline, overexerting his quirk and nearly burning both of his arms off. this is how he meets Giran. this is when he decides to stay in this world permanently. even if it feels like being thrown out from heaven straight to hell, he can't indulge in this escapism anymore, wasting the years he has left in the real world. he has to steel himself and make do with the life he has in this world, separated from his family. Todoroki Touya was left behind in the past, in other worlds, a faraway concept buried by time and space and impossibility of his existence, stretched thin between three different lives.

***

Dabi is a very weird individual. it’s a commonly accepted opinion in the League of Villains, a group consisting exclusively of weird individuals.

Shigaraki won’t tell this to anyone, but the initial reason he let Dabi join, let him stay, despite his rudeness and open lack of interest in his, his leader's case, is because the man is a mystery, one even his Sensei is fascinated with. when he disappears without any warning for the first time, Shigaraki uses all of his resources to try and track Dabi, to punish him for his betrayal. a week goes by, and he turns to Sensei with a humble request for help. his Sensei doesn't even appear angry with his failure, informs him that Dabi is going to be impossible to find until he allows himself to be. Shigaraki knows that Dabi has a fire quirk, how is this possible? does he have an ally who will hide him with their quirk? but even Giran didn’t know where the man disappeared to, didn’t crack even when Shigaraki made Twice, the sweet unassuming man he knew Giran trusted, contact him asking for help with locating Dabi. he ponders this, scratching viciously at his neck (Kurogiri pulls his hands away), and the look on his Sensei’s face, an almost gleeful smile, the proud tone of his voice, make him stop.

does Dabi actually have two quirks?..

***

despite the common notion, Toga is not actually the harebrained cutesy teenage girl that she pretends to be. what she is, is a good judge of character, and a very good actor. it takes one to know one, and she cracks Dabi’s mask before she even learns the man’s name. everything about him feels artificial. she knows Shigaraki and Spinner are pissed at him for not being serious about the League of Villains. she feels Dabi isn’t serious about anything. the more time she spends around him, the more she feels like she is interacting with a very bad actor who landed a role he never wanted to participate in. when he is not active on villain duty, it’s like he isn’t sure what his script should be, hiding behind his phone most of the time.

 still, when Shigaraki throws his second tantrum because Dabi came back after two weeks of no contact, she finds the sulking man hiding from everyone in the garage.

“you should learn to be a better actor, if you want to pull your thing off”, she tells him in a serious voice. it’s their first serious interaction, and Toga feels like a predator stalking her prey. no matter how much Dabi shows off his scars and throws insults around, he can’t hide the fast pumping of his heart. she allows herself to look at him, really look at him at him, and she finds that his glittery blue eyes don’t belong on his face. his eyes are too honest, too open, raw emotion presented like an open book. after a long moment of silent eye contact, he slumps in defeat, hugging his knees and making such forlorn sight that Toga almost feels bad for him.

“i will, just don't tell on me”.

no one is sure how old Dabi actually is, his voice so raspy it could belong to a serial smoker or to an old man, his face too damaged by the scars to make any age lines identifiable, but sometimes the things he says, the tone of his voice, make Toga think of a boy, rather than a man.

[createandconstruct]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia (Anime & Manga) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki & Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku & Yagi Toshinori | All Might, Iida Tenya & Midoriya Izuku & Uraraka Ochako, Class 1-A & Midoriya Izuku, Kirishima Eijirou & Midoriya Izuku Characters: Midoriya Izuku, Bakugou Katsuki, Yagi Toshinori | All Might, Kirishima Eijirou, Uraraka Ochako, Iida Tenya, Class 1-A (My Hero Academia) Additional Tags: Whumptober 2024, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku Whump, Concussions, Parental Yagi Toshinori | All Might, Bakugou Katsuki is Bad at Feelings, Bakugou Katsuki is a Good Friend, Everyone Loves Midoriya Izuku, Everyone also has severe anxiety over Izuku's well-being!, Post-Joint Training Arc (My Hero Academia), Pre-Paranormal Liberation War Arc (My Hero Academia), All of Class 1-A are good friends Series: Part 2 of Whumptober 2024

Summary:

It happens so fast there’s nothing Izuku can do.

It’s not a villain attack, misfired quirk, or training accident. It’s just him, tripping over his own two feet.

(Whumptober Day 10: Blow to the Head, Slurred Words, "I can't think straight")