#this motherfucker would absolutely have heart shaped top scars

[mugwot]

he knows the horrors (highs and lows of amateur illustration)

#rent lowering gunshots in the form of the trollsona hell yeah #acne And carpal tunnel we crazy up in here #this motherfucker would absolutely have heart shaped top scars #hearts and circles all around #exposing myself as the gog's favoriest guy with that page class (ominous) #troll oc #trollsona #hs oc #homestuck oc #my art #oc

[linkspooky]

day 23 - quirk

decay  shigaraki was born with a quirk that decayed everything his five fingers touched / @villainmonth / by @inumaqi @linkspooky

“Hey you, freak.” 

With these hands. “You walk outside looking like that and expect not to get your teeth beat in?” He destroys.

“Th-the hell? Are those hands? Y-you. You fucking monster.” Everything.

A vague white shape, from a distance it’s just a blur, a ghost. Then five fingers appear in his vision and close over his face. He tried to scream out, but he notices he has no lower jaw and the words decay away with the rest of his face. The last thing he catches sight of is his own ashes blowing away in the breeze and then nothing. 

“I don’t like you.” Shigaraki said, and for a reason as flimsy as that he took another human life. His days filled with fighting. He trained to become a terror. He never made any provocation, but yet others picked fighs with him; and on top of that each day the ones who did so called him, over and over a monster. He was already beginning to understand that there was no place for him in this world, that he no longer looked forward to anything the world could offer. 

He was an outsider. He was never meant to be part of this world. If society knew what was inside of him, the terrible urges that made his body itch they would have rejected them from the start. That was what All for One told him. The only person who would ever forgive him. The only person who ever bothered to save him. If he were to die the world as a whole would be better off. He could do nothing but observe the world from the outside, and he could not touch it because it would begin to decay. All he could do was most likely continue living this worthless life. And no wonder it all irritated him.Everything, everything he saw irritated his eyes and turned them red and he wanted to scratch them until there was nothing left but empty sockets in his head. 

He was not meant to have a family to begin with. He touched them and they were destroyed. He was not meant to have friends. He was not meant to feel kindness. All things that made others smile in life just irritated him. 

He was allergic. He was allergic to living itself. In that situation, it was no wonder others looked at his face and called him a corpse, he was no more than being dead alive. He didn’t want to cry, and he did not want to smile, because his heart could not hold onto those feelings. Those feelings slowly decayed away inside of him like everything else. He was incapable of hope, and he did not even despair at what the world had done to him. He just continued to live a life without any meaning. 

There was only one person in this world who was like him. There was only one person who did not believe his quirk was wrong. He stopped him from from cutting off his fingers one by one. They shared a last name because they were the same. 

♚ “Good little children don’t judge people by their quirks!”

Shigaraki remembered being told by that once. In a different life, when he attended school. When he pretended to be a child. But whatever he touched with all five fingers he decayed. 

What kind of child was he?

His quirk was decay. What he touched rotted away slowly. Sometimes Shigaraki believed that his quirk was not limited to his hands, but ran through his whole body. His insides were rotting away slowly. They festered. They filled the air with a horrible stench. Formeldahyde. His skin dry. His nails too long and broken. His hair was starchy, pure white, and no longer had any of the color in life. 

Whatever was inside of him. Blood. Organs. Muscles. Tendons. Bones. It all rotted away a long time ago. There was only an empty husk left, and that too one day would crumble. That was why he felt nothing, nothing more than this persistent itch. Perhaps the reason why the itch hurt him so deeply, left scars underneath his skin was because it was the only thing he could feel anymore. If a deaf person could suddenly hear again, the sound of a pin dropping would be shattering. He was not meant to touch anything, not meant to feel anyone’s touch, because they would decay away before he embraced them. He who was meant to be numb, have his nerves deadened underneath his skin. To feel cold like a corpse. 

The smallest touch would burn him. He felt nothing, and then he felt everything at once. He felt like he wanted to vomit. Shigaraki scratched his ass with four fingers as he got ready to shower. He had to be careful, he used two fingers to carefully remove his pants. 

“Pain in the ass quirk,” Literally. “Asshole got his ashes all over me.” He thought for a moment. “Haha, ash-hole.” He was never going to tell anyone else in the world he laughed at something that stupid. 

The ashes of the man he had just killed had gotten all over his body. Shigaraki did not mind filth, he lived with several trash bags tied up in his room because he did not want to bother to take them out. He never threw anything away and hoarded everything All for One gave him. But he did not think that room with a mess at all. Even living like this, his hair uncombed mess falling over his face in frayed white pieces. He did not think he looked like a mess at all. To Shigaraki, the image of “dirty” in his mind was other people. Even after he killed that man he refused to go away, his ashes were still there. He always lived with a layer of white ash over his skin, clinging, clinging, clinging to him. No matter how much he cleans himself he’s always going to be absolutely filthy with other people. That white ash covered his skin and turned him pale, and he forgot what he looked like underneath. Even after death, people’s hands still clung to him. He could feel those hands all over his body. They were touching, touching, touching him. Every time a hand touched his naked body they left a mark, and he was covered in the handprints of other people smeared all over his naked skin. A flat hand once struck his face. He felt his nose get crushed under it. Again and again, repeatedly, without stopping. That hand hand grabbed his face, and he felt like he was bruised underneath his skin. Everyone could see it.

A hand on his face. A hand left by father. A hand throttling him. 

He was a person who decayed everything he touched, but he felt those hands touching him, and he himself started to fall to pieces too. He was broken by those hands. 

Shigaraki scrubbed furiously in the shower, but that was not enough. The ash was still there, clinging, clinging, the dead were still clinging onto him even as he continued living. He stumbled back out of the shower and scratched at his skin. He could feel hands around his neck. They tightened and tightened. He felt himself suffocating by those hands. His neck, his skin, the tendons in his neck, his airpipe, his throat, his veins, his arteries, and then the bones of his neck, they would all decay away and then be crushed between the fingertips of the hands that choked him. He furiously fought back against those hands, scratching his neck.He raked at himself again and again with his own claws trying to pry those hands off, until he felt something wet on his neck. He had scratched his skin off again until his scars reopened. If only he could keep sratching until it all peeled off. If only he no longer had to have skin, and everybody could see what was rotten underneath. He pulled clothes over his body because he had to. “I still look like shit.” He muttered to himself. Seeing you in the flesh you look creepy as hell. Creepy motherfucker. 

He remembered Dabi’s words. “Shut up, scarface. Shut up, shut up, shut up.” As if the guy with half of his skin sewed on should be talking. He probably burned his own body just by using his quirk. Shigaraki stared at all five of his fingers looking at the palm of his empty hand. “We weren’t born with the right specs for our characters. We need to die, and then start again at character creation.” These hands were going to destroy everything. He did not care what happened after that. What happened to him. If he died, if he lived, he just did not care. He just hoped god did not fuck it up as badly next time when he was in the character customization menu. “It’s like… I don’t feel anything, anything at all. I just don’t care anymore.” 

Shigaraki said surveying himself in the mirror. If he became the king, if he was loved by everyone, if he was despised by everyone, it would make no difference to him, because he did not feel anything. But, Shigaraki felt everything. He felt so much he wanted to vomit. He lurched over the sink and vomitted up empty gastric juice, because he sometimes skipped meals to try to curtail the vomitting. His ribs were showing and there was no food in his stomach, but he kept spitting it all up. He felt something else crawling up from the back of his throat. He began to choke terribly, scratching at his throat again to try to open it up from the outside. If he tore a hole in it he could breathe. Shigaraki looked up in the mirror and it looked as if the whole world had heat waves running through it. Everything warped. Everything was twisted up, just like him. Then he felt something like his body was going to split apart at the seams. A hand broke through the back of his throat, and pushed its way through his mouth. He sat there was his mouth forced open, five fingers reaching forward. Not just his mouth, he felt them inside of his body as well. Hands were digging around on his insides, trying toe scape, and they did, they burst forth reaching out of him. It was like these hands were growing from his flesh. No, it was like several people were inside of him, all trying to claw out and escape at once. His mother, his father, his grandmother, his grandfather, his older sister. They were all inside of him, all still with him, and their hands were still clinging to him. Those hands were pulling him from every different angle, like they wanted to pull him apart. Take a spider in your hands. Spread its eight legs out. Then pull off each leg one by one. 

He was nothing more than a mass of writhing hands, and flesh, flesh slowly ripping with a squelching sound. He is flesh, torn at the sinews. Shigaraki retched His whole body convulsed, and so did his world as he collapsed forward on the sink, hitting his head against the ceramic. The only thing that brought him back to reality was the feel of his own blood dripping down his forehead. When he reached out to touch it with three fingers, he realized there was nobody here but a mirror, and him covered in his blood. “Idiot. Don’t you think your skull’s broken enough already?” 

He muttered to himself. Sleepy. So sleepy. So sleepy he could ream when he was awake. Long stretches of drool fell from his lips and he did not even notice. His face looked half asleep but his body still continued to move, still continued to live, meaninglessly.

“Haven’t slept in four days. Shit. I forgot.” It just slipped his mind. Maybe it fell out through the crack in his skull from all the times he tried to split his skull open. He had been up all night playing a game again. “But the game was so fun. Don’t wanna sleep now.” Tired. Tired. Tired. But he could not sleep. He was slowly decaying away, he looked like a corpse, but he could not die. “When it’s game over, I can sleep as much as I want.” Shigaraki Tomura smiled. There was still a kid inside of him, but one day that kid would decay away too. 

#tw: gore #tw: self harm #zeldi drabbles tag #shigaraki tomura #shimura tenko #villain month #villain month 2019

[harukapetals]

Strawberries and Cream

You’re baking on a Sunday, and when Harry sees you, he can’t hold back.

(I was bored and wrote some smut  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  enjoy)

It was a quiet Sunday, both you and Harry were free the entire day, which with your busy schedules was a miracle. Because you were free, Harry saw it as an opportunity to sleep in and cuddle all day, but you were restless, aching for something, anything to do. You remembered a carton of strawberries that you had bought, and smiled at the thought of waking Harry with homemade strawberry cupcakes from scratch. You debated for a moment whether or not to get dressed fully, your body only clad in one of Harry’s t-shirts and your underwear underneath, and decided against it, feeling like the opening and closing of drawers would disturb the sleeping beauty in your bed.

You slowly pried yourself from his suffocating grasp, and crept to the kitchen, where you unloaded all of the supplies needed for your sweet concoction. As you were pulling out ingredients, you called out to your Google Home to play the Weeknd, singing along to the silky vocals while you worked. You began to mix together your ingredients, mashing the strawberries in one bowl, and combining the dry ingredients in another. You began to whip the cream for the top when you saw an Adonis leave your bedroom, his eyes drooping with fatigue. Your Harry.

He looked so lovely in the morning, his hair messy, his cheeks a bit flushed, and most importantly, his sweatpants hanging loosely from his hips, exposing the lovely v-shape that lead into his boxers. He looked like pure sex, though that could be said at any time and it would still be true.

“Mm, that smells lovely. Though the bed got cold without you.” He mumbled, his voice rough, as it always was when he just woke up. His arms wrapped around you as you whipped the cream, adding sugar to the mixture and trying not to think about the erection that was pressing into your back. You decided to play dumb, swaying your hips to the rhythm of “Wicked Games” by the Weeknd, lowly singing along.

“I got my heart right here, I got my scars right here.” You continued singing along, your movements getting more and more heated as the song went on. Harry’s large hands began to roam, taking in your body fully as he roughly grabbed your hips, spinning you to face him.

“Just let me motherfucking love you.” He whispered the lyrics, a sinful look in his eyes as he leaned down to kiss you. His soft lips brushed yours for a moment, before fully delving into his lust. His hands grabbed desperately at your thighs, squeezing them before lifting you onto the counter, moving his body forward so that he was stood between your legs. His teeth nipped at your lower lip, growling playfully before slipping his tongue in your mouth, the flavor of mint bursting on your tongue.

His fingers moved south, trailing painfully lightly on your inner thigh, knowing fully well that the gentle touches weren’t going to cut it. The tips of his fingers brushed over your clothed center, which was practically dripping onto the marble countertop. The slight touch made you whine, as your body desperately craved something a bit rougher. He chuckled at your piteous sounds, a devilish grin spreading over his lips. He pulled the t-shirt over your head, and took in your barely clothed form. His eyes went to the bowl of cream that you had whipped, and suddenly, his eyes were filled with desire. He took a dollop on his fingers, and messily smeared it on your breasts, causing you to gasp, both from his fingers and the cold temperature of the cream. He maintained eye contact with you, dipping his head to your cream covered tits before taking the sweet substance into his willing mouth, causing you to moan out, your head rolling back on the counter. Harry tutted, bringing your head back up.

“I want you to watch.” The words were filthy, and you were more than willing to please him. “You know how much I love your cooking.” He mumbled against your skin, sucking on your pink nipple. Your tiny fingers weaved their way into his long locks, tugging gently to keep him in place. His hands surprised you by finding the place that you needed him most, which, at that point, was soaking wet. He pulled your soiled panties to the side, smirking when you gasped at the cold air hitting you.

“You’re absolutely wrecked, aren’t you, baby girl? Is this what you wanted? Why else would you be out here half naked?” Harry cooed, hungry lips attacking your neck as you nodded quickly, whining and whimpering when his long middle finger teased your entrance before slowly pushing in.

The relief of the fullness was euphoric, and you had to stop yourself from writhing to gain some friction. Your clit was left painfully neglected, though Harry knew that, and planned to keep it that way for at least a couple moments. The speed of his finger, which was pumping in and out of your center, was slow, so slow. He was teasing you, and this was evident in  every move he made.

“Harry, please… please I can’t…” You begged, writhing beneath him. “I need you.”

“Mm… I think we can beg a bit better than that, can’t we?” He whispered sweetly in your ear, curling his finger inside you to meet your g-spot, changing his pace to be a bit faster.

“P-Please, please daddy, I need you, please fill me up.” Your cheeks were burning, both from the gentle finger-fucking that you were receiving and from the embarrassment from your words.

“That’s much better.” He removed his finger, causing you to gasp at the loss. He tugged his sweatpants and boxers down, and you spread your legs as far as you could manage, your body begging for his cock.

He may have agreed to fuck you, but the teasing wasn’t over. He loved to tease you until you were a dripping, begging mess for him. And you loved to be defiant until you couldn’t take it anymore. It was your favorite game of cat and mouse.

He ran the tip of his cock over your core, slowly swirling it around your clit, which was left alone until that moment. Your hips bucked involuntarily at the contact, causing Harry to grab your waist, pushing you back down.

“Ah, ah, ah.” A smirk crept onto Harry’s face, his eyes glazed over with lust. He slowly pushed into you, causing all of the breath to leave your lungs. The pleasure was indescribable, and you felt your arousal trickle down your thigh and onto the counter. This was the effect that Harry had on you. Once he was fully inside, you were practically at the point of tears, needing him to move. “What do we say?” Harry asked before pulling his full lower lip between his teeth.

“Really?” You asked, annoyed with his patience and your lack thereof. He raised an eyebrow at you, showing that he was one hundred percent serious. You took a deep breath before saying, “Please, please fuck me, I can’t take it.” Your legs were wrapped so tightly around Harry’s waist you thought he must have lost blood circulation. He pulled your body up, kissing your lips feverishly before thrusting quickly in you, causing you to melt, the pleasure overwhelming your body. Harry had a way of turning you primal, making pleasure your only goal, and the only thing on your mind. You dragged your nails down Harry’s back, causing him to groan with pleasure. He left hickeys all over your skin, but mostly on your breasts, which still had the sticky remains of whipped cream on them.

“B-Baby, I’m gonna cum…” He whispered to you, and you nodded, feeling your own release building. His willing fingers found your clitorus, which he massaged to the rhythm of his thrusts, urging you closer and closer to your orgasm. Your body twitched with your orgasm, each wave of pleasure racking your body and lifting your hips off of the counter. You gasped, breathless as Harry continued thrusting through your orgasm until he met his own, releasing deep inside you. You cried out at the unique pleasure, your ankles locking behind his back. His clammy body collapsed on yours, both of you left heavily breathing and with pink cheeks.

“You should bake every Sunday.” Harry mumbled into your skin, which reminded you and caused you to jump up.

“Shit! The cupcakes.”

#harry styles #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles one shot #one shot #fan fiction #one direction one shot #one direction fan fiction