U S A!!! đŠ đŠ đŠ đŠ đŠ đŠ
homelander doodles
Stranger Things
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
I'd rather be in outer space đž

ellievsbear
we're not kids anymore.

#extradirty
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
đȘŒ

â
will byers stan first human second
One Nice Bug Per Day
Misplaced Lens Cap
Xuebing Du

Andulka
trying on a metaphor
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

⣠Chile in a Photography âŁ
$LAYYYTER

seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Germany

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Canada
seen from United States

seen from France

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States

seen from France
@meimyers
U S A!!! đŠ đŠ đŠ đŠ đŠ đŠ
homelander doodles
FINGERPRINTS | TODOROKI SHOUTO x READER
SUMMARY: When youâre outed as pro hero Shoutoâs soulmate on national television, there are really only two sensible things for you to do: blame someone else and run. TAGS/WARNINGS: pro hero au, fem + afab reader, romance, soulmate au, fluff, pining, not actually unrequited love, aged up characters, eventual smut, 18+ minors please dni! LENGTH: 38k, STATUS: COMPLETE NOTES: Now with amazing art by the incredible @volatilematters!! Also a huge shoutout and all the credit tođanon for the prompt: âa soulmate!au shoto x reader except whatever soulmate-identifying interaction/feature they have occurs in front of the paparazzi and thus the entirety of social media so the reader is suddenly wrenched into public opinion as shotoâs soulmateâŠand the reader is quirkless.â
CHAPTERS: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine
[READ ON AO3]
neon crush (prologue)
(18+ minors dni)
pairings: aged up pro-hero denki kaminari x f!reader, in later chapters aged up pro-hero katsuki bakugou x f!reader, aged up pro-hero eijiro kirishima x f!reader
summary: But you hush back, almost so quiet amongst all the noise that he only knows what you said because he could feel the shape of the words on your lips against his, âI wanna go home with you.â
You say home the same way he did, like you wanted a taste of what he meant.
Denki Kaminari falls in love with you at first sight. The trouble is, so do his friends.
(love at first sight, pwp, humor, some hurt/comfort)
wc: 11k
warnings: in this chapter, just smut: specifically oral sex (female and male recieving), drug use, mentions of shitty and toxic exes (neglect, stealing, using denki's pro-hero status for clout).
if you are under 18 you should not be reading or interacting with this!
a/n: hello! this fic is mostly for fun! a small amount of plot but mostly just an excuse to write some tooth-rotting fluff and self-indulgent smut lmao way different than my usual angst! kinda going to be updating this whenever? i do have the second chapter written so i'll probably get that out next week for sure! and if you guys really like this series/want to see more, let me know and i'll try to write more!! also open up to ideas for cute scenarios or something! this first chapter is kinda just set up, but i hope you enjoy it!
â playlist for this fic!
read on ao3
***
Denki Kaminari thinks falling in love is similar to being struck by lightning. He would know, heâs intimate with the flash bang of electricity, the taste of it beneath his tongue, hot and sharp. The way his chest heaves, heart sputtering out an unsteady rhythm, with the zinging rush that arcs through his body.
Looking at you for the first time is like thatâ like his whole world is cleaving apart, sparking with a bolt of electricity only to blaze into something brighter, neon and hot.
He understands suddenly why Cupid strikes with arrows. He understands why you fall in love. Strong, terrifying verbs. Maybe even violent. Theyâre not gentle, theyâre visceral and frightening.
Youâre in the center of a group, your laughter carrying to him even over all the noise of the party. Youâre so open and joyful, youâre making the whole room light up, hang off your every word. Thereâs glitter on your eyelids, dusting down onto your cheeks to make your eyes look as if theyâre sparkling. Shimmering, pink blush roses your cheeks up, too. Your lips are glossy, shining as you talk, as you smile.
You look vivid among the haze of smoke and flashing, colorful lights. You look straight out of one of his dreams.
Maybe itâs the drugs talking.
He shouldnât be hereâ not at this party for college students when heâs a young Pro-Hero climbing his way through the rankings. Heâs the same age as the people around him but he feels leagues older most days, even with his upbeat and seemingly childish attitude. He thinks all heroes feel this way, just a little removed from this world, civilian world.
He shouldnât have taken that molly.
Bakugou would yell at him. But now at least his pupils are blown wide and there is a bubble of joy and excitement growing in the pit of his chest.
He just wants to feel young for a while, thatâs all. He just wants to be in love, maybe, with you. That so bad? Is it a crime?
He makes his way to the group gathered around you, falling into your orbit. He understands why theyâre all so enraptured; you give everyone around you your honest attention, genuine and excited to talk and share a moment with each person.
He says something that makes you laugh and he truly has to keep his jaw from hanging open.
The sound has already made a home inside him, burrowed down to warm him from the inside out.
âYou look familiar,â you tell him when you really take him in, your eyes falling over the contours of his face.
For a moment, heâs fractionally self-conscious. Mostly of the skittering, lichtenberg scars that now arc and bend and weave over part of his face. Those spindly, branching scars are all over his body now from years of abusing and pushing his Quirk.
But youâre smiling and open and you say, âI know you. How do I know you?â
He grins back, tipping his head forward to speak with you over the noise, âMaybe from your dreams?â He asks, wiggling his brows in a way that sends you laughing again, giggling, the sound like a fountain, overflowing from you.
âI think Iâd remember if I dreamt of someone like you,â you respond and Denki truly thinks for a moment heâs short circuited.
Are you flirting back?
He almost does a double take. But then he gets a stupid smile on his face, his eyes lightning up like a spark.
Finally he admits, âIâm a Pro-Hero, maybe thatâs where?â
And you gasp, all excited, peering up into his face in a new way, âYes! You saved someone I know! You and Red Riot!â And then your eyes are softening, twinging with adoration, rounding out all sweet and gentle in a way that has Denki practically melting under your gaze. âYouâre incredible,â you breathe, âChargebolt, right? With the electricity?â
âYeah,â he manages to get out, feeling warm and flushed with your praise. Denki doesnât hear a lot of it. He doesnât need to, he assures himself. Heâd do what he does without any praise at all, but he is often overshadowed. He has his own fans, of course, and he loves the little kids that have started to look up to him but the way youâve said it, the way you look up at him, like he hangs the moon and the stars, is threatening to make him weak-kneed and wobbly. âYeah, with the electricity.â
âIâve never met a hero before,â you say, inching closer to him.
âIâm honored to be your first.â he replies and he doesnât know why heâs breathless.
âWhatâs your name?â you ask, and then, âYour real name. I know your hero name.â
He doesnât know why, but you wanting to know his name, his real name that his friends call him, does something strange to his chest. You could just call him Chargebolt for the rest of the night, thatâs what most people do in these settings. Heâd let you, he thinks.
He doesnât want it to be a secret though, not from you. He wants to give this part of himself to you, let you have it.
âKaminari Denki,â he finally says, offering you a lopsided grin. âWhatâs yours?â
âKaminari,â you say, testing it out, and he already could listen to you say his name for the rest of his life.
Then you give him your name and he says it back, tasting it on his own tongue. And youâre both looking at each other, giddy and smiling and strangely tender.
He says something dumb about how heâd let you call him whatever you want, though. And you laugh again but tell him you like Kaminari. Sounds nice, you tell him, and he can feel the slight flush thatâs crawling along his cheeks.
By some miracle, you keep talking with him.
He really likes you.
Really, really likes you.
Thereâs gotta be something magical in you, something that he just canât get enough of. Sweet like his favorite candy. Pretty the way sunsets areâ overwhelming, so colorful and mesmerizing he canât quite believe he gets to behold you.
You both end up on this couch, pushed to the outskirts of the room, you pressing so close that youâre practically in his lap. Heâs got his hand on the small of your back.
You touch his cheek, just below his eye. He doesnât think you realize it, but a part of his scar runs beneath your small finger. The scar doesnât seem to matter to you, but your hand on it matters to him.
He inhales softly.
âWhat are you on?â You ask curiously, looking into his eyes, which must be blown black and wide, and then you smile a little, playful and sweet, âYou look like a demon.â
âA demon?â Kaminari asks, laughing brightly for a moment before he decides to flash teeth. He adopts some form of a fake-scowl to be menacing, âAre you scared of me?â he asks, his voice going low, almost a croon.
He can feel your breath hitch. The sweetest parting of your glittery lips and he can feel heat simmer low inside of him. You shake your head, eyes gone all wide, almost innocent, âNo,â you respond, before a fraction of a smile twists at your lips, âShould I be?â
He shakes his head and heâs so close to you that your noses almost brush, âIâm a hero,â he responds, but the smirk that is pulling at his lips feels a little hooked, a little off-kilter. Youâre driving him crazy, âYou donât have to be scared.â
Youâre looking at him with such round eyes, your lashes pretty and sparkling with glitter, that he feels suddenly ravenous, suddenly desperate for you. Godâ youâre looking at him so openly, all vulnerable and excitable. He doesnât know if anyoneâs ever looked at him like this, like heâs miraculous. Like youâd let him devour you whole if he asked nice enough, gave you a pretty smile.
âIâm not scared,â you breathe, but itâs a shaky confession, swallowing before you say again, âIâm not scared of you, Kaminari.â
He tilts his head the slightest amount, looking at you through lidded eyes, âNo?â he asks softly, just a breath against your lips.
You shake your head fractionally, the tips of your noses brushing. âNoââ you say and itâs almost against his lips, âJust want you tâkiss me, thatâs all.â
The admittance is a shy one.
Denkiâs eyes open in surprise to take you in and youâre nervous, he sees it now. He can practically hear the hummingbird beat of your poor heart just by the look on your face.
And oh, who is he to deny you?
Heâs a hero, after all, like he just said, heâs no demon. He wonât torment you. He's gotta take care of youâ wipe that fear and uncertainty clear from your pretty face.
He canât help the smile that spreads across his lips. Heâs almost in disbelief himself. A giddy flutter to his heart makes him feel like heâs practically glowing.
You wanna kiss him?
Heâs thanking his stars as he leans in to kiss you, smiling, maybe like an idiot. But he doesnât care because the moment your lips meet, youâre throwing your arms around his neck and pressing closer.
He tastes vanilla first, maybe from your lip gloss and he doesnât know why but heâs excited to have leftover glitter clinging to kiss swollen lips. His arms are quick to pull you in tighter, try to get you closer as the kiss begins to melt into slow exploration.
Colors from the lights flash behind his closed eyelids like fireworks, his heart is tumbling in his chest, stomach swooping the way it does when he jumps from high places. You open your mouth to his like a flower blooming and he has to bite back a too excited noise.
Maybe the kiss is a little sloppy now with his eagerness but your hand is tightening in his hair and youâre suddenly hooking a leg over his thighs to perch right in his lap.
Never mind youâre still at a crowded party, on some couch for the whole world to see.
Your skirt is all hitched up now. He runs a hand from the back of your knee, up to your waist and squeezes, tries not to think about your plush bare thighs, the weight of you settling onto his lap as he licks into your mouth.
You mewl, pulling tighter to him and Denki swears heâll short circuit if heâs not careful.
Heâs already hard behind his jeans and heâd be more embarrassed if it wasnât for the little gasp you give when you feel him.
The slightest twitch in your hips.
Faintly, he knows he should be more careful. If anyone snapped a photo of him, this would be all over tabloids and his poor PR manager would have a heart attack. Heâd never hear the end of it from his friends.
He has a reputation and a public image to uphold and all that.
Besides, he doesn't want you to get caught up in it, either.
You squirm again in his lap and Denki has to hold back a stupidly desperate moan already. He squeezes at your waist again, just as he finally pulls away from the kiss.
Youâre both panting a little and your pretty gloss is definitely smeared on you, he can feel it on him, too. Youâre both flushed, looking at each other wide-eyed and amazed.
âThatâs all you wanted?â he teases, but itâs breathless.
You laugh, and itâs breathless, too, your smile lighting up your whole face for a moment.
But then you bite your lip, gazing down at him and Denki watches as the party lights splay across your faceâ washes of pink, turquoise, cherry, tangerine.
Youâre so pretty it hurts him, an arrow straight through the heart.
âWant more than that,â you admit softly, tipping your face back to his, your eyes fluttering shut. He can feel them against his cheek, little butterfly kisses that have him nearly sighing, âWanna leave with you.â
Denkiâs brows raise in surprise, his heart skipping a whole beat in his chest. He canât quite believe it.
You want to leave with him?
You pull away a little, suddenly nervous, âI-if you want that, of course.â
âI want!â Denki gets out, maybe a little too fast, and perhaps a little too barbaric with the lack of a noun. Damn, he was okay in his language and literature classes, too, youâd think heâd be able to speak properly.
But you make him haywire, he can practically feel the humming of his Quirk right beneath his skin.
He can hear Bakugouâs âSmooth, dumbass,â in his head. He can hear Kiriâs bark of a laugh, too. Even Seroâs snicker. Mina would probably mock him for the rest of the night if she heard that one.
But it makes you giggle, too, and he even gets another kissâ a teasing, playful oneâ for his efforts.
Heâs on cloud nine.
âYou wanna come home with me?â he murmurs against your lips.
Something about the word home, the way it softened in his mouth, melted like sugar to his tongue has him feeling tender. And the way heâd ended it pitched and higher on the question;
With me?
It sounds too eager, too desperate and sweet and surprised.
But you hush back, almost so quiet amongst all the noise that he only knows what you said because he could feel the shape of the words on your lips against his, âI wanna go home with you.â
You say home the same way he did, like you wanted a taste of what he meant.
With you, like youâre trying to tie a knot, like youâre trying to tangle yourself up with him.
The smile that bursts across his lips is electric. He swears a spark may have even fizzled out from him. Yours is just as excited, he can feel it when he crashes his lips to yours again.
âIâll take you home,â he says between kisses, nipping at your bottom lip, trying to get closer, âIâll take you home, baby.â
Itâs a feat trying to leave the partyâ itâs packed and you keep pressing up against him, stealing kisses. He keeps grabbing at your waist and pulling you back into him. Youâre all over each other like teenagers, fumbling and excited and young.
Once you both manage to stumble out the door together, the night in a city engulfs you two. People are coming and going, college kids walking along the streets together, dressed up and going out. Thereâs shouting and loud music that thumps from the party, from somewhere else, too. The air is cooler, though not overly cold.
Denki fishes out his phone to order a taxi of some kind while you try to distract him, pulling on him to give you more kisses. Heâs laughing as he tries to do both, as you keep slotting yourself in front of his phone for his attention.
It feels painfully natural; like heâs known you for months and not a night. A few hours, really.
His friends always warn him he falls too fast butâ but if they had you looking up at them like this, hanging off their necks, the taste of vanilla on their tongues, theyâd understand, too.
He manages to call for a taxi. Itâs going to be at least twenty minutes, though, since itâs a busy night.
Twenty minutes is a decent amount of time.
He doesnât know if it was you or him who started tugging the other over to the nearby alleyway, but suddenly your back is against the bricks and your mouth is hot and soft against his.
He lifts one of your legs to hitch up along his waist, your hips already tilting up to meet his. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, pressing firmer into you to make you gasp. Your little hands squabble for purchase on his shoulders. One slips into his hair as he eases his lips down your jaw. You tilt your head back to make room for him as he drags soft lips against your tender pulse.
He sets a gentle, sucking kiss there.
You nearly melt beneath him, a little garbled noise getting caught in your throat.
So he does it again, and again, until heâs littering love bites all over your body. Until youâre whining a little, hips eagerly trying to rock against his.
Itâs cute, the way youâre already desperate but trying to control yourself.
And Denki canât help himself with those tiny, aborted rocks of your hips. He slides his lips lower, to your collarbone, down, down, until he drops to his knees in front of you.
When he peers back up at you, your lips are kiss stung and parted in surprise.
Denki shuffles forward, pressing a sweet, messy kiss to the top of your thigh. Heâs pushing your skirt up a little, glancing at the cotton of your panties.
Theyâre light pink, with little hearts on them. Theyâre not lingerie or even overly revealingâ but theyâre sweet and clinging to you. Denki tries not to moan at the thought.
He catches your eyes as his hands slide up your thighs, to your waist. âThis okay?â
You swallow and he can tell youâre nervous again. He flashes you a sweet smile for reassurance, âIâll stop or slow down if you wantââ
âNo-!â You say, perhaps too quickly, voice little more than a squeak. âI meanâ you donât have to stop or slow down. Itâs okay, if youâre okay.â
Denki canât help his smile, can feel it turn lopsided as he gazes up at you, as his thumbs trace circles into the bare skin of your thighs.
âS-shouldnât it have been the other way around?â You ask, though, âDonât think Iâve ever had a guy get on their knees like this beforeââ
Denkiâs eyes spark, hitching your hips closer to his face, âIf you want, you can repay me at my place,â he hums sweetly, lashes fluttering, âFor now, hold up your skirt for me?â
You let go of a shuddering breath and he thinks it hitches somewhere, gets caught inside of you, when he noses his way beneath the fabric and settles a few teasing kisses on your inner thigh.
You bunch up the front of your skirt in a shaky hand, squirming a little in his hold. He eases one of your legs over his shoulder, though, tilts your pelvis towards his face and settles a slow-burning kiss on your core, through your adorable panties.
You mewl, a high, soft noise. When he glances up the line of your body, youâre nearly trembling and your eyes are all round and pretty.
He settles another kiss there, slow, letting his tongue press fleetingly onto the cotton.
Your free hand comes down to tangle in his hair. And Denkiâs not feeling overly cruel tonight, so he doesnât tease you or torment youâ
He lets his thumb drift over, rubbing slow circles into that sensitive bundle of nerves that has you keening softly.
Besides, heâs a little impatient himself and he wants you. Heâs excitable and soft, eager to be close with someone, to have and taste and please. Heâs been a little lonely lately, a little bruised from his last relationship, banged up in ways he hasnât quite yet processed.
But you want him, too, donât you? Ready to please like him, aching for another.
More than that, Denki just likes you. The moment heâd laid eyes on you, he hadnât been able to look away.
And now heâs easing your panties off of you, watching the wiggle of your hips as he works them down your legs. He tucks them into his pocket with a cheeky grin, before settling himself back between your legs.
The first swipe of his fingers through you makes Denki almost purr.
He doesnât feel embarrassed about being so hard earlier after only kissing, not with the way your dewy arousal clings to his fingers. So slick and warm that he sighs a little, almost dreamily.
Then heâs hooking your leg tighter around his shoulder and letting his tongue roll out and trace through right where his finger just was. Both of your moans are simultaneous; his pitching higher just on the end as your hips rock towards the heat of his mouth. He adjusts to be sure heâs holding as tight to you as possible, fitting you snug to him so that you canât be shy.
He isnât shy, either, delving his tongue slowly and sweetly between your folds, sliding up to find that sensitive bundle of nerves that makes you gasp.
He looks up at you, his eyes sparking gold, flashing up to watch as your face screws up in pleasure.
When he eases a finger inside of you, your moanâ though music to his earsâ is a little too loud. He pulls away, hushing you softly, placing messy kisses on your inner thigh again. He glances around for a moment, just to be sure youâre both still relatively alone in this alley.
He curls his fingers inside of you, though, so your, âsorry!â is gasped out, pitching high.
Denki dips back to place another sloppy kiss to your clit, which turns into his tongue swirling against you again. âHmm, I donât mind,â he murmurs, âI just figured you didnât want to be caught.â
He glances up at you, at the pretty curves of your body. Your eyes pinch shut as you let your head fall back against the wall.
âI-I donât want to be,â you manage to get out and Denki canât help his laugh, right up against you.
âYou donât sound sure of that,â he teases, but he doesnât let you get another word out, because he sets to work on figuring out what it is you really like. He hugs your thighs tighter, his eyes settling into a determined spark, and doesnât let up on you. You squirm and gasp and bite back moans and Denki doesnât slow.
You have to cover your mouth with your own hand and Denki canât help but groan against you softly.
Fuck, heâs so hard. Heâs so turned on. He feels like his Quirk is going to skitter out of him in bursts of electricity.
If he was lying down, able to rut his hips into his bed, he swears he wouldâve already been close. Something about youâ your pretty face all flushed with pleasure, the taste of you, the squirming of your hips, itâs almost too much for him.
âDenkiââ you cry, âI-Iâm closeââ
Another needy moan from him and he doubles his efforts, desperate for it, for you to fall apart on his tongue. Heâs nearly begging with his eyes, turned all round and pretty to look up to watch you.
Your fingers flex in his hair, your hand squeezing tight over your mouth to trap the moan that you let out, your poor hips trying to squirm and move as you break, but Denki holds fast to you. He chases your movements with his mouth, whining a little as you try to break away from him. His fingers dig into your plush thighs.
Itâs all slick and messy, just the way he likes it. He swears heâs dreaming, feeling you gush around him, twitching and over sensitive.
âD-Denki, too muchâ ahâ I canât, I canâtââ You manage to get out through your fingers, so he finally relents and letâs up on you.
He wipes his chin with the back of his hand, throwing you a dazzling smile as your fingers gentle in his hair, trying to smooth it down again.
âGood?â he asks, eager for your praise.
âSo good,â you exhale, your own eyes turning a little dreamy as you look at him and he thinks you must have twin expressions on your faces, because heâs also looking up at you like youâre the answer to a long lost question heâs been asking for far too long.
He stands finally and he isnât expecting it, but you rock up onto the tips of your toes to kiss him soundly. He thinks itâs in thanks, but then youâre moaning a little into his mouth, and the kiss is turning desperate again. Denkiâs hands are everywhere this time, bolder now, touching and grabbing and squeezing at all the soft, pliant parts of your body.
When you part from him, you shower him in little kisses along his jaw, his neck. You nibble on the lobe of his ear, âAre you gonna let me repay you now?â you murmur and Denki has to bite back a (probably pathetic) noise.
âBet the taxi is almost here,â he responds, sliding one of his hands down your arm to find your hand, âYou can do whatever you want to me back at home.â
And then heâs tugging on your hand, pulling you back towards the busy street with you laughing, unable to contain it. Itâs a sound that fills Denki to the brim, makes him beam, probably foolishly but he doesnât even care.
Because when he looks down at you, slotting yourself beneath his arm like you belong there, youâre grinning back just as brightly.
It nearly takes his breath away.
He feels silly with it, so happy he could burst, and when you pull him down for more eager, sweet kisses, he thinks he even lets out a fizzle of a spark again.
Maybe heâs still high, but it feels fated to have found you tonight. Like you were both looking for each other.
He pulls you into the taxi laughing.
You fall into his arms the way he falls in love with you, so fast it's dizzying, so hard heâs sure heâs going to need a bandaid for this one.
On the ride home, youâre nearly in his lap again, and you tell him that heâs the prettiest boy youâve ever seen in your whole life.
The taxi driver makes a comment about young love and you giggle yourself silly into the crook of his neck.
Maybe a few stitches, too, he decides, feeling his heart spark and catch, the crush of electricity sitting on the back of his tongue, hot and neon.
You brush your nose against his, eyes glittering in the dark of the taxi, the cityâs nightlife passing over your features to turn you dreamy and otherworldly. You rub your nose to his in a kiss, laughing when he returns the gesture. Then he presses you against the chilled window and slants his lips to yours desperately.
You tangle your hands into his hair and sigh like heâs your long, lost lover.
On second thought, might as well call the ambulance now, he throws in, and lets himself be set alight by you.
***
âOkay, we have to be quiet, because if we wake my roommates, theyâll kill meââ Denki tells you as he eases the door open to his high-rise apartment. Its dark, so youâre not able to see much but you can tell thereâs a lot of windows that open up the living room, the city below twinkling to life before your eyes.
You and Denki ease your shoes off and his jacket comes off, too, hung up on a hook beside the door.
His place looks relatively neat, for a young man like Denki. And expensive, for someone his age. But you suppose thatâs what comes with being an up and coming hero.
âHow many roommates do you have?â you ask, letting Denki take your hand in his and lead you down a hallway.
âTwo,â he responds, âAnd they have to get up early for patrol tomorrow.â
âTheyâre heroes too?â You gasp excitedly and Denkiâs responding, soft laugh is enough to make heat tickle your cheeks.
He shoulders open a door, âYeah and my best friends from high school.â
Denkiâs room is neater than youâd thought itâd be but also crammed with a lot of furniture, knick-knacks, and decorations. He shuts the door behind you and fumbles in the dark for a moment, before the room floods with soothing, blue light that is strung up around the walls. He flicks on several lava lamps of various, neon colors, and even a little salt rock lamp.
The room is cast in all that soft light, blue and pink and red turning the room hues of purple and magenta.
âYou donât have to get up and patrol tomorrow morning, too, do you?â you suddenly ask, eyes still drifting around his room.
âNope! I have tomorrow off unless thereâs an emergency,â he responds, a grin flashing across his face, his brows waggling suggestively, âWhy? Planning to keep me up all night?â
You laugh, but try to muffle the sound with your hand as Denki drifts near you again. His hands find a home at the curve of your waist and he drags you back into his orbit, fitting your body to his.
You peer up at him, eyes twinkling happily, âYou can go all night?â
âFor you? I could do anything,â Denki drawls with the dopiest, cheesiest grin caught on his lips.
You canât help the laugh that bursts from you. It makes you bubble with excitement.
You fit yourself against him eagerly, tipping your chin up, almost offering your lips to him like a sacrifice, âShould we test that?â
Your voice is sweet and soft, like honey that he wants to taste.
âMhm,â he hums in agreement, almost a trance as he gazes at you, âletâs do that.â
And then his mouth is slotting against yours, warm and hot, all slow rolls of tongue, the gentle nip of teeth. Youâre both stumbling backwards together, legs tangling with each step until you tip back onto his bed. Denki draws you into his lap eagerly and youâre quick to straddle him.
You feel him underneath you, the hard line of him pressed against your bare core.
He still has your underwear.
You both must realize this at the same time because Denkiâs hips press upward and yours squirm, an excited little gasp tearing from your lips as you finally pull away from the kiss.
Denkiâs hands are all over you, eagerly searching for more ways to pull those sweet sounds from you.
But you start kissing along the crook of his neck, scattering them downward, shifting slightly to keep going down, down, downâ
Denkiâs hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers beginning to tangle in your hair.
You look up at him through your lashes, settling yourself between his legs. Your hand drifts to the button of his jeans.
âYou know, you donât have to just causeââ he starts, but you cut him off easily;
âI wanna repay you.â And then you slowly work the button free, eyes rounding out a little, cheeks flushing with heat as you hush, âI really wanna repay you.â
Denki is almost hypnotized, jaw slack. He might start drooling, you think to yourself, biting back a smile.
Youâre careful as you ease his cock out, wrap your fingers around it. It twitches at your touch, flushed red, like the color of his cheeks now, and already leaking a little.
Heâs longer than you expected, a slight curve. You squirm a little yourself at the thought of him being inside youâ
You stroke him experimentally, almost languidly and watch as his hips press up into your hand. He makes a slight hiss of breath, eyes zeroed in on you, on your slight hand wrapped around him.
Youâre not cruel, you donât tease him, the way he didnât tease you earlier.
You let your tongue loll out, giving kitten licks up the underside, to the head.
He moans softly, an almost pitiful sound, his fingers flexing in your hair. Heâs gentle, though, careful with you.
The moment you slide the tip of him between your lips and suckle, Denkiâs other hand is already fisting the sheets.
Okay, maybe you are a little cruel, to stay here, just at the tip.
âBabyââ he whines, pushing at the back of your head a little, âCâmon, Iâm tryinâ to be nice and gentle with youââ
Your eyes flicker up, catch with his, feigning innocence.
He clenches his teeth together to keep back the groan, to keep quiet.
Pride and arousal sweep through you.
You pop off of him, lips pretty and kiss stung. A string of saliva, sticky and glimmering in the low light gets caught as you hold your tongue out for him to see. It falls from your parted lips, dripping back onto his twitching cock.
His fingers tighten in your hair.
You squeak when he flexes his hips up, bringing you back down to his cock.
You donât fight him when he makes you take more of himâ feeding you his cock. The desperate moan that wracks out of him as his head falls back onto his pillow sends a bolt of arousal through you like lightning.
âAhâ yeah, thatâs it,â he murmurs, guiding you up and down slowly, gently still, mostly letting you take the lead as you hollow out your cheeks around him.
When he picks his head back up, his eyes are alight, âOh, fuck, donât you look cute like this?â
Your eyes water as you take him as deep as you can. A tear slips out and he cooes, leaning forward to brush the tear away with his thumb.
âMaking me feel so good, baby,â he gets out, voice pitching a little when you pick up your pace.
âArenât I lucky? Prettiest girl Iâve ever seenânow sucking my cock.â Denki babbles, but it makes you melt, forcing a whine out of you that reverberates around him.
He moans again, too, shamelessly, and you think of his poor roommates. You hope theyâre deep sleepers.
He pushes the hair from your face with gentle fingers, cooing more praise, an unconscious stream of words that falls out of him as he gets closer and closer to that edge;
âSo good for me, babyââ
âYeahâ ohâ just like that,â
âTake a little more for me? Hereâ Iâll guide youâ fuck, ahââ
He makes you gag when he flexes his hips up a little too sharply, your eyes watering as you pull off, more slick spit spilling between you two, coughing a little.
Denki coos his apologies, but thereâs something in the small smirk at the corner of his lips that has you keening. Almost feels a little mocking. Heâs been so sweetâ the idea of a meaner side to him, a rougher one, makes your stomach swoop excitedly.
You take him back into your warm mouth all over again and soon after, heâs whining and moaning more. So vocal, trying to keep it down but failing miserably.
He stops you, fingers tightening in your hair, âBaby, you gotta stop or Iâm gonna cum,â he says, almost breathless, cock twitching in your mouth in a way that has you purring.
He groans again and you slowly pull off him.
âHow fast can you recover?â You murmur, pressing a little kiss to the flushed head.
Denki almost laughs, a choked little sound thatâs breathless and desperate.
âUmâ ah, pretty quick, I guess.â
Your fingers tighten at the base of his cock, mouth falling back over him as you double your efforts. Itâs all slick and messy, the heat and hardness on your tongue solid.
He groans in a way that makes you whine, just before you feel him cum, pulling off a little to make more of a mess as your hand still works him through it, spilling all over your lips and tongue.
Itâs so lewd but it has you keening a little, especially when he starts babbling praise again.
His thumb swipes over the mess, makes it worse, playing with your shiny lips, pressing his cum back onto your tongue.
You suckle happily at his thumb, heat flushed high inside of you, almost purring as his flagging cock gives an interested twitch.
âFuck,â he spits out, pulling his thumb out from between your plush lips only to lurch forward and crash his lips to yours instead.
You gasp, dizzy, surprised, as he makes more of a mess. The kiss is sloppy, open-mouthed, swapping spit and cum. It should be gross but it makes you moan desperately against him. Thereâs a lot of shifting then, pulling at clothes. Itâs almost a little fumbling and you both laugh into each otherâs mouths when shirts get stuck, when limbs get tangled together. It doesnât slow your kissing or your desire; if anything, thereâs something about it thatâs so charming and real and desperate. It makes you ache worse, hot and panting into his open mouth.
Once youâre both finally stripped of clothes, you find yourself under him, thighs hitched over his slim waist. Heâs leanly muscular and you let yourself ogle him a moment, the flush of his pretty face, his chest that is a little rosy, too. Like parts of his face, he has those skittering, pink scars that branch out over his arms and shoulders.
âLike what you see?â Denki waggles his brows at you, preening a little under your gaze.
âYeah,â you croak honestly, âcâmere,â and you reach for him with childish, grabbing hands.
Your honesty sobers him a little and heâs eager to fall over you, âI like what I see, tooââ he kisses you sweetly, humming, âa lot. Youâre so prettyââ
Itâs strangely intimate for a one night stand, for two strangers kissing in a bed thatâs unfamiliar to you. Still, you both lean into it rather than shy away.
You can feel that Denki is hard again after all that making out and rolling around, can feel the press of him by your inner thigh and you shift your hips up in offering.
He hums as he pulls away from the kiss, âHow do you want it? You like things rough? Gentle? Got any kinks?â His smile is infectious, a little salacious. It makes you laugh, makes prickly heat rush up to warm your cheeks.
Even though youâre naked beneath him, the idea of trying to articulate any of your own preferences or kinks makes you nervous. Still, you like things rough, you like things gentle. It all depends on the situation.
You settle on something simple for him, nothing too jarring, since heâs looking at you so expectantly, âI like praise,â you admit, trying to keep the shyness out of your voice.
Denki nudges his nose with yours, âI like praise, too. A little degradation sometimes as well.â His smile is a devilâs grin, playful and sharp.
You kiss that smile, dragging him down into another sloppy kiss, which makes his own hips twitch and flex into yours.
âI like what you have been doing,â you murmur against his lips, letting your hand slide into his hair, âI like you.â
Denki makes a soft noise, almost a whimper against your lips, before he responds, âI like you, too. Youâre driving me crazy.â
Your heart takes a tumble in the confines of your chest, the fluttering of it like butterfly wings. You take his wrist in your hand and drag it down to between your bodies, his fingers finding exactly where you want them to goâ
He parts your folds slowly, groans when he slides a delicate finger through all the slippery arousal there. You whine softly.
âPlease fuck me,â you breathe, pushing your hips up as if you could coax his fingers inside you. âDenki, please,â you cry out, wanting to be as close as possible.
âYeahâyeah, okay. I will. Iâve got you.â Denki murmurs, love struck and syrupy, âjust let meââ
He reaches over you and into his nightstand, rummaging in the drawer for a moment before pulling out a condom. He makes quick work of opening it, sliding it onto his aching cock.
And then heâs shifting, pressing the tip of him against where youâre soft and desperate. He glides against you once, twice, and thenâ
Your moans are simultaneous, louder than they should be, breaking off into a cry.
Faintly, you wonder about his roommates, if they heard that one.
You wonder whatâs got him clinging to you so hard, whatâs made his head fall into your chest.
You wonder what has tears pricking your eyesâ
It doesnât hurt. It feels good, really good to be so close, to be so full. Maybe itâs because you havenât been treated this well in awhile. Maybe itâs because heâs so sweet or so eager or maybe itâs because youâre fiending for care, hitting withdrawal after being abandoned too many times. Youâre desperate for something real, hungry forâ
Denki picks his head up to look at you, heaven in his eyes, cheeks flushed darkly.
âI think Iâm in love with you.â
Your laugh bubbles out warmly, an outpouring of your giddiness and tenderness and delight.
You hook your leg around his waist, âwe just met, Denki.â
âAnd Iâm in love with you.â He replies, smiling curling at his lips with your happiness, with the way youâre looking up at him through your lashes.
âYouâre notââ you laugh, but it catches onto a moan when he finally thrusts, almost experimentally.
âI am,â he promises, kissing at the corner of your lips that are hitched up because of him, âfuck, you feel so good.â
You hook your legs tighter around him, beg for more with the way you whine into his mouth. He sets a steady pace, hitching your legs up a little higher until he hits a spot inside you that makes you cry out, that makes you dig your nails into his shoulders, it makes your eyes cross.
âYeah?â Denki asks, thrusting like that again, âright there?â
âRight there,â you moan, hand disappearing into his hair to pull and tug on it.
âYouâre so pretty,â Denki gets out, lips falling to the crux of your neck, teeth nipping, tongue sliding over to soothe it.
âDenkiââ
âWe should get marriedâfuckâright after this.â
Another laugh blossoms out of you and onto him. Heâs smiling when he kisses you again, you can taste the sweetness when he murmurs, âIâll fuck you all night and then weâll get married in the morning.â
He thrusts deeper, harder, pauses so you can feel him inside you, like heâs trying to carve himself into you. You mewl, hiccup his name as tears spring to your eyes again.
âIâll take you to breakfast right afterâwhat do you like?â Heâs still joking, but thereâs an earnestness to his voice thatâs making your chest ache.
âWaffles,â you gasp, âwith berries and whip cream.â
âPerfect,â Denki moans, before dipping into another kiss, sloppier, hungrier, âyouâre so fucking perfectââ
You whine when he reaches between your bodies and slips his hand down. His fingers slip over your clit, but youâre sensitive enough that the messy passes of his hand donât matter. Itâs going to send you careening into another climax in no time, especially with the way he starts to put all his weight into his thrusts. It almost aches, the way heâs shoving into you so desperately.
You tilt your hips a little more and thatâs all it takes, pleasure zipping through you like a bolt of lightning, expanding out. You cry outâloud enough that Denki removes his hand from your body to cover your mouth.
âYouâre gonna wake my roommates,â he laughs, but it tapers off into a moan as you moan from behind his hand, âoh fuck, youâre squeezing me so tightâwhat? You like the sound of that?â
He honest-to-God whines, high and needy, hips shoving harder into yours, deeper in a way that makes your eyes cross, lashes fluttering.
ââM gonnaâ gonna comeâthought Iâd last longerââ he gasps, fingers tightening against your cheek, hips beginning to lose rhythm, staggering, faltering as he gives into his own pleasure, âfuck!â
And then a spark fizzles around him, a skittering shock of electricity that races around his neck, down the arc of his shoulders, his torso, and then zips over you. You yelp behind his hand, the strange feeling careening through your body and making you shudder.
Your eyes go wide as it lights up the dark room, realizing in that instant why. You shouldâve told him, shouldâve warned him that your Quirkâ
It stings a little, makes your muscles jerk but otherwise was just a little shock, just a little strange feelingâ
âSorry!â he gets out, âs-sorry. Are you okay?â he gasps, and when you nod frantically behind his hand, he keens sharply, still thrusting into you.
He forces himself to keep thrusting through his climax, until he turns shivery and gasping, until you pry his hand off your mouth so that you can kiss him and swallow his own noises now. So heâs not the one that wakes his roommates. He tastes like a lightning bolt, neon hot, making you gasp and squirm beneath him.
His hips eventually slow to stuttered, small thrusts. You can feel his cock still twitching with sensitivity. You throw your arms around his neck, try to fasten yourself to him.
âShit,â he gasps, âare you okay?â He asks again, âI havenât done that in so longâIâm sorry.â
âItâs okay,â you canât help but laugh a little, âI think it was my fault, anyways.â
âWhat? No, it was definitelyââ
âI shouldâve told you earlierââ you cut him off, âmy Quirk is an amplifier.â
You watch Denkiâs mouth fall open a little in understanding, âoh,â he blinks a few times, âoh! Then thatâs why I felt like I was having a hard time containing my Quirk earlier.â He laughs now, âfelt like a high schooler again.â
âDid you think I just made you that nervous?â you tease, dragging your hands through his hair.
âKinda,â he laughs, nudging at your cheek to scatter wet kisses there. You laugh, too, turning your face to catch him in another deep kiss. When he pulls away, he watches you for a moment, âthatâs a really cool Quirk. Why didnât you become a hero?â
He says it so casually, like everyone in the world could be a hero.
Your fingers drift over the curve of his neck, his shoulders. He leans into the touch like a cat, âahâdoesnât work out well in combat. Especially with Quirks like yours. I can only amplify by touching someone and Iâm not immune to the Quirks I amplify. if I did that while you let out however many volts of electricity, Iââ
âOh, youâd die.â He realizes, suddenly becoming solemn.
âYeah,â you agree, âitâs really just dangerous for me. And others, probably. Iâm studying medicine, though, so I can amplify healerâs Quirks. Much less dangerous.â
Denkiâs eyes find yours again, âoh thatâsâthatâs a great way to use your Quirk.â
âI like helping people.â
You swear there are stars in his eyes as he looks at you. âYeah,â he agrees softly, âme too.â
Your voice is more hushed than you intended, tipping your chin up to brush your lips along his, âwell arenât we a pair.â
âYeah,â Denki agrees again, just as soft, just as tender. He dips into a sweet kiss, which develops into something slow and aching and deep. His hands skate up your sides, hands fanningo out like he canât touch you enough, canât get close enough.
You feel his cock give an interested jump inside of you, which makes you break away before anything else can developâ
âAre youâ? Can you already-?â
âGo again? Give me a little bit longer this time but I did promise youââ
âMaybe you should at leastâ you know, get a new condom.â You say, cheeks smarting with heat.
He laughs a little, which makes you laugh, which turns into more kissing, shared smiles against teeth and tongue. He does, eventually pull out of you, toss the used condom into the trash in his room, before nearly tackling you again, sending you into another fit of laughter.
He keeps his promise, though, and he does fuck you nearly all night, in so many different positions, until youâre nothing but his. Itâs fun, you realize, itâs so fun and exciting with him. Heâs got an earnestness to him that makes you want to fall sharp and hard into the affection heâs offering. He touches you like heâs always known you, like he shouldâve been the one to touch you all along.
He takes care of you after, wipes the makeup from your face, showers with you at near five in the morning. He laves soap over the contours of your body until youâre sudsy and soft, until youâre clean and taken care of. He fits you in his shirt, he holds you tight as you fall asleep. He doesnât want to let go of you.
In the morning, an alarm blares a little too early. Youâve maybe gotten three hours of sleep when youâre startled from sleep.
Denki shoots up in bed, blinking blearily. He jostles you off of him.
âShit,â he curses, fumbling around on his night stand for a yellow and black pager.
âWhat is it?â you ask groggily.
âEmergency. âM being called into work.â He responds and this shakes some of the sleep from you as you force yourself to sit up as well.
Denki is already up, though, wandering sleepily around his room and pulling at clothes from his closet, gear thatâs sitting on his desk. Thereâs a practiced ease to his movements, a ritual he seems to have. By the time heâs dressed, now in his hero costume, heâs more awake.
He tosses his cell phone at you, âI was serious about taking you for breakfast,â he says, pushing his glasses onto the top of his head, âbut if you want, you can put in your number and I promise Iâll still take youâI just have to do this, Iâm sorry.â
Thereâs a new seriousness to him, or maybe a new sense of responsibility. He sounds like a hero, stands like one, like heâs massive and only as real as the legends say. You donât know why, but your heart falters in your chest for a moment, looking up at him, seeing him in all his glory.
âNo, donât apologize!â You hurry to assure him, âI understand!â You glance down at the phone in your hands, âI would like that, thoughâto get breakfast some other time.â
Your fingers glide easily over the screen, putting your name in his phone, with several heart emojiâs and the ring one. You smile to yourself, before picking your eyes back up and offering Denkiâs phone back to him.
He smiles at your name, absolutely smitten.
âOkay, Iâll text you?â he asks, hope teetering on the edges of his voice.
âYeahâyes, of course.â You assure him, feeling giddy and suddenly shy under his gaze.
âI do really have to go, nowââ he starts, âyou can let yourself out whenever. Or stay forever in my bed, I wouldnât mind. The front door locks behind you.â He leans over you, drops a honey sweet kiss to your lips, âI did have a really, really good time with you. I really like youââ
âI really like you, too, Denki Kaminari,â you murmur against the curve of his lips.
You can feel his smile, see the way heâs practically glowing when he pulls away from you. âOkayâI have to go, seriously nowââ
You laugh as he heads for the door, walking backwards, âIâll see you soon, maybe?â he asks.
âYes, please.â You tell him earnestly and then you practically watch his heart soar in his chest.
His smile is a dopey curve, filled with so much joy, âOkay, see you later, then.â
He turns from you and his hand falls onto the doorknob.
âDenki?â
âYeah?â
âBe safe out there.â
He smiles over the curve of his shoulder at you, âalways.â he agrees, and then he says, âwatch the news later. Iâll wink at the camera for you.â
You laugh again, full bellied and warm, letting it burst free from your chest and carry Denki out the door with a skip in his step. You watch him go. You hear him leave.
You fall back into his bed for a moment, lovestruck, reeling.
And later that night, long after youâd gone home, when you watch the coverage of the villain attack Denki had helped contain, he stands beside Red Riot in an interview, stealing a moment to look right at the camera and give a slow smile, and then a wink that makes you bury your face in your hands and just about squeal like a school girl with a too-big crush.
He texts you later;
i was serious about marrying you, too. tomorrow? wedding and breakfast?
Followed by a series of increasingly strange emojis.
You laugh so hard that your roommate asks you to quiet down, then cover your hand over your mouth to try and catch the giggles that spill from you like spooling ribbons, like twinkling, ecstatic bells.
Like a girl with a crush. Like a girl that could be in love.
***
âDude, who are you texting so obsessively?â Eijiro asks, the clicking of the video game controller in his hand and the faint sound of Super Smash Bros in the background are familiar noises in their apartment, âusually you never want to stop playing and now youâre missing out on roundsâ shit, dammit!â
Denki glances at the screen to see that Kirishima has lost again.
âHa,â Katsuki gloats around the sucker in his mouth, it pushes at his cheeks in a way that makes Denki momentarily focus on something other than his phone. âNot even in a challenge.â
Denkiâs phone vibrates again.
âDude!â Eijiro snaps again and Denki finally remembers that he asked him a question.
âIâm just texting the love of my life.â
Katsuki groans loudly, âFuck, here, we go againââ
âIs this the girl you met at the party the other night?â Eijiro asks, at least attempting to entertain Denki.
âYeah,â Denki says, finally closing out of his phone for a moment, âsheâs perfect.â
âKaminari, buddy, weâve talked about thisââ Eijiro starts as Katsuki rolls his eyes so far back into his head that Denki imagines theyâll get stuck and then heâll just look possessed and pissed off with the whites of his eyes for the rest of his life.
âOkay, I know, sheâs not technically perfect, but I am going to marry her.â Denki defends himself, as if that truly was better somehow.
âOh, for the love ofââ
âI already asked her.â Denki continues, probably against his better judgement.
Eijiro and Katsuki blink at him for a moment.
âUh, whatâd she say?â Eijiro asks tentatively.
âShe laughed, but she put her name in my phone with the ring emoji.â
âOh, so sheâs fucking crazy, too.â Katsuki says, before crunching down on his sucker.
âUh, when did you ask her this?â Eijiro pipes up, brows furrowing like heâs trying too hard to work all of this out.
âWhen I fucked her for the first timeââ
Katsuki chokes on his sucker, coughing harshly.
Eijiro barks out a surprised laugh and when he realizes Denki isnât laughing, he pauses, âwait, are you serious?â
âYeah,â Denki admits, âand you wouldâve too. That good. I told her I loved her and I wanted to marry her the moment I got inside her.â
âYou didnâtââ Eijiro almost pleads with him.
âYup,â Denki replies shamelessly, popping the âpâ.
Katsuki throws his head back and cackles, mean and loud, âyou fucking dumabssâ whereâs my phone? I have to tell Tape Arms thatââ
âWhatever. It worked well for me because Iâve already seen her twice since then. And we text everyday, all the time.â Denki gloats, smiling as his phone lights up with another one of your texts.
âSo, are you dating her? Trying to date her?â Eijiro asks and Denki can tell heâs trying to be supportive but doesnât love the idea. Still, Denki doesnât know how or when to shut up;
âYeah, I mean, I just said I wanna marry her soââ
âOkay, quit fucking with us.â Katsuki snaps.
âIâm not fucking with you! It was love at first sight.â Denki replies, raising his voice a little.
âKaminari, remember how we had that conversation after your last break up?â Eijiro speaks up, gentling his tone.
Thereâs a long pause. Denki does remember but he doesnât want to at the moment so he says, âno, I donât think I reallyââ
Katsuki rolls his eyes, âyou move too fucking fast and then you get your heart broken and then youâre a fucking wreck that we have to take care of. Also you have shit taste in people.â
Denki is about to open his mouth and protest when Eijiro cuts in, âwhat Bakugou means to say is we just donât want to see you hurt again. And maybe if you do really like this girl, you take it slower and get to know her? Like really get to know her?â
âI am getting to know her.â Denki protests, âand I donât have shitty taste in people.â
âYour last boyfriend stole 100,000 yen from you before disappearing. And your ex before that used you for popularity on her social media. And the one before thatââ Katsuki starts listing, holding fingers up to count each horrible ex that Denki has had.
âOkay, I get it!â Denki snaps.
âWe just care about you, man, and we donât want to see you hurt again.â Eijiro tries to placate.
âWell, sheâs different, so you donât need to worry.â Denki replies indignantly.
âYou said that last time, dumbass.â Katsuki responds with a roll of his eyes.
Denkiâs phone buzzes again and this time, it has him jumping up from his spot, eager to leave this conversation. âWell, Iâm going to go pick her up soââ
Eijiro and Katsuki both share various looks of surprise and annoyance, âbut I thought we were having a Super Smash night?â Eijiro asks and it almost makes Denki pause.
Eijiro just looks like a kicked puppy with that tone. Katsukiâs all bristled, though, jaw ticking in irritation. He looks so sharp and smoldering that Denki is sure if he came near him, heâd get all cut up and burned.
âIâm in for the next one, promise!â Denki tries to placate, âbut if you knew her, youâd completely understand.â
âWhatever,â Katsuki rumbles, looking away.
And now Denki really pushes itâ
âKacchan,â he sings sweetly and with the way Katsuki levels him with a hard glare, Denki is sure he already knows what he wants, âcould I pretty please take your convertible?â
âHa! No fucking way.â
Denki throws himself down onto the floor beside the couch, draping his arms dramatically over Katsukiâs lap, âplease? Please? Pleeeaassee, Kacchan?â
âNo, get off me, you fuckingââ
âIâm on my knees,â Denki whines, looking up at him with round, sweet gold eyes, âyou know I take care of her! Iâm so scared of you I would never even get a scratch on her!â
âNo, Iâm not letting you take my car so you can fuck this girl in the backseatââ
âI wasnât going to do that!â
Denkiâs voice has gone high, though, and thereâs a long pause between the three of them.
âOkay, so I was going to fuck her in the backseat, but Iâll get it cleaned first thing tomorrow morningââ
âNo.â
âKacchan! Why do you hate me?â Denki whines, fingers squabbling and grabbing for Katsukiâs hoodie.
If there is one thing Denki knows about Katsuki, itâs that he can be softened. Not often and not by many, but Katsuki, if nothing else, is a little bit of a sucker for those he loves. Heâs got a good heart, one of the best. And Denki can count on his hand the amount of people who know this and who know how to exploit it. Even fewer who would exploit it. Though Eijiro and Izuku could, they wonât because theyâre too honest.
Mina does when she wants her way.
Todoroki does it in his own, quiet way.
Ochako does it all the time, itâs where Denki mastered the art of it. She can make Katsuki come to heel with a look. But Denki also thinks Ochako just has that sweet sort of face that you donât want to disappoint anyways.
âFuck offââ
âCâmon, please? Wonât ask again for the longest time. I really like her and I want to impress her.â Denki pleads and an earnestness creeps into his voice when he adds, âyou know Iâve never asked you for your car to pick up a date before.â
Katsuki pauses at that because itâs true. For the handful of times that Denki has managed to convince Katsuki of driving his flashy, cherry red convertible, it was never for a date. A party, maybe. Just a joy ride. To go shopping with Mina.
He gives Katsuki his best, sweetest smile. The one that is a little lopsided and unassuming. Itâs innocent and boyish, hard to say no to. Denkiâs gaze catches glowering, red eyes and he holds his breath.
âOn one condition.â
Denki refrains from cheering too soon or dropping his innocent smile.
âAnything,â he says, leaning a little more onto Kastukiâs lap, fingers twisting in his hoodie.
âShitty Hair and I get to meet this girl you like so muchââ
âOh, thatâs easy!â
âAnd if either of us donât like her or donât approve, you have to drop her immediately.â
Silence eats up the space between them.
Denki leans away from Katsuki a little, looking suddenly unsure, pensive. He laughs, nervously, âOh, câmon, what are you guys? My parents?â
He looks at Eijiro, as if heâll back him up, stick up for him a little, the way he does from time to time. Eijiro shrugs as if to say, sorry, not this time.
Denkiâs eyes lift back up to Katsukiâs face, seeing if he can wiggle his way out of that condition. Not that he thinks his friends wonât like you butâhe doesnât want to give you up for anything, no matter how bad you might be for him. No matter what his friends say.
âThatâs my condition.â Katsuki says with finality, âtake it or leave it, Pikachu.â
Denki weighs his choices for a moment. Does he really need the convertible? He knows he doesnât, knows he could show up in scraps and you would still throw your arms around his neck when you see him. You would still look at him like youâre wishing on a star, like a girl starved, like youâre the last lovers left on earth.
He thinks his friends would adore you.
âIâll take it,â Denki agrees with a suddenly confident smile, flashing it up at Katsuki, âwhere are your keys?â
Katsuki rolls his eyes, but he tells him anyway. Not without adding, âweâre meeting her soon. Next week, Dunce Face.â
Denki spins the keys around his fingers as he heads for the door, âfine by me,â he sings, head tilting back, over his shoulder to glance one last time at them, âbut when you inevitably fall in love with her, too, just remember I found her first.â
He doesnât hear Katsukiâs snarky reply, the door slamming shut behind him.
He holds his head high, humming a little tune to himself as he hits the cool, velvety night air, wishful stars peering down on him happily.
He smiles back at them and is glad he decided to take the convertible.
***
Your ex is being a dick again.
It isnât new, but after hours and hours of begging and promising to try again with you, heâs hardly talked to you at this party. More than that, you think heâs doing it purposefully. Heâs always hot and cold. He loves you or he hates you. He wants you or wants to throw you aside.
He wants to sleep with you but doesnât want to date you. Days without contact turn into blowing up your phone obsessively.
(Youâd changed your phone number once already because of him and now youâre feeling worse, like you shouldâve changed it a second time over to get rid of him, after everythingâ)
Tonight seems to be particularly bad, in this party of people who you donât know, whose faces all wash together in sickly sweet colors. Youâre feeling woozy, too tipsy but also not drunk enough to forget the thorns that have knotted in your poor chest.
Youâve already ran to the bathroom to hold back tears once, furiously trying to keep your makeup in place.
Then you had started texting Denki more. Denki, who is so sweet and fun. Who responds right away. Who doesnât leave you waiting. Who professes his love the night youâd met. Who you like so, so much.
Fuck it, youâd thought when youâd asked Denki to come pick you up from this shitty party so you can get away from your shitty ex.
And now youâre standing outside, on the side of the road in your baby pink mini dress and platform boots, all dolled up for a man who didnât even care to look at you.
A growling convertible makes its way down the side street youâre on and youâd recognize that blond head anywhere. You ache suddenly, seeing him, so willing to drop everything and come find you.
He pulls up, grinning all crooked and excited to see you. He whistles at you, eyes lighting up as he takes you in, as you walk up towards his car, âdamn, you look incredible. Iâm one lucky guy, huh?â
You laugh as you fall into the car, already throwing your arms around him excitedly, feeling suddenly bruised because of course heâd said something, made you feel better than your ex ever could, even when your dress and the vanilla flavored lip gloss werenât even for Denki originally. Shouldâve been, though.
Should be, you decide as he catches you in a hard, quick kiss. Itâs overeager, but thereâs nothing better.
You pull away, looking up at him through your lashes, âthank you for picking me up. It means a lot to me.â
âFor you? Anything.â Denki says and you canât help but tip forward and crash your lips to his again.
You can feel his laugh, warm and delighted, can feel the way his tongue dips into your mouth in a way that makes all your thoughts melt away. It takes away some of the sting, stops the bleeding a little.
This time, when you pull away, you say, âget me out of here, Denki Kaminari.â
And he slams on the gas, making you lurch back, making you laugh, the sound carrying up into the open night sky.
He takes you through the city, buildings tall, shimmering blurs of light against the dark. He plays music too loud, synth and lazy bass that fills your head and beats alongside your heart. You lay your head on the window, let it tip out and up a little, so all the world rushes past you in a wash of technicolor and phosphorescence.
The stars above you spin in and out of focus, the wind high on your cheeks, rushing through your hair like a wild lover.
Everything falls away except for the neon crush of color, of him.
He drives you further out of the city, he makes you laugh more, always, spends the drive hitting on you like itâs the first night heâs met you again.
He finds a look out, something closer to the sky, to all the heavens, a view of the twinkling city below.
He letâs the music play when he devours your kisses, when he chases after your touch, when heâs got you sitting pretty in his lap. He steals all your doubt and heartache, feeds you his love and lust and excitement instead with a flick of his tongue, with the nip of his teeth.
He makes you feel precious or stunning or hot or mystical. Makes you shimmer, makes you shake apart like a little, falling star in the night sky that arcs over your heads.
And you think maybe you could fall in love with him, too, just like that little star above your heads, burning so hot and bright.
Like you were always meant to, like heâs your long, lost lover.
You kiss him hard and sweet and hot. You cling to him as if youâll never let go.
Fuck it, you think, and let yourself be set alight by him, too.
COIN TOSSâ PART III
(18+ MINORS DNI)
PART I â PART II
PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x Reader, a little Shouta Aizawa x Reader
SUMMARY:Â As you fall asleep, you wonder faintly, almost sadly, if youâre the first thing heâs fully touched without losing in a long time.
You are Eraserheadâs troubled protege with a Quirk that cancels out others the moment they touch you. Tomura Shigaraki takes great interest in you.
(Enemies to lovers, a lot of angst, some hurt/comfort)
WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, age gap/power struggle, violence, gore, Tomuraâs trauma specifically, (in later chapters) murder, smut, some blurred lines, rough sex, a smidge of a spit kink, a smidge of somnophilia (let me know if Iâve missed anything!)
If you are under the age of 18, you should not be reading or interacting with this!
âł A playlist I made for this fic, if you're interested!
A/N: here is your final part to this series! again, thank you @randomrosewrites for beta-ing this!! and thank you guys so so much for your support and comments, they mean so so much to me!! i had a lot of trouble with this last part, there was a lot of scenes i cut out and alternative endings before i settled on what is there now and i'm not even fully happy with it still lol. i have a lot of Thoughts about this, so feel free to reach out if you want to know more or just chat!! i hope you guys enjoy this!!
Read on Ao3
***
Shouta apologizes to you soon after. You sheepishly get out your own apology, even though youâd planned on holding a grudge a little while longer.
Still, Shouta confides that he also had his doubts and worries as a young hero and that he shouldnât have dismissed yours. He talks in a soft, low voice for you, sits beside you on the edge of the couch.
You hate it because itâs easier to be at odds with Shouta lately, easier for your conscience. He put distance between the two of you, but you forced it apart furtherâ if only to keep him in the dark. Maybe if only to spare yourself all the lying, all the pretending youâd have to do.
He says, âYou know, you can always come to me. Whenever you need me.â
You have to swallow hard around the lump in your throat.
âIâll always be here for you, despite everything.â he promises gently, trying to catch your eyes. Your gaze ducks away, out of his line of site.
Still, you hug him, tuck your face into his shoulder so he canât see the guilt written across your face. Your secrets will constrict around you if youâre not careful. You know Truth is tricky and likes to reveal itself with Timeâs help.
Once more, you become acutely aware of the clock ticking away on your relationship with Tomura.
But this time, you also realize how much trouble you could get in. You realize that youâre endangering Shouta now, too. You swallow hard, try to keep all of that down inside of you, but you feel nauseous suddenly. Bloated with guilt.
You wonder if you wouldâve confessed to him then, if you wouldâve spilled your guts the way youâd wanted to, if it wouldâve saved you the heartache of it all.
Instead, youâd just clung to him, little fingers twisting in the back of his shirt, praying that youâd never need to make good on his promise. Praying youâd never need to test how far heâd go for you.
(Itâs farâ youâll realize, further than it ever shouldâve been. And youâre all the worse for it.)
***
Tomura thinks one of the troubles with heroes is their willingness to sacrifice anything for their greater good. He doesnât think thereâs anything noble in it, thereâs nothing glorious or good in leaving their friend behind because they think it will save more. Nothing honorable in facing down a threat you know you canât win against alone. What good is their world if theyâre willing to sacrifice all thatâs good to them in the process?
Everytime he watches you patrol, go up against other villains, maybe yakuza members, throw yourself in harmâs way needlessly, he realizes the Hero Commission uses heroesâ bodies as collateral damage. You are nothing to them. Even to other heroes; your sacrifice is expected. He knows it isnât wanted, per se, but it isnât surprising.
It doesnât help that you have a streak of recklessness in you. You are quick to danger, just as quick to flash teeth and stand your ground, to fight mercilessly.
You struggle against large, powerhouse types. He watches you nearly get crushed or strangled some nights. Your Quirk doesnât do much for you when your opponent has strength and weight to defeat you with a singular blow.
Your mentor is often pulling you out of danger with his capture weapon, yanking you away from a massive swinging arm or a curled fist about to smash you into the ground. But if it came down to you or the greater good, he knows what your mentor and your heroes would pick.
He thinks itâs strangely unfair, for you to give them your loyalty over him. Heâs more loyal to you, isnât he? There is very, very little he wouldnât destroy for you. They would sooner let you be destroyed for the sake of their world.
Destroying the hero society that is so careless with you now feels, in part, like his gift to you. Freedom from the world that only cared about you when they realized you could be usefulâ
There is a night you become not just useful to your heroes but imperative.
It starts with your sacrifice, just as you were trained to do. You shove a civilian out of the way of a villainâs Quirkâ itâs something with tusks and teeth that jut out from his body, sharp and ready to gut you.
Your mentor is busy with this villainâs accomplice.
Tomura watches when he shouldnât. He was supposed to meet with Kurogiri, but he knows you patrol in this area and when thereâd been commotion, he couldnât help but watch from the shadows.
He watches one of those tusks jut towards you, your hand reaching out in hopes of disengaging the Quirk. But itâs a physical Quirk, not something like Dabiâs fire or his disintegration. And he doesnât know if this Quirk disengages with itâs user or if itâs just his body.
Tomura feels his heart drop, the trapdoor given way to all icy fear as he watches one of those tusks pierce into your stomach.
Tomura stops breathing.
You grab hold of it, a scream getting caught behind your clenched teeth. Your fingers are tight, near frantic as you press into themâ hope with everything in you, in him, that his Quirk disengages with yours.
Your broken off scream is wretched from your struggling body when another tusk rushes to crash into your shoulder.
Youâre the only thing between the civilians behind you and this villain.
Your other hand reaches for the tusk at your shoulder, digging fingers and nails into it desperately.
Your eyes are bright and feverish with the hot pink of your Quirk.
Tomura stutters towards you, before the villain letâs out a pained groan. Your teeth are bared, blood bubbling up in your mouth, but youâre still standing, vicious and undeterred.
The tusks begin to crack where you grip them, splintering apartâ
A sudden fission of light through those crevices, same fire pink as your eyes, arcs throughout the villain. A flare of it that makes the villain almost see-through, the lines of his bones burned by light, an x-ray flash, as if youâd struck him with lightning for a moment.
Eraserhead shouts for you.
When the flare dies, there is a scream of pain and itâs not yours.
The tusks shatter, splinter apart into gleaming bone that flies through the air.
Youâre left standing, blood oozing from your stomach, your shoulder, but still standing, your eyes crackling and too bright.
The villain, tuskless, crumples at your feet, smoking. A normal, Quirkless looking man.
Did youâ?
âWhat happened?â he hears the distant voice of your mentor, laced with worry, whose already reaching to staunch blood, blood that seeps so dark out of you. Tomuraâs stomach rolls, twists suddenly, but youâre still standing. Youâre okayâ youâre okayâ
âI-I donât know.â you manage, but you sway into your mentorâs arms and Tomura has to look away, jaw clenched tight, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat.
He hears, âI need an ambulanceâ thereâs a hero and villain downââ
But heâs already turning away, his mind churning, trying to keep the nauseousness from overcoming him. He feels suddenly furious, that it canât be him at your side, that he has to watch, pushed to the outskirts. His fingers rush to scratch at his neck, his throat, desperate for relief from the pressure that has built in his chest.
He will try to call youâ later, much laterâ the only time youâll answer him. He is certain you will be okay with your healers andâ
He thinks of the flare of light, the breaking of those tusks, the sudden heap of that man on the ground. If Tomura is correct about what youâd done, about what your Quirk actually is, the heroes wonât let you die now.
No, now youâre imperative. Now youâre trapped.
And the destruction of hero society will be his gift to you, an end to all the strings in place, the hands holding you both back.
***
âYou destroyed his Quirk.â
âW-what?â you manage to get out, wobbly. Youâre bandaged up, your torso and shoulder wrapped in fresh gauze after Recovery Girl healed the worst of your wounds. Youâd been sleeping, hooked up to an IV to aid you in recovering. âThatâs not possible, my Quirk only cancelsââ
The doctor that has entered to give you this news shakes his head, âNo, weâve done scans, tests, the works on this guy. His Quirk is gone from his DNA. No trace of it.â
Shouta, who's sitting beside your hospital bed, speaks up, âIs it possible that it will eventually return?â
âI suppose, but we think itâs unlikely. Itâs gone from him. Thereâs nothing left. She destroyed it cleanly. Itâs like it was never there at all.â The doctor answers.
âI donât understandââ you manage to get out, your head beginning to swim, giving a painful throb at your temples.
âIt seems your Quirk isnât so simple as cancelling out anotherâs. Itâs likely that subduing otherâs Quirks was just the surface of yours.â
âIs the man okay otherwise?â Shouta asks now, fidgeting in his seat when he senses your sudden distress. He leans towards your bed more and you have the sudden urge to latch onto him and not let go.
âPhysically, yes. Heâs fine.â the doctor answers, âHowever, mentally...heâs inconsolable at the moment. As you know, Quirks are incrediblyâ well, theyâre a part of who we are, arenât they?â
You swallow hard around the lump in your throat.
You think Shouta says something else, finishes speaking to the doctor for you. The moment the door clicks shut, the tears that you stubbornly had been holding back rush forward.
âI didnât mean to do that,â you get out on just a hissed breath. âI-I didnât know I could.â
Shouta shushes you gently, âItâs okay, this happens. Sometimes people donât know the full extent of their Quirk.â
âI destroyed his Quirk, itâs not okay!â you respond, guilt thickening inside of you, dragging you down heavy, clogging your throat and chest. âI didnât mean to do thatâ what if I do it again?â
âYou were under distress,â he soothes, reaching out to brush a tear away from your cheek, âReally, you were fighting for your life.â And when he says it, something gets caught in his throat. Something hitches in yours, too.
His eyes rove over your face slowly, taking you in carefully, as if he hasnât been by your side the entire time. As if it wasnât him in the ambulance, or him kneeling beside your bed when Recovery Girl put you back together.
âI shouldâve been there. It shouldnât have happened.â Shouta admits, the confession filling the small space between you two.
You take him in now, too, tired and worried, his face finally displaying the fear and care he has for you. It softens out his features, turns his eyes gentle and dark.
You realize suddenly that you miss him. You miss quiet nights on his couch as he graded papers. You miss his clothes and his cats and the tenderness that blossomed in all your silent spaces to fill you both out.
You wonder if he misses you as bad as youâre realizing you miss him.
You think of him cooking for one again, eating alone, and it does something horrible to your heartâ mangles it, twists it up horribly.
Itâs made all the worse because youâre lying to him. And here he is, at your bedside.
âSâokay, Shouta,â you get out, reaching up to touch his cheek with a trembling hand. He leans into the touch, letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment. He savors your touch in a way that he hasnât ever allowed himself to before.
But after a moment, he shakes his head fractionally, and he murmurs âIâm supposed to protect you.â
You donât know why, but your bottom lip wobbles. Big, fat tears well up in your eyes, burn hot and put pressure on your already foggy head. You feel like youâre unraveling, your chest all swollen and tender, too, aching horribly.
You canât decide if itâs because youâre lying and disobeying him so badly or because no one has ever bothered to say something like that to you, let alone mean it.
And youâre betraying him, your mind hisses.
When he notices, his face falls, his thumb moving to try and brush away your tears. âDonât cry,â he hushes, âIâm sorry, donât cry.â
You lean into his large and warm palm at your cheek, let him cradle and coddle you.
âI-Iâm sorryââ you barely manage to choke out, for reasons far beyond him.
âNo,â he coos, âNo, sweetheart, donât apologize.â
You choke on a sob and he grows more worried, leans over you more, brings his other hand up to stroke at your hairline, too.
He says your name softly, trying to soothe you, âWhy are you crying, huh? What are you apologizing for?â
You shake your head, more tears loosening, your small fingers twisting themselves in the shoulders of his shirt. You think youâll drown in all this guilt, itâll fill your lungs with pressure, choke you out slowly as you struggle and thrash.
But for now, all you get out is a warbled, slurred, âPlease donât hate meââ
Shouta moves then, shifts to sit beside you on the bed. Heâs painfully careful with you as he slides strong and sturdy arms beneath you, lifts you slightly into his lap, mindful of your IV, and cradles you to him.
You bury your face into his chest and try to hold back another sob as he murmurs, âWhy would I hate you? I could never hate you.â
He strokes your hair, he hushes your cries, rocking you gently. Rocking you until you can stop crying, until youâre exhausted and aching and tender.
âIâll help you with your Quirk,â he promises gently, holding you tight to him, âWeâll be okay, huh?â he murmurs, and it just forces another cry out of you, swallowed up by his chest that he cradles you to, âWeâll be okay, sweetheart.â
Itâs the weâll in that sentence that makes you squeeze him tighter. You wonder how willing heâd be to use it if he knew where you were every other night, who you filled your time with.
If he knew who called you late that night, when youâre alone in your room, aching and sore and alone. If he knew who you answered to, your voice hushed in the inky darkness;
âTomura,â you exhale his name through the receiver.
âI saw what happened,â he answers instead, âI saw what happened today.â
You can feel the sudden jump of your heart, your nerves wringing themselves tight. âOh,â you respond lamely.
To your surprise, Tomura rasps, âAre you okay?â
You donât know why, but you cradle the phone to your cheek tighter, your eyes slipping shut for a moment.
âYeah, Iâm alright. Sore and tired, but Iâm okay.â
âGood,â he responds, his voice softer than it usually is, just a breath when he asks, âWhat happened? Whatâd you do to him?â
Youâre silent for a long moment. You canât decide if you should tell him or not. You think of Shouta earlier and his voice like a hearth and the tender way he holds you, you think of his weâll be okay.
But you can hear Tomuraâs soft breath on the other line. You can see Ryuji in the patch of sun that splays out against the corner of the couch in the evenings. You think of him curled tight around you, like youâre the last good thing left on earth.
âI destroyed his Quirk,â you say, voice barely above a whisper, âWith mine.â
âThatâs new,â Tomura almost hums, but it nearly seems like he was expecting the answer.
âI didnât mean to.â
A quiet snort from him, âWhat are you trying to prove to me?â he asks, âIâm not your heroes. I wonât look at you differently whether you intended to or not.â
The thought strikes like an arrow between the ribs, sharp, sudden. It stings, when you realize itâs truth. How hard have you tried to prove yourself to Shouta? How hard are you trying to prove your goodness to yourself?
âYou couldâve killed him,â Tomura says, âAnd I wouldnât think differently.â
You wince for some reason when he says that, âDonâtââ
âWhat would your heroes think then?â
âTomuraââ you snap, voice gaining some bite, a warning.
But for some reason he presses, âHow badly does the Hero Commission want you now? With a Quirk like that?â
âWhat?â you ask, suddenly shocked.
âDonât be naive,â Tomura says and thereâs an edge to his voice. He sucks in a breath, âThatâs a big Quirk. Destroying someone elseâs? You donât think theyâll be interested in that?â
You feel the pressure of tears work their way through your head, your throat. Your fingers clutch so hard at the phone that your knuckles are turning white and before you can think, you hiss out, âAnd how interested are you now?â
âAs interested as I was before.â he returns, sharp and quick, and then with a vitriol he hasnât directed at you in months, he says, âDonât compare me to them.â
You bare your teeth, tears stinging sharp at your eyes, prepared to fight back when he hisses, âMark my words, they wonât let you go now.â
âStop it,â you spit, âYou donât know anythingââ
And he laughs at that, caustic, harsh, a grating sound. Villainous. It slithers through the phone, down your spine. Your stomach twists. You hate thisâ your head is throbbing. You donât want to fight. You want to stop crying, God, you wish you could just stop cryingâ
âIâll be here when you realize it.â he says and there is too much heat behind his voice, simmering and venomous. You can feel the end of this conversation, the bitter goodbye in his words.
Your bottom lip trembles, and for some foolish, lovesick reason, you gasp, âWaitâ donât hang upââ
But you hear the click of the other line and heâs fallen away from you, leaving you with an empty, static silence that buzzes around in your head. In your heart.
You throw your phone across the room. You hear it clatter somewhere in the darkness. You turn to press your face into your pillow and let out a sudden, childish scream. It tears at your throat, before tapering off into this pathetic little sob.
Itâs worse because he ends up being right.
And itâs ironic because itâs another string tethering you to him, the ability to destroy something with a touch.
Itâs like some part of him knew all along, or maybe some part of you.
You scream into your pillow again, louder, kicking at your covers before it breaks off into a bitter cry.
***
The Hero Commission is very interested in the new discovery of your Quirk. They run tests and scans on you, over and over again, trying to find something interesting. They want you to practice with it, but thereâs no way for you to practice without potentially destroying other peopleâs Quirks.
They offer up criminals to practice on.
It turns your stomach.
âI donât want to do this,â you tell Shouta one night after another long series of poking and prodding at you by white coats from the Hero Commission.
Shouta is silent for a moment, âNo one is making you.â
âBut they want me to. Itâs expected of me.â you tell him.
âThey want to make sure you can control it,â Shouta answers, âAnd the only way to do that is practice, unfortunately.â
Or do they just want to be sure they can control me? The question bubbles up unbridled inside of you. It sounds suspiciously like Tomuraâs voice.
You frown, âI can control it. I donât go around destroying Quirks with every touch. I just mute Quirks still.â
âUnder distress, too? Can you summon it completely calmly? Or stop it in an instant?â Shouta asks.
âI donât knowâ no, I donât think so.â
âThen you canât fully control it.â he answers, which makes you ball your hands into fists.
âIt doesnât feel right taking peopleâs Quirksâ practice or not. And itâs controlled enough.â you respond, gaining a sudden edge to your voice.
âThen donât do it.â Shouta responds, almost impassively.
You try not to grow upset or so frustrated that you say something you might regret. You swallow tightly. âWill you be disappointed? If I donât?â
Shouta tilts his head and in the quietness you fear he will be, but he eventually answers, âNo. Youâre right; you have it controlled enough that it doesnât hinder your day-to-day life.â
You let go of a breath you hadnât realized you were holding.
âBesides, if youâre under that amount of distress again, it probably flares for a good reason. Itâll probably save you if you ever need it again.â Shouta then says, âAnd if what they want you to do doesnât feel right to you, then you shouldnât do it.â
You stare up at him, a little surprised butâ
Relief sweeps through you, sweet and cool.
âI trust your instincts,â Shouta says, the curl of his lips small but promising, as he reaches out to nudge your chin with his knuckle.
The guilt blindsides you later, so hard that it makes you lock yourself in your bathroom and keep a sob trapped behind the palm of your hands.
But for now, you smile up at him, the curve of your smirk playful, something he hasnât seen from you in what feels like forever that you give to him again freely.
âCan I get that one in writing?â you ask and his answering laugh strikes you so suddenly it almost makes you dizzy and itâs like hearing the notes to one of your favorite songs that you hadnât heard in a long time.
Like you couldnât ever imagine forgetting it, now that youâve heard it again.
***
Tomura wonders what it will take to make you leave your heroes.
Specifically, your precious mentor.
When he sees you again, you look like you did before nearly bleeding out in front of him and destroying the Quirk of another. Itâs almost as if it never happened at all, almost like your argument never happened at all, either. In this little apartment where the rest of the world doesnât exist, just you and him and sometimes Ryuji.
Except when he lifts your shirt there is a twisted, ugly scar from where they patched you up. Another at your shoulder. He doesnât kiss it or run his fingers over it gently, he doesnât make any sort of comment. He just thumbs at your waist and glares at it, wishes he could make it disappear like the villain who gave it to you.
(Not because he finds it ugly or unacceptable, only that it is now a permanent reminder of what heâd seen. Only that it reminds him that you are not guaranteed to him, not in life nor in loyalty).
Youâre a little hesitant with him now. You feel more fragile to him now, too, like youâre holding something back, waiting for everything to finally fall.
The inevitable crash and break.
Tomura is gentler with youâ he knows he needs to play his cards right now. Itâs crucial. Something is building, even for the League of Villains. Thereâs more on the horizons.
And despite everything, he wants you there, when the sun is bloody and falling on a dismembered, new world.
He thinks he shouldnât have pushed you now, when youâre so delicate, barely stitched together. But he hadâ heâd started another argument. Heâd tried to convince you of the heroesâ lack of care for you, their greediness upon discovering the depth of your Quirk.
You throw it back in his face; isnât that what All For One does to him? Isnât that what he does for the League of Villains? Arenât they all just pawns for him? Is that what he wants of you?
He seethes, digging into the skin of his neck desperately. You donât stop him. He can feel the facade of this little apartment beginning to crumble, fall away into dust and heâ
He knows he destroys everything he touches.
But you were supposed to be different.
(You are, his mind hisses, you are, you are, and thatâs the worst part of it all).
You storm out that night. You leave him, no doubt to return to your precious mentor.
He thinks about destroying the entire apartment complex. He could nowâ he knows whatâs coming. He wonât be staying here any longer. He has plans, so many plans.
You come back to him a week later, though. Youâre bound to him in some way, returning again and again when you know you shouldnât.
The make-up part is nice, with him buried so deep inside you that heâs trying to turn your stomach. Make you sick with him, the way he is with you. Your gasping moans, with the arch of your body far too pretty for hands like his.
And still, you lay on his chest afterwards, you let him run his fingers over the planes of your shoulders, the line of your pretty neck. He drags his knuckles against your soft skin, enamored with the feeling, with the way you soothe the haunting, sunken part of him. His Quirk submits to yours easily, dimmed inside of him. Maybe he should be frightened of your new potential.
But youâve never been frightened of him, so heâs not of you, either.
Youâre very bold, though, he thinks, for you to say, âYour parents were cruel.â After the argument you both had last time.
He tenses beneath you, grits his teeth. Heâd thought youâd both learned your lesson, getting too personal in a place as sacred as here.
âYou donât know anything,â he says and itâs just a breath. Surprisingly toothless. Heâd said it to you last time, in your argument. Youâd said it to him before that. It feels almost ironic now.
You shake your head against his chest, your nose nudging into him, lips soft against his skin. You remain calm. âI know your name is Tomura. They were very cruel to give you that name.â
You say this as if itâs a fact, something as simple as the sky being blue. But itâs dark out now and the stars are dull, the moon just a scythe in the sky, caught in the windowâs glare.
âWhat?â he demands quietly.
At least you have the guts to tilt your head up to find his eyes now. You look up at him through dark lashes.
âYour nameââ you say again, gentle, âIt means âto mourn.â I donât know why anyone would give their child such a sad name.â
He knows what his name means.
But this takes him by surprise, for some reason. Only because itâs not the name his parents gave him. You donât know that, though. You donât know anything about him, technically. He has the urge to tell you suddenly, thatâs not my name.
He doesnât, though. He stays silent. Itâs his name now. And he likes the way you say it, the syllabus softened by whatever it is you feel for him.
(He wonât give it a name, heâs realizing now that names can be very powerful.)
Your fingers are gentle on him, rubbing strange patterns against a scar near his collar bone.
You have rendered him silent.
And eventually, as you begin to drift off to sleep, you murmur, âYou were just a kid, you know?â
He doesnât really know what youâre getting at, only that it does something strange to the tempo of his heart. He swallows hard, tries to keep his fingers gentle on you. Your breathing has slowed, the rise and fall of your back measured and even, but his has gotten tight.
He squeezes you against him, glaring at nothing, at darkness.
You were just a kid, you know?
Itâs this part of you, the one that sees the human in him, that makes him think maybe you will be at his side until the bitter end of it all. Your compassion, the sympathy you have for the child he was, for the person he somehow became. Your unending ability to understand the worst of people.
He doesnât dwell on the child he was, just has buried it in the cemetery of his chestâ a part of him that only you have been able to reach through Quirk, through something too massive to name. Youâve soothed it, put it to rest like the dead, lit your incense in the spaces of his heart. Said your prayers along the notches of his ribs. Tried to appease that restless spirit that possesses him.
He doesnât know why, but he starts to shake. He can hardly breathe.
And in the dark, when he thinks youâre asleep, and his secrets will be lost to your dreams, he admits for the first time in years what has always trembled inside him. He speaks the tragedy that has made a home of his body, the mourning that he was given name to;
âI wanted to be a heroâ when I was a kid.â
***
Tomura thinks, for a moment, when youâre splattered in blood, that this will be your great turning point.
Your fall, the tearing and burning of your wings from your holy back. It will hurt, but he will be there on the ground with you, a hand extended to guide you. He will be there to cradle you into his chest, to hold you close when your world falls apart.
The way All For One was there for him.
The beginning of the end starts with you being a hero.
But you save the wrong person.
Togaâs been following him around as she does every so often, dogging in his shadow, skipping along beside him. Youâve become accustomed to her, too. She likes having you around. Something about not being the only girl. Youâre kind to her in the same way he thinks you probably wanted kindness at her age.
The sky is mottled purple, bruised as the day sets into night. The sun looks like an open wound, violent and red.
When he thinks about it, he figures he shouldâve been more careful, but then thereâs a petty villain Tomura knows vaguely, someone theyâve clashed with before, who heâs pretty sure Dabi and Toga pissed off. He spots Toga first. Your back is turned to him.
âUh oh,â Toga says, peering over your shoulder.
Tomura grabs your wrist, âHide,â he hisses, and when you try to peer over your shoulder at what Toga is looking at, he forces you back around so the villain doesnât see your face.
He doesnât know why he saves you like that. Only that he doesnât want you to get in trouble, doesnât want you taken from him like that. He is not an idiot; if the villain recognizes you, if it somehow got around that you were seen with two of the most notorious villains, the Hero Commission would eat you alive.
And hereâs the part that really gets him. You listen to him. You trust him.
You dart away, swift and fast like a fox, disappearing into the shadows the way you were trained to.
âHey!â the villain shouts and heâs large, Tomura remembers now.
Stupid, too, he thinks, as he barrels towards them.
The glint of Togaâs knife in the sun makes him pause.
Better to not engage, Tomura thinks, not yet, not now. Too much on the horizon for something foolish to happen tonight. The apartment isnât far from here. He hopes youâll retreat there. He just needs to get Toga away safely now.
âOh, Iâve missed fighting!â she sings.
âNo,â Tomura rasps, âDonât engage. We need to go, too.â
She whines a long and drawn out, âWhy?â just as the hulking mass of a person swings at her. She ducks away easily, quickly.
However, then his Quirk bursts to life and itâs far worse than what Tomura had hoped for. He doubles in size, his arms in particular growing longer, and fill out with what seems to be rushing water.
âDammit, Toga,â he hisses, shoving her out of the way as the villain blasts a large cannon of water at her.
Tomura takes the hit hard, black coloring his vision when he hits the ground.
In truth, he thinks he is out for at least a full minute, because when heâs come to, youâre shouting at the villain. Youâre tugging desperately at his massive shoulder, clawing and screaming. Youâve canceled his Quirk, but heâs still too big, even without it.
Toga is pinned beneath that arm, choking and spluttering, drenched. It actually looks like sheâs choking on water. She canât even scream, too garbled, too water-logged. She looks like a doll, she looks horribly small. Her face is turning a deep shade of red as she struggles for breath. Her little hands claw at his wrist, too.
Tomura tries to stand, his vision swimming, swaying so bad that for a minute everything goes sideways.
Fuck, he curses, just as he watches you get tossed away by that villainâs other hand like youâre nothing. His Quirk suddenly ripples back to life and he blasts Toga with another bout of water, plastering her to the gravel, the onslaught of it unending.
Youâre up in an instant, throwing yourself onto his neck, trying to wrench him off. His Quirk disengages again, and Toga heaves and gasps for breath, coughing up large amounts of water.
âYouâre going to kill her!â Tomura finally can catch onto what youâre saying, what youâre desperately screaming. His ears ring.
You get thrown off again. More water. Toga is being blasted so hard that she canât even choke or struggle.
Tomura thinks youâre trying to rationalize with them, youâre trying to explain youâre a hero. And to disengage. Stop, please stop, please stopâ
Heâs not listening, though, of course.
And heâs too big. You tried knocking him out, tried putting him to sleep with the grip of your elbow. Youâre trying everything, even to crush his Quirk beneath yours. Tomura catches the flutters of pink, your inability to summon your destruction when you need it.
It wouldnât matter anyways, not with how big he is. You struggle against powerhouses.
Tomura stumbles.
But youâve always been gritty and sharp and determined, if nothing else. You have always fought so desperately for your life, never mind law or honor or glory.
He thinks he catches the glint of your knife, the desperate threat to let her go, leave her alone!
The villain grabs you with a massive hand around the throat, lifts you clear off the ground.
Toga has gone slack against the pavement in a puddle of water, face colored a strange shade of red and blue. A little like the way the sky blurs before his eyes.
You kick and thrash, a horrible growl wretched from your throat. You donât think, just lash out.
And then there is blood. So much blood. Itâs all over Toga now, seeping into the waterâ did she cut him? She managed to cut his throat? Because thatâs where the blood is pouring out ofâ
Tomura sways.
Youâre dropped.
You stumble away.
Your bladeâ the one you used to threaten him with, is bloody.
âFuck!â you shout, raw and so sudden that it jars him a little. He forces himself over to the scene. So much blood. His stomach rolls.
He looks at you, your shell-shocked face. Youâre looking at the knife, at the blood. At Toga, who's still not moving.
He goes to her first, tries to shake her a little, fingers held away from her shoulders carefully. For a moment, she doesnât respond, limp and lifeless and something inside of him threatens to overwhelm him. No, noâ
Her eyes flutter, though, and she wheezes for a breath, suddenly turning over to vomit up far too much water.
âI-Is she-?â your voice, so small and lost, cuts through his thoughts.
He looks at you again, blood splattered and terror caught in your eyes. Pale and slack faced and half-mad. You look like a ghost, standing there in the aftermath, in your gruesomeness.
âSheâs fine,â he says, just as she wretches up more water, âYou saved her.â
Toga falls limp again. He checks frantically for a pulse at her wrist with two careful fingers. Still there. She needs a doctor, though. He stands to face you.
You make a noise, high pitched, trembling. You cover your mouth to keep it in, itâs something like a sob, an animalistic noise.
âI didnât mean toâ I didnât, I didnâtâ she was justââ youâre trying to get out, almost doubled over now.
Tomura doesnât bother to check if you killed the villain. He knows the dead when he sees it. And he wonât lie to you now, he wonât soften this blow or shield you from it.
But he also knows what he needs to do.
You keel over, about to scream more andâ no, that wonât do you any good.
He grabs for you, hauls you back up and youâre shaking so hard that he fears youâre going to split apart. Youâre about to lose it.
âListen to me,â Tomura hisses and you choke on a cry. He shakes you a little, tries to force you to look at him and not the body behind him. Your eyes, feverish pink, meet the wildfire of his, âListen to me.â
âIâ I donâtââ
âSshh,â Tomura hisses, palm going to your cheek, a little too rough, forcing you to look at only him. âSshh, listen.â
You try to swallow and he continues, âYouâre going to call reinforcements. Youâre going to tell them thereâs a villain down.â
âW-what?! Iâm going toâ theyâre going toââ
He shakes you again, harder, your teeth click together with the force of it. He needs you to understand thisâ needs you to hear this if he wants to keep you safe and out of jail.
âTell them I decayed him. And before that, tell them Toga cut him, and it splattered onto you. Say you heard commotion and like the good hero you are, you ran to help.â
âTomuraââ you sob.
âDo you understand me?â he snaps instead, grabbing you harder, his fingers curling against your cheek to press desperately into you. âAnswer me!â
âYesââ you gasp, wide-eyed and terrified. âYes!â
âGood,â he hushes, wiping blood from your cheek, âGood. You saved her,â he tells you, âYou saved her, do you understand?â
You nod, jerky, and he continues, hand petting your cheek, messily pushing your hair from your face, âYou did everything right.â
Your breathing is still labored, but youâre quieting with the praise. When he thinks you can handle it, he breathes, âNow, are you ready? Iâm going to decay him and the knife, then Iâm going to leave with Toga. Youâre going to call for help.â
You glance at the villain, lying lifeless, in his own pool of blood and Tomura ducks his head to force you to look at him. âOkay?â he asks, âAnswer me.â
âOkay,â you exhale slowly.
âGood,â he murmurs, âGood. Now give me the knife.â
You press it, trembling, into his hands. Itâs slick with blood. He forces himself to stay calm for you.
He steps away, letâs go of you. The knife turns to dust.
âLook away,â he commands then, his voice a rasp.
And youâ you listen to him. You trust him. You turn away. He sets his hands on the villain. And just like that, his body breaks down, gore at first, until it is nothing but dust. It blows away easily.
And then he goes to Toga and he lifts her carefully. Sheâs like a ragdoll in his arms, soaked and cold. Heâs certain to keep his hands away from her, fingers lifted away, but she lolls into his chest.
When you turn around, Tomura says, âThank you for saving her.â And he means it.
You swallow hard. You look to where the villain was. Heâs gone now.
âNow call your heroes, just like I said.â
You nod, eyes filling up with tears. Thatâs fine. Theyâll have more sympathy for you, for what youâve witnessed. Theyâll believe you more. Your mentor will protect you, with those tears in your eyes.
Tomuraâs eyes burn crimson as you pull out your phone, âDo what I said and youâll be okay.â
And you do, just like that. You lift the phone to your ear. That semblance of calm that he had coaxed you into shatters the moment someone picks up on the other end.
Your voice goes high, near hysterical, âT-Thereâs a villain downââ
He turns away from you as you stutter and cry into the phone about what happened. You give them the lie he told you to feed them. You make Tomura out to be the villain, you make yourself out to be innocent. He holds Toga close to him.
He tries not to smile, a dizzy slip of a thing, as you do exactly as he told you toâ as you lie and lie and lie through your teeth.
Toga stirs in his arms. Police sirens are heard in the distance. An ambulance for a pile of dust. The sun sets, darkness blanketing the world, shielding it from the light.
And as he stalks away, with Toga alive and in his arms, he thinks maybe heâll make a villain of you yet.
***
The police believe you. Itâs hard not to, when there is so little evidence otherwise. Tomura destroyed it all for you. Itâs hard not to believe you, when youâre crying and terrified, as you should be for witnessing the death of another person at the hands of Himiko Toga and Shigaraki Tomura.
Shouta, however, is not as easily convinced.
Not after so many strange occurrences with Tomura.
When he brings you back to his apartment, when the door is shut tight, and you still stand in bloodied clothes with your teeth chattering, Shouta eyes you warily.
You want to shower, burn yourself beneath the spray of water, like you could wash away what youâd done. You squeeze your eyes shut.
You saved her.
You swallow down the lump in your throat.
âWhat really happened?â Shouta asks, almost tentatively, standing in the middle of his living room.
You turn and you donâtâ you donât know how you should react. Should you be offended that heâd doubt you? React in outrage after all thatâs happened? Should you act confused? Play dumb?
You canât stomach any of it. Not when someoneâs dead at your hands. But someone is alive because of them, too.
Your eyes well up with fresh tears.
âI-I told you.â you choke out.
Shoutaâs jaw ticks. He draws in a slow breath, âSomething isnât adding up. You have had more contact with Shigaraki Tomura than anyone has been able to have.â
Your stomach drops. Your tears fall harder.
âWhatâs going on?â he asks and the distance between you two feels massive. It feels continental in the small space of his living room. He seems suspicious.
The lie comes out on a sob, âIâI think heâs been stalking me.â
âWhat?â Shouta asks and any uncertainty he has in you evaporates as he watches your face crumple.
You let your guilt overwhelm you into choking on another cry, cover your mouth as if you could catch it in the palm of your hand. Shouta doesnât know the truth of it, so he believes it.
He crosses that distance like itâs nothing now. He stands tall in front of you, reaches to try and brush tears away from your cheek.
âI donât knowââ you gasp, filling out your lie, âI think he's interested in me because of my Quirk. Because he canâtâ I canât decay, when he touches me.â
Shouta tips your face up towards his but you canât look him in the eyes, let your eyes squeeze shut when he asks, âWhy wouldnât you tell me that?â
âI donât knowââ you choke out, âI wasnât sure.â
âDid something else happen?â Shouta prods gently and you grit your teeth to keep back another sob. More tears cut tracks down your face, right into Shoutaâs waiting, gentle hands.
There is a long moment where you think of giving everything up. You think of telling Shouta everything, if only to lift the weight that has settled onto your chest. Surely, it will crush through your sternum, surely your heart will burst with itâs pressure.
âItâs my fault,â you whisper, âItâs my fault heâs dead.â
âNo,â Shouta says then, gentle but firm, shaking his head, âI know it may feel like itââ
âHe was going to kill her.â
This stops Shouta. He goes very, very still.
âWhat?â he rasps softly.
âHe was drowning herâ he wouldnât stop. I tried to get him to stop and he started choking meâand she saved me byââ Itâs a fabrication to save yourself. Thatâs not how it went! Your mind screeches, thatâs not how it wentâ you saved her by killingâ
Toga was turning blue, she didnât help you. She didnât save you. She was drowning. She didnât kill him. You did.
âYou saved Toga Himiko, a notorious villain, one of the most wantedââ
âHe was killing her!â you hiss, âShe was turning blueââ
âSheâs a powerful villain, too, you shouldâve triedââ
Something inside of you fractures, bursts apart the way glass does when thrown against a wall. You think there are a million, shining pieces of you now lying on the floor.
âSheâs Shinsouâs age!â you snap, hoping one of your shards cuts him, suddenly half-furious through all your tears. âSheâs Shinsouâs age, do you know that?!â
You break now, wrenching away from Shoutaâs touch and rushing to double over the sink to dry heave again, body squeezing painfully. You threw up everything in your stomach already at the scene, when recounting the story to the police, to Shouta. You claw at your stomach, trying to stop it, to keep it all down inside of you. You curl your fingers into the divots of your ribs, try to force them to give you air, but they wonâtâ betrayers that they are, they squeeze and squeeze until thereâs nothing of you left.
Your knees buckle, head spinning when you turn away from the sink and crumple into a heap on the floor,âSheâs just a kid,â you wail desperately, âThatâs all I saw when I triedâ when Iââ
Your head bows forward, body folded in on itself, forehead digging into the ground as you cry, âI didnât mean for him to die, I didnât mean itâ I didnât, I swear I didnât mean for it to happen.â
Shouta moves again finally, drops to his knees down beside you. He cradles your skull in his large hand, pushes your head into the crook of his neck to hold you, âItâs alright,â he breathes, curling his other arm tight around you, âItâs not your fault,â he hushes, âItâs not your fault.â You sob hard into his chest, fingernails digging into him, clawing at his biceps, âSshh, itâs okay. Itâs okay.â
And he holds you, buries you in the bulk of him, like he always has when you need him. Your constant, the love you never once deserved. Especially not now. Especially not here, with blood stained on your clothes, sunk to the floor with nothing but the anchor of your guilt.
He strokes your hairline, gentle, cooing softly to try and calm you.
He murmurs, his voice so deep and soft and earnest, âYouâre a good hero.â When you make a strangled noise against him, he presses on, âYou are. Youâre compassionate. You see everyoneâs humanity and thatâs a good thing.â
He hushes more of your cries, fingers gentle in your hair, and you try not to throw up again when he tells you;
âYouâre a good hero, I promise. I promise.â
The beginning of the end starts with you being a hero for a villain.
***
The next time you see Tomura, he questions you about what happened, if you pulled it off. You tell him you managed it, somehow. You donât tell him anything else. You donât tell him you havenât been sleeping, that you can hardly keep food down. You donât tell him that you take too many showers, trying to wash away the phantom blood.
You remember when it was Tomuraâs blood on you, so long ago. A beginning that now seems so hazy. You hadnât minded blood, then. You had never been particularly squeamish but nowâ
Now it could make you sick on your best days, downright hysterical on your worst.
Your guilt tears chunks out of you, bites down and shakes the meaty, soft parts of you until youâre all torn up.
It is easier to be with Tomura than Shouta now.
We have more in common, you think, and it makes you want to laugh, empty and wobbly.
You look in mirrors and hardly recognize yourself, wonder if this is really your body. If this is really your life, or if itâs someone elseâs. Maybe you are possessed, maybe that explains how you got here.
You donât tell him any of this. You stay silent.
And thatâs okay because Tomura seems strangely quiet after that, pulling you to lay on his chest. He doesnât let you put the TV on. You can tell he needs to think. You let your eyes drift close as he runs his fingers through your hair with a surprising amount of gentleness, compared to his usual petting.
But eventually he says, so soft that you fear you almost imagined it, âA yakuza head visited the League recently.â
Your eyes flutter open and in your surprise, you sit up a little, looking down at him. âTomuraââ you start, almost a warning.
He knows he isnât supposed to talk like this here, in this little slice of another world.
But he continues anyways, his voice just a rough scratch, âHe killed Magne.â And then, âAnd Compress no longer has an arm.â
Now you really pull away to look at him. You can feel your eyes widen out, your shock, then the stomach-turning sadness. His face is unreadable, but his jaw is tight. His eyes are simmering, so red, even in the low light like this.
âIt was a set up.â he hisses, âI failed them.â
He doesnât cry, but you can feel the slightest tremble in his body.
You hurt for him, you realize, your heart falling into the pit of your stomach. Those are two of his closest, some of his inner circle.
He looks shaken.
He looks young, with the weight of his world on his shoulders, with the crown of thorns placed on his head. Heir to a monstrous throne. All For Oneâs successor, boy prince to inherit an underground empire.
You just see him, though, just Tomura who's twenty, who likes sour candy and video games.
He swallows hard. He looks angry and hurt.
âNobody mourns us,â he says eventually, looking away from you, somewhere in the darkness of the apartment.
Except you, you want to say, with a name like Tomura.
You lurch forward, throwing your arms around his neck, hugging him tight to you. âIâm sorry,â you tell him, soft, the way Shouta speaks to you, âIâm sorry.â
And then you think, Iâd mourn you, and you squeeze him tighter, Iâd mourn you, oh God, Iâd mourn youâ
He doesnât hug you back, but you can feel the shaky breath he exhales, and the way his fingers tighten in the fabric of your shirt.
***
Tomura thinks it should be you, at his side, when he takes Overhaulâs arm. You are everything Overhaul wants. Your Quirk is what he has tried to bottle.
Tomura thinks you couldâve been useful, to switch off his Quirk, to destroy it in an incredible twist of irony. It wouldâve been the ultimate power move, to have you at his side by the end of all of this.
But youâre not there, no, not with him.
Youâre with your heroes, Toga had told him.
It shouldnât, but it feels like a betrayal. It stings hard and sharp inside of him, like a livid bee that jabs at his heart.
He seethes about it. Hadnât he done everything right with you? Heâd played this game slow, knew that the rewards would be worth it.
Youâre still walking away from him, though. Youâre still not his.
And youâve still got one of his ribs, left a gaping wound inside of him.
He wants it back. He wants it back.
***
Eri looks up at you with watery, red eyes when you first introduce yourself to her. You crouch to be on her level. She has silver hair. Sheâs timid, wobbly bottom lip and flushed cheeks.
You almost start crying, looking at her now. You wonder if this is what Tomura was like as a childâ small and terrified of his Quirk, round red eyes pleading with the world. All you see in her is every other forgotten child.
âHi, Eri,â you hush, half for her, half because youâre scared your voice might break.
âH-hello,â she trembles.
You try to keep your smile in place, but itâs a weak, sad thing.
Still, you say, âIâd like to be your friend, if youâll have me.â And you extend your hand to her, palm up and offering. âI have a Quirk like Mr. Aizawaâs.â you tell her gently, âIf you touch me while using your Quirk, itâll stop.â
She brightens at this, not smiling but, surprised, âReally?â she asks, just a breath.
You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat, âReally.â
She takes your hand then, eager, tightening with her small fingers, despite her Quirk still being off.
Then she looks up into your face and offers you a tentative smile. Small, just the corner of her lips lifting up.
âIâd like to be your friend, too.â she murmurs bashfully and you close your hand around hers. Itâs small, almost fragile. Sheâs all bandaged up, arms wrapped in gauze.
You look at Eri and her red eyes and silver hair and see a coin toss, see it up in the air, spinning and spinning, catching in the light. A twist of fate like the flip of a coin.
But you think you could call it now, with her hand in yours, and the heroes that hover protectively around her.
***
There is a morning shared in blush light that isnât the ending but feels like it could be one. In truth, youâd prefer to remember this as the ending, more of a whimper and less of a bang. The night before had been one of your better ones, tooâ youâd only woken once with a nightmare. Tomura had already been awake and heâd soothed you with a careful hand that drew patterns across the bare skin of your back.
That night, that morning, was gentle in the wake of all that violence, love taken root, finally bursting through your veins to make a mess of your insides.
Dawn is too mellow a place for the two of you.
(You have come to the conclusion that Tomura looks best in dusk, saturated, sharp and rich in color. Bold and vivid. You didnât know it, but he thought the same of you.)
You never told him you loved him.
You think about that a lot, wonder if it wouldâve made a difference in anything. You wonder who was the last person to tell him that, if anyone at all.
Heâs still half hoping that youâll follow him, but you think he knows heâs losing you. You are not content in fuming misery, cannot stomach to leave the mentor that has loved and cared for you with such perseverance and softness. You cannot stomach to turn away from the boy with violet hair, or now the girl that reminds you of him.
You wish you could keep him, too, despite it all, but all you see in the future with him is rubble.
In the least, youâve always had a sense of preservations, survivor that you are, scavenger that you are. You know when to move on, canât linger too much longer now or you wonât live through it.
You sleep better with Tomura, though, and thatâs the cruel part. You wake with less nightmares. You sleep more soundly, wound up in him, so tight that you two might just grow together. Palm to palm, your Quirk quieting his, lulled and softened.
And that morning, you wake slowly, twisting around fitfully with the warmth that has blossomed gently inside of you.
Consciousness creeps to you, fighting against the pull of sleep, being coaxed awake by the fluttering of your heart, the slow roll in your core.
Your eyes lift, heavy with sleep, finally awake. You blink blearily before a sudden, sleep soft cry escapes past your lips.
You glance down the line of your body to find Tomura nestled between your legs, tongue tracing messy patterns into where youâre most sensitive. Your stomach swoops sweetly, flares into a spark of heat.
The light is soft on him. He cracks a ruby eye open to gaze at you, to open his mouth so you can watch the flash of glistening pink as his tongue laves against you slowly.
âAbout time you woke up,â he gets out, voice still morning-rough, a little grating. His fingers squeeze your thigh, pulling you apart further to be at his mercy, spread open all for him.
âTomuraââ you gasp, your hands finding their way into his hair, fingers gentle and weak with sleep.
He sets his mouth to you, sucks on the bundle of nerves in a way that makes you keen, almost arching away from him. He fixes his eyes on your face, watches as your expression twists up.
You can see the way his hips are twitching into the mattress. Sometimes you think he does this more for himself than you, takes pleasure in rendering you down to your most basic, most desperate.
Pleasure coils warm, simmers on the inside of you. Your fingers flex, tighten in his hair until he groans against you. When he pulls away for another moment to admire you, his lips are spit slick, a string of translucent spit and slick bridging between the two of you.
It makes you flush darkly, makes you throw your head back and whimper.
He takes you apart with the savagery and viciousness that he has always carried. Dawn spills over the bed sheets in rays of peach and honeysuckle, lovely for the impending destruction. You shatter like glass, pretty and ringing beneath his hands.
And then heâs flipping you onto your stomach, letting you claw at your pillow as he sinks deep inside of you. He hisses when he fucks into the crux of your sweet, supple thighs. Your hair is messy with sleep. He presses his chest to your back, presses you into the mattress.
You fist at your pillow, whining at the burn and stretch, and you can feel the sickle cut of his smile against the arch of your shoulder blades. He leaves sloppy kisses, scattering them, sucking at your skin until he has claimed and marked and branded you.
He nudges his nose against your cheek until you tilt your head back to his, to rub back affectionately, nudge into him like a cat. He hums in satisfaction, in pleasure, the sound of it rumbling against your back.
You feel like heâs trying to savor this. He doesnât pull your hair, or speed up his hips. No, he waits until you arch your back for him, until youâre near begging.
He likes you weakened, maybe delirious, maybe like heâs giving you a dose of your own medicine. Heâs trying to make you as addicted as he is, but thereâs no need.
No need when he covers your hand with his, slots his fingers between yours. All five of them, squeezing at your hand.
âYou were made for me,â he gets out, giving you a rougher thrust, his eyes flashing to your hands, âSee?â he groans, fingers digging into your wrist, your knuckles, âMade for me.â
You moan, too, all wobbly and pitched, with all the pressure, with the squeeze of his hand. With the stretch of him inside where youâre vulnerable and soft and slick.
He drags everything out that morning, fucks you both into oversensitivity, until youâre both shuddering and gasping. He breaks you down, until there are tears streaming down your face, until heâs gripping you so tightly that heâll leave a bruise in the shape of his hand.
He fits his hand against your throat at one point and your eyes roll into the back of your head. You end where you began, with the violet petal bruise of his fingertips into your skin.
You linger in bed with him that morning, letting him pet and stroke and touch you. You stay gentle, even when he gets rough.
You make cheap, bad coffee for the both of you.
You feel twenty something with a boy and his tiny apartment. A cat chirps at the window and youâre smiling when you let him in. The breeze is cool. You donât put on clothes because you feel like an adult, with a lover.
You feel normal for a fraction of a moment after everything thatâs happened.
You feel sated and tender and saddened. Your chest fills with aching as you watch Tomura drift in and out of sleep in the sunbeams.
You were made for me, heâd said and you reach out to brush a strand of hair from his face. You were made for me.
You swallow around the lump in your throat, the one that feels like needle pricks and the hard truth. You donât have the heart to tell him that he may need you, but you donât need him.
You want him, though, your fingers trailing down the lines of his face, you want him so badly that it hurts. Your fingers travel over the hitch of his scars, his body as familiar as a home.
You want him, but you donât need him, you try to tell yourself in this moment. You want him, but you donât need him. You will survive this.
Still, itâs going to hurt. Youâre bracing for impact, can feel the free fall rush up to the ground, can feel your stomach swimming up where your heart is.
Youâll survive it, you think, breathing hard, trying to keep back your tears as you look at him. But itâs going to hurt, it might tear out something very precious inside of you.
Youâd rather he just break your arm again. At the thought of it, you try not to choke on the bitter, furious laugh that splits from your aching ribs.
***
You get to know Eri, try to spend more time with her and Shouta and Shinsou like youâre trying to fix something you broke. The pieces arenât quite matching up right, though. It canât be fixed, not really, not fully.
You canât close your eyes without seeing that villain in a pool of their own blood. Or Togaâs face made blue. Sometimes in these dreams, itâs Shinsou who is drowning. Sometimes the villain in blood is Shouta. Tomura is always the one who saves you.
You canât look at yourself anymore. You canât stomach to. Your lies explode out of you when you catch a glance of yourself, haggard and exhausted and beaten down.
Shouta takes you to a hospital after your fist collides with the mirror in your bathroom. Glass shatters into hundreds of reflections of your warped and terrible image. Theyâre not as pretty, when the sun isnât setting in a warehouse with a boy that you think you love.
Your hand bleeds the way that manâs necks didâ
Your world spins as you lean over the bowl of the toilet to throw up your lunch. Youâd made it with Eri earlier, before Shouta had gotten home from class.
Shouta finds you on the floor, sitting in all that glass, with your hand clutched tightly to your chest. He mustâve heard the commotion next door.
âWhat happened?â he asks, voice flooding with concern. He doesnât hesitate to step carefully over the glass to you.
The question feels too large for you.
I did something horrible, you think, thatâs what happened.
âIâm sorry,â you mutter weakly, lifting your chin from its place on your chest. âI didnât mean to.â
(That isnât true and you know it.
(But youâre always trying to prove youâre good. Especially now. Especially to Shoutaâ trying to prove youâre worthy of his love.
You suddenly crave Tomura. You didnât have to prove anything to him.)
Shouta lifts you carefully, cradles you to his body to carry you out to his car to bring you to the hospital. He treats you like youâre fragile, made of glass yourself. âWhatâs going on with you?â Shouta murmurs gently, but there's almost a plea in it, concern that is so transparent it hurts, âYouâre scaring meâ Iâm worried about you.â he confesses, almost desperate, âYou know you can talk to me, donât you?â
The laugh that sputters out of you is hollow, a grating noise that gets choked off. Shouta looks at you warily, uncertain and fearful.
The hospital keeps you for three days. Eri asks Shouta about you, apparently. She misses you. Shinsou helps her decorate a card for you.
Get well soon! Is written in her poor handwriting with far too many colors, and in Shinsouâs messy scrawl at the bottom;
Miss getting my ass kicked by you.
The doctors tell Shouta youâre struggling with a lot of survivorâs guilt and you have to fight back another absurd, off-kilter laugh.
Part of you thinks youâd be better off with Tomura at this point (your coin uncertain, hanging suspended in the air), if only to relieve you of this guilt, when Shouta tends to you and cares for you and loves you so steadfastly that it makes you feel rotten and horrible and monstrous. He has no idea who heâs loving. And you donât deserve any of itâ
But you think of Eri and the way she clings to your sleeves. And how you and Shinsou share granola bars during training.
And mostly, you are terrified to be without them.
None of itâs the same, though, and you think itâll eat away at you until youâre nothing at all but the empty lies you kept feeding them.
You want to be better, you realize, when Eri draws you in pictures, holding her hand. You want to be better, you realize, for kids like you, like herâ
(Like Tomuraâ)
So you decide one night, with your hand still bandaged, with Eri sleeping peacefully on the couch in the crux of your arms, and Shouta at the opposite end of the couch, that you will stay with them. The easy thing to do would be to leave, to not look back. But you have always been nothing if not determined, if not a fighter.
You will become who they want you to be, who they believe you to be, even if it tears you apart from the inside out.
Which means giving up Tomura, which feels like giving up a rib.
***
You had hoped youâd be able to slip away from Tomura and leave your secrets in a rundown apartment in a part of the city you grew up in. You had hoped that you could get away unscathed, without Shouta ever knowing more.
But Dabi mentions you to Hawks.
Offhand. Something about another traitor hero. Something about Shigarakiâs bitch.
Tomura also mentions Hawks to you.
And here is your trouble, what you were hoping to avoid by never allowing him to speak about his plans; you now know that the Number Two Pro-Hero is a traitor. However, the only reason you know that, is because of your secret relationship with the leader of the League of Villains that you have been slowly, painstakingly trying to sever yourself from.
(It doesnât help that heâs latched on tighterâ)
So, if you go to Shouta to warn him that the Number Two Pro-Hero is a traitor, you have to also conveniently come forward with your own truth. And what if he thinks youâre a traitor, too?
Surely, it looks that way.
Truthfully, you might as well beâ you killed someone.
You killed someone.
Your stomach squeezes tight.
You think of Shouta and Shinsou and Eri and the loss of their love, when youâve been trying to earn it back.
You donât get much time to mull this over, though, because while walking back to your own apartment at U.A., a shadowy span of wings fall over your form.
Your heart falls into the pits of you, the drop of it sharp, horrible.
You think running will make it look all the worse.
Besides, heâs fast.
You canât decide how this will go. Maybe heâll only want to speak with you, traitor to traitor. But then you will be confronted with the undeniable truth that you now need to share with Shouta, with the Hero Commission, for the sake of peopleâs safety. You will have to come clean. Maybe it will be worse. Maybe heâs not after you at all, but just in your neck of the woods becauseâ
All other thoughts are cut short when he lands in front of you.
You try to think of a proper reaction. Should you be expecting him? On guard? Should you act surprised?
His wings flare and you realize quickly how massive they are. They throw you into their towering shadow, make you feel like a mouse.
His eyes glint when he pushes up his visor, the gold of them sharp, his pupils a pinprick. The eyes of a predator.
You try not to cower. You stand your ground, lift your lips a little like you might bare teeth in warning, your hackles raising. Backed into the corner, you feel half wild, too.
But Hawks beats you to any form of a greeting, his smile a menacing twist of his lips, like heâs trying to be pleasant but he wants you to see all of those sharp, white teeth of his. You think he doesnât look like much of a hero in this darkness, with the way his wings look thorny and maroon. His voice is barbed wire, the drawl of it stinging.
You know youâre in deep trouble now;
âYou and I need to have a little talk.â
***
You are kept in a steel room that the Hero Commission tells you is not a holding cell, but you definitely think is a holding cell.
Your mind has not slowed since you got here.
You scramble for a story to tellâ for lies to sew.
Hawks is not a traitor. Not to the heroesâ at least. He is a traitor to the villains and you know, logically, that this is for the greater good, but something about it bothers you. Villains arenât people to the Hero Commission. You feel strangely protective of Tomuraâs league of outcasts, even if you know you shouldnât.
But theyâre young, with feelings and thoughts and lives and pasts.
Nobody ever mourns us.
No, they donât, you think, trying to keep away bitter tears from springing to your eyes. They donât bother trying to see the big picture, they donât bother to try and figure out why villains are on the rise.
They canât stomach the idea that maybe their precious hero system has given birth to their villains.
Or maybe they can and they just donât care.
They need heroes for their charts and money and power, donât they? So they need villains. A never ending cycle, forever going around on this carousel. Youâre dizzy with it, youâre sick of it, caught up in itâs riptide.
You donât look at Tomura Shigaraki and see the most dangerous, wanted criminal in the country. You see a twenty-year-old pawn, a chip in a bigger game. You see someone as starving and desperate as you were.
You see a coin flip.
(You see the person you fell in love withâ)
Shouta enters silently and the moment you see him, you have to try to keep from bursting into tears. Your lip wobbles.
He approaches slowly, cooly, but when he gets near you, his eyes are livid and searching your face, like maybe he could finally find the lies youâd kept buried so deep inside of you. Theyâve finally blossomed, you think, all of them sprouting from your body, creeping through your lungs and up your throat to choke you out.
âTell me the truth finally.â Shouta says, sharp and icy. He speaks like heâs speaking to a criminal, âNow.â
You suck in a shaky breath, try not to flinch when he leans across the metal table and snarls, âAnd if you are a traitor, at least have the decency to tell me now, before they come in here and interrogate both of us.â
Tears catch in your lashes.
Through the throbbing of your head, you realize you have jeopardized Shouta in the way you never wanted.
âIâm not a traitor.â you get out, voice quiet but firm, barely above a whisper.
âNo?â Shouta clips and you can see it now, the hurt in his eyes. He feels betrayed, deeply so, and you canât even blame him. âHawks says differently. Says youâve been working with Shigaraki.â
You rub furiously at your cheek to try and keep the tears from falling, shaking your head quickly, âNoââ
âThen what happened?â he snaps and through the blur of your own tears, you catch the way his own eyes glisten.
âI didnât tell you everything, when I said I thought Shigaraki was stalking me.â you say, having readied this lie the moment that Hawks brought you to the Hero Commissionâs doors. You give them the story they want to hear of you, not the one where you fell in love, but the one where you jeopardize yourself for them. You are careful to peer up at him through damp lashes, âIâI got close to him, because he let me, because he was interested in me.â
Shouta goes very, very still. All you can see is his chest rising and falling, quick, as he slowly begins to walk the path youâre leading him down.
âAnd I thought he might tell me his plans, I thought that I could helpââ
âNo,â Shouta says in disbelief as it all begins to connect, leaning away from you in shock, âPlease tell me you didnâtââ
You lurch towards him slightly, naturally, your hands coming up to the table like youâre reaching for him. âI wanted to prove I could do thisââ you choke out, voice breaking, âI wanted to prove I could do undercover work like you wantedâ like they wanted!â
âWhat were you thinking?â he hisses in return.
âYou never wouldâve let me do this!â you snap, almost plead with him, and it must strike true because he looks away from you momentarily, âI-I saw an opening so I tried to take itâ I was perfect for it. Shigaraki was interested in me. I used to be a thief. I wouldâve fit in.â
The moment you say it, you realize how true it rings. It startles you, maybe, with how close you were. Almost, but didnât, your coin doing an extra rotation in air. And why didnât you? Why not be with Tomura now? Why not be where you fit in most? Where hero society wanted and expected you to be?
âIâm not a traitor,â you cry, tears tracking down your cheeks freely nowâ you think youâre trying to convince yourself as much as Shouta now, âI promise Iâm not a traitorâ I couldnât do that to you. O-or Shinsou. Or Eriââ
And there is your reason. The truth to disguise your lies. You look at him, across from you, his face almost unreadable, with his furrowed brows and tense jaw. His eyes shine, though, gleam with unshed tears as he listens to you. The man who gave you everything, who has cared for you since the moment he found youâ perhaps the sole reason your coin has flipped in their favor. All because he did more than what was asked of him, because maybe he just saw someone starving, too, like the way you did with Tomura.
Believe me, you plead, believe this.
There is a long stretch of silence after that, where all you can get in is hiccuping breaths.
Finally, Shouta asks, âDid you find anything out about him? Or the League of Villains?â
You exhale hard with relief, your shoulders finally falling. You collapse somewhat, exhausted, folding in on yourself.
You hang your head, then shake it slowly, âNo,â you sniffle, wipe at your drippy nose, âHe didnât tell me anything. He didnât trust me.â
Shouta eyes you warily.
âSo thatâs why you encountered him so much. Thatâs why you were there with Toga Himiko whenââ Shouta cuts himself off when he sees your wince, the shuddering of your features at the mention of that incident. But he finally put all of the pieces together. All the pieces youâve given him, at least.
You nod, stray tears falling quick, dripping off your chin, âIâm sorry for lying,â you get out, âI hated itâ I hated lying to you.â
Truth.
Shouta throws you a hard look, âYou shouldnât have. It was dangerous and irresponsible. And now look at what youâve doneââ
Your stomach knots up tightly.
âI thought I could handle it.â You breathe and there is another truth, sprinkled throughout your lies.
But you were so horribly wrongâ
Shouta is about to open his mouth again, but the door swings open and a man in a suit enters slowly. His gaze is cool as it falls on you and Shouta. You know this isnât the end of your conversation with him, you know he wants to know more. But now, he focuses on the higher up that encourages him to sit, too.
He says, because Shouta has been such an upstanding hero and teacher, they are allowing him the courtesy of explaining everything now.
And then you watch as Shouta opens his mouth and lies and lies and lies for you.
He tells them that it was his idea to allow you to get close to Shigaraki. He knew, every step of the way. He tells them he bypassed speaking with a committee at the Hero Commissionâs because it wouldâve taken too much time. He says that they needed to act quickly and accordingly.
He takes the brunt of it, saves you from far more trouble. Heâs a trusted hero. Youâre an ex-thief in the eyes of the Hero Commission with a too-big Quirk. They wonât believe you and truthfully, if they did more digging, if they pried more, there is a chance that the truth might leak out of you, open like a wound.
Shouta protects you, the way he always has. You donât deserve it and you can feel your heart tearing itself to shreds.
You know you canât go back to Tomura, not after all this.
You watch Shouta lie for you, speak for you, get you out of the grave you have dug yourself. For the second time in your life, Shouta saves you. You try to hold back more tears, you try to hold back from throwing yourself onto him, clinging to him.
And finally, they ask, âDid you learn anything, then? About Shigaraki Tomura?â
He likes sour candy. He has trouble sleeping. He drinks too many energy drinks. There is a scar at the corner of his lip. He has a beauty mark on his chin. He is desperate and starved of love. He letâs a kitten sleep in the sunlight of his apartment. He tries to take care of the League to the best of his abilityâ he cares about them more than he will admit. He is not heartless. His hands are often cold but seeking, longing for what he canât have.
Your eyes well up with tears but you take a slow, steadying breath. They donât want those pieces of him, the human, messy ones. No, they want to know how evil he is, how diabolical his next plan is going to be. But you donât know any of that, just that he holds you as if he never wants to let you go when you fall asleep at night.
So youâre not lying when you say;
âI donât know anything about Shigaraki Tomura.â
Only that he wanted to be a heroâ when he was a kid.
***
The days following are the worst between you and Shouta.
He doesnât trust you anymore. You canât fight him. You have nothing to say, which is perhaps worse than if you tried to fight with him.
Thereâs no defending you, especially if Shouta even knew half of the truth. He barely speaks with you some days.
He wedges the distance between you two wide, forces it apart further.
He does not comfort you, he does not hold you when you cry this time. Heâs not there with soothing, hushed words or the gentle touch of his hand to your cheek.
A piece of his trust is broken, now so severely that itâs just a jagged edge, something you donât think can ever be soothed.
(And youâre right, in some wayâ thereâs a deep shift in your relationship with him, changed and scarred. It never returns to what you once had, when your life was very simple and all you knew was him.)
He doesnât ever say, I forgive you. I will trust you again, in time.
But he eventually will make dinner for you again and you will sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder at his table with a respectable, lonesome distance between his heart and yours.
Nothing is ever the same again.
You think about runningâ from Shouta, from Tomura, from all of it. It would be the easiest option, where you never have to look either in the face again.
But the Hero Commission looks at Eri the same way they looked at you when they discovered you could destroy Quirks and you canât stomach the idea of leaving her to them.
(Tomura was right in a lot of ways.
And when thereâs a war on the horizon and the Hero Commission seeks to use you as a weapon, you will think of him again.
Iâll teach you, if thatâs what you want, heâd said to you once. And he did.
You hate the system, the endless cycle, Prometheus chained to his rock, the need of villains to have heroes, the creation of heroes to make villains. The endless bodies, the using and discarding of real, human lives for a greater good. You wish you could destroy it.
But there is more than only destruction, too. What good is rubble and ruin and death?)
You stay so you can do what you can, so you can protect a child with red eyes, with silver hair, and a Quirk too big for their own body.
And you think maybe if you stay with her, it makes up for leaving Tomura.
***
You go to Tomura one last time, walk the distance to his apartment with your hands shoved into your pockets. Itâs a familiar walk now. The pavement is wet from rain. Itâs cold out. You donât know what youâre going to tell him. You wonder how heâll reactâ for a moment, youâre fearful. Will he lash out? For a moment you wonder if heâll try to kill you.
But you know, deep down, he wouldnât. Wonât.
And you wonât pretend youâre scared of him now. You wonât play the innocent hero, not in front of him.
The moment Tomura sees you, he knows something has changed. You are too expressive and now you look at him with a sense of foreboding. With a sadness that he feels uncomfortable gazing at.
You tell him, âI got in trouble with the Hero Commission.â
For a moment, he lets his hope grow and stretch inside of him. Maybe this is finally your turning point, your fall from grace that he will catch you on. But no, your lip wobbles and your eyes dart away.
âI canât see you anymore,â you whisper.
At first, he wants to snap at you, hiss out something cruel between his bared teeth. Maybe if you had done this a few years ago, a few months ago, he would lash out, try to tear into his neck or you or the world. He thinks about hurting you, slamming you against a wall orâ
The thought is unfortunately repulsive to him. He doesnât want to hurt you, not like that.
His anger and resentment wells inside of him, swarms his chest viciously. He wants to argue, to point out every way your heroes have failed you. The world feels so absurdly unfair suddenly, to give him youâ you who quiets his Quirk and touches him gently and winds your arms around him in the way he likes so muchâ only to then take you away, too. You who destroys with a touch, too. Who is perfect at his side.
But for all his work and care and strategy, he canât get you to stay.
You will run back to your heroes.
You donât need him, he realizes now. But you have his rib, tucked away inside of you. He wants to dig into you, pry it out, rip it from your body and take it back for himself.
But youâre crying.
And youâre pretty in the dark, like youâve always been. This time, though, youâre not looking for a fight, there is no viciousness in you now. Maybe youâre too tired to fight.
So instead of erupting, instead of lashing out, Tomura steels himself. Heâll play the longer game, then. You donât want to go, but you will. Youâll go back to your heroes and they will disappoint you. As they always do, at some point, eventually.
You will come back to him again, he tells himself.
And he will be forgiving, the way All For One has been with him. He sees it now; you, needing his hand, needing him to take you back. He will welcome you back into his arms, as if you hadnât even left, and you will know then that you were right to leave.
He gazes at you, red eyes smoldering, âThen donât.â he rasps and heâs trying to remain dispassionate, but his voice has a trembling note in it, the hidden fear underneath the harsh coolness.
Your eyes flicker back to him, your lips parting in surprise. You wipe at your eyes.
âSo thatâs it?â
And this makes him angry, the sharp tug of it like a dog at the end of itâs leash. He lurches forward threateningly, like he might hurt you.
(You donât flinch. And he stops himself before he gets too close.)
âWhat?â he snaps, âDid you want me to beg for you to stay?â
He wants to, he realizes, he wants to howl and scream and tear apart everything in sight. He wants to say donât go, donât go, donât slip from me, too.
He wants to bargain with youâ what is it he canât give you that they can?
Your heroes only love you because they donât know you, they donât know what youâve done. Your heroes only love you as far as truth and justice go. A hero would sacrifice you for the greater good and you would agree with them, even if you were shaking and crying, even if you burned with all that liveliness.
But heâd sooner sacrifice the world for you.
You have his rib, he wants to scream, of course he wants to beg.
You shake your head, though, more tears falling free, âNo,â you say, voice surprisingly strong, âNo, I never made you beg.â
The truth of it burrows beneath his skin. He knows. The itch squirms beneath his skin. His hand reaches up, digs into the crook of his neck to scratch at it.
Itâs Dabiâs voice in his head that says something about getting too distracted with this braindead hero. He has bigger plans than hiding in an abandoned apartment with you. More to do. You were nothing but a side quest.
His pause screen.
Besides, whatâs there to be upset about? Youâll come back.
He wonât even punish you for leaving, he promises. He promises.
âThen thatâs it.â Tomura tells you, a bitter curl to his lips.
Thereâs no goodbye, just the breeze between the two of you, the empty space that he always hated. The nothingness between that he always sought to destroy.
Eventually, he just turns away from you. He canât stomach looking at you any longer. He can feel your eyes pressing into his retreating formâ he imagines you rushing for him, crashing into his back to throw your arms around his middle. You canât do it, youâll cry, burying your face between his shoulder blades. And heâll freeze, but eventually heâll wrap his arms around yours and bow his head with the strength of your feelings for him.
Or he imagines later, when itâs the end of the world, and you emerge from the rubble to reach for him. Itâll be like his dreams, when the sky is falling, and you only want to hold his hand in yours.
He imagines you shouting to him, changing your mind, saying his name like itâs a song to sing, not mourning bells, not a curse or an affliction.
But none of it happens.
And when he turns around, you are gone.
You leave his life as viciously as you entered it, suddenly there, all furious and beautiful, and now gone, like a lightning strike, like a lifetime.
***
You tell yourself youâre going to be fine, but you spend random days weeping over a villain. You spend long nights awake, missing him, replaying it all in your mind. You cover all your mirrors. You try to be different. You wish you could say you regret ever getting involved with him, but it would be one more lie. You wish for the time before the worst of it, the strange honeymoon you never shouldâve had.
You wish youâd remembered to slow down, to savor it all a little more. You try to remember what your first kiss was like and the shade of his eyes through the evening light of an abandoned warehouse.
You try to remember when you didnât feel so heavy, so corrosive and lost.
It doesnât help that youâre suspended from heroing; a choice made by both the Hero Commission and Shouta. Thereâs nothing for you to do some evenings.
Shouta lets you train with him and Shinsou still. Shinsou tries to cheer you up, though he doesnât know whatâs wrong with you. Still, it hurts because heâs trying. It hurts because he cares so much, even about you.
You donât deserve it, after everything.
You take care of Eri more, too, now that she is nearly in Shoutaâs care. You babysit her while heâs away. You grow close with her, fiercely protective of the young girl, careful to keep the Hero Commission at a distance from her. She settles in your lap on the couch in Shoutaâs apartment most evenings, watching TV and movies, while he grades papers at the opposite end.
Sometimes she falls asleep tucked into your side. You stroke her silver hair and try to bite back tears.
She catches you, sometimes, perceptive as she is, and asks very gently, âWhy are you sad?â even if a tear hasnât slipped free yet.
And you always shake your head, trying to dispel the thought of Tomura and the parents that gave him such a tragic name as a child. You force a smile for her and you tell her something silly to distract her, âIâm not,â you promise, âI just think thereâs an onion nearby.â
She wrinkles her nose at this, âNo, there isnât!â but sheâs easily distracted with tickles or the promise of painting her nails or having a tea party with Shouta.
Miraculously, your relationship with Shouta begins to heal, despite your betrayal. You think he can tell something worse happened to you during your time with Tomura, you think he can tell that youâre hurting, so he ends up gentler with you. He doesnât trust you, though, keeps you on a tight leash. He looks at you some days like he isnât quite sure he knows you.
Nothing is the same. Part of you wants to regret it. The part of you that loves Tomura canât stomach the idea of regretting it. Someone is dead because of you. Someone is alive because of you, too.
But Shouta doesnât ask and you donât tell, canât seem to speak the words.
You canât even say, I fell in love, canât speak the truth because it is so horrible.
And you know what everyone would ask; who could love the likes of him?
Me, you think, vehement and grief-stricken, me, you think defiantly. Why couldnât you? He was a child onceâ
Shouta lets you burrow into his chest, wraps his arms around you. He sways with you in the kitchen until you can keep back your tears, until your heart has slowed to the tempo of his. He kisses the top of your head.
And itâs Shouta who is with you, when you return from training, and open the door to your apartment to reveal a scruffy, mangy looking grey kitten that wasnât there when you left.
Ryuji chirps happily at you, rushing to the open door.
For a moment, youâre so shocked that all you can do is stand, startled, as he rubs himself against your legs.
âDonât tell me you found another strayââ Shouta starts, but all you get out is a small, choked noise.
And here is the impact from the fall, you think, looking at that little cat that is excitedly winding itself around your legs. You can feel the shattering of your heart, like heâd lobbed it against the wall. You wonder if it catches light the same way glass does, all stained with color and broken into shards.
You drop to the floor with the weight of it all, with the clean splitting of your heart.
The moment Ryuji climbs into your lap, a sob finally ruptures out of you.
Shouta is fast, coming down beside you, you think heâs asking whatâs wrong, why youâre crying, but youâve already gathered the kitten into your arms, cradling him to your chest as the tears come quick and furious down your cheeks.
You think maybe you should be more concerned as to how he got Ryuji here, in U.A. dorms, you should be worried about security and safety but all youâre thinking about is that little apartment that you hid from the world with him in.
No, all youâre thinking about is the way light fell through the lone window to turn him hazy and soft in your memory. Youâre thinking about how he never denied you affection, so long as you gave it tenfold in turn. The drawl of his voice. The pressing of his fingers into your skin like you were a miracle.
To him, you were.
Another sob spills out of you, from somewhere deep inside you.
What a lonely life, to only be able to touch one person in certainty. You wonder who will be the next person that will lay their hands gently on a body that has known too much pain. You wonder if you will be the last person to do it.
The thought hurts, opens up a part of you that is tender and shaking and desperately furious.
When Shouta canât figure out whatâs wrong with you or why youâre crying, he gives up, and sits on the floor with you. He gathers you into his lap so your back is pressed to his chest, pushing your head beneath his chin, Ryuji still cradled in your arms.
You cry harder when Shouta tries to comfort you, when he hushes softly, so sweetly, only because you donât think thereâs anyone to comfort Tomura like this.
You think of Tomura alone, even without Ryuji and it justâ
Crushes you.
You squeeze the kitten tighter to your chest as you cry and cry and cry. You let Shouta hold you against him, but thereâs no comfort in the aching hollowness that is growing in the pit of your chest.
You want to scream at the world that tossed the coin.
But all that comes out is a garbled, misery struck, cry.
You never told him you loved him, never gave word to what consumed you. And you realize, sitting on the floor with a kitten in your arms, that you wonât ever be able to tell him now.
It will live and die inside of you, never spoken into existence.
And even though itâs too late and Tomura Shigaraki is readying for a battle with a giant without you at his side, you still whisper the words you never got to speak into the top of Ryujiâs head.
Your lips barely move with it, the quietest, most desperate, âI love youâ I loved you.â that escapes you with a trembling breath.
Shouta doesnât even hear the confession.
Ryuji nudges your cheek with his, though, purring softly, keeping your secret safe.
And in the least, you are able to twist into Shoutaâs arms and bury your face in his chest to cry as hard as you need. Thereâs no distance between the two of you now, like you always wanted.
Always here when you need him, even now, when itâs not him you want.
The irony isnât lost on you.
You mumble incoherent apologies into his shoulder, try to hide in him, like he might be able to shield you from all the hurt and ache of your first love. He doesnât ask, but he tells you very gently, his voice like the hearth of your home, âIf you ever want to talk, Iâll always be there for you.â
You keep Ryuji, clean him up, fit him with a new collar, a new life. Shouta helps you care for him.
Eri adores the kitten, hugging him to her smiling face every time she sees him. Thankfully Ryuji is even-tempered, eager for affection. Almost desperate for it.
Ryuji is like proof of another world, proof that it all happened.
Sometimes you rub between his ears and ask, âDo you miss it, too?â but all he does is peer at you inquisitively, eyes large and fixed on you.
You sleep with him, though, let the kitten curl up in your lonesome arms, hold tight to him the way you used to hold tight to Tomura.
***
In the middle of the night, your phone wakes you with its insistent chime and buzzing. You blink awake sleepily, slowly and blindly paw for your phone.
You turn the screen towards you and squint at the bright light, making out the word that flashes on it;
Unknown Caller.
You grimace, rubbing at your eyes. You debate putting your phone down, letting it ring and go to voicemail. Why should you answer for an unknown caller in the middle of the night?
And yet, something in you squirms, urges you to pick up. You have no idea who it might beâ maybe someone needs your help. Is it possible itâs Shouta? Shinsou? What if itâsâ
You answer finally, groggy voice slurring out, âHello?â
Youâre met with static.
âHello?â you say again, voice hushed with sleep.
Still nothing.
Tomura sits on the other side, with the phone pressed desperately to his ear. He holds everything inside of him, barely allows himself to breathe on the other end.
He doesnât know why heâs done this, only that he is on his way to proving himself with the League and he wishes you were still at his side.
He swallows, hears you call again, âHello? Anyone there?â
He tightens his four-finger grip on the phone, squeezing his eyes shut at the sound of your voice, sleepy and soft in his ear, wrapping around the jagged parts of his heart.
He exhales and you must hear it because you say, âIs someone there?â
He bites back an answer, feels his lip tremble slightly.
He hears you huff, indignant little thing that you are and his lips pull into a shaky, painful smile. âIâm going to hang up now,â you say, all prickly, the way youâd get if he woke you too soon.
He used to soothe you with lips and teeth and tongue, run diligent fingers over you until you were sighing and arching into his touch. Until all your hard, vicious edges softened with the flattening of his palm on your body.
And for some reason you try, one last time into coaxing him to answer, âCâmon,â you say, almost like you know, âNothing?â
Nothing, he wants to echo, but doesnât.
His heart pounds an uneasy rhythm, a haunted tempo. He feels himself shaking again.
âOkay,â you exhale, slow, like youâre giving him a chance to stop you, âGoodbye.â
A beat passes, before he feels his heart lurch painfully in the hollow place of his chest at the thought of not hearing your voice again like this, so near. He doesnât want you to go, wants to listen to you until it coaxes him to sleep.
âWaitâ donât hang upââ Tomura hisses into the phone at the last moment, unable to decide if he wants you to hear him or not.
He gets his answer in the buzzing silence, long and drawn out, that fills his head. His heart.
And he sits there with his phone still in hand and his heart still on the line.
***
Tomura shouldnât be here. He shouldnât be watching you from afar, in the park that he thought youâd looked like a painting in. Youâre beautiful.
But what does someone like him know about beauty, anyways?
The fireburst leaves are nearly gone, barely clinging to lone and stark branches. They claw up into the sky now, but the sun is shining. Itâs mid-morning. Youâre in the park with your mentor, with the violet haired boy heâd seen you with before, and the little girl with silver hair. The one that was in Overhaulâs care, with the devastating Quirk.
She tugs excitedly at your sleeve now and you give her your undivided attention, your face lighting up with whatever it is she tells you.
You scoop her into your arms and her echoing giggle is like wind chimes, melodic and childish and care-free.
You look happy, he thinks, with your mentorâs hand on the small of your back, looking down at you and the girl fondly. The violet-haired boy says something that makes the girl laugh, it makes you smile as you watch her.
You look back at your mentor with a look that Tomura has come to know; one that begs of attention and approval and affection. He can see the desperate glint to your eyes, hungry for his love.
He swallows around the sharp bitterness he feels. Jealousy floods him in a way he has never fully known. But itâs more than just jealousy for you and your attention, for the way youâre looking at your mentor.
No, itâs something greater, far worse.
Heâs jealous of your mentor, with the easy way he gets to touch and look at you out in public. But heâs also jealous of you and your life.
He doesnât realize it at first, but heâs begun to shake.
Because you were savedâ isnât that it? You were saved. And he wasnât.
Maybe heâs jealous of the boy with you, too, with the possibility of his life so much brighter already. He has more of a chance than Tomura ever had.
Or maybe itâs the girl in your arms, with eyes like his, who he is most jealous of now. He has never allowed himself to ask;
Why couldnât it be me?
But now he does and he can feel the pit in his chest grow with a livid sort of despair. Grief for a life never lived. Didnât he deserve to be saved, too? Like the girl in your arms? Like you? Didnât he deserve a life like this, too? Whatâs the difference? He wants to demand it, whatâs the difference?
You were just a kid, you know?
His fingers dig into his neck. There is no one to stop him from breaking skin, for drawing blood on his own body. His chest festers, angry, like a blister. His stomach turns, his body trembling harder, like heâs a child, like heâs going to shake apart.
He looks at your smiling face, the curve of your lips, and wants you so bad it hurts. He wonders if you ever dreamt of him as a hero, the way he dreams of you as a villain. He wonders why it feels so unfair suddenly, the turning of your lives, the coming together and falling apart.
He shudders, feels the sudden lump in his throat. He tried not to mourn you, when you left him. He told himself that there was nothing to mourn; either you would be back or you werenât worth it. He feels the pressure of tears now, though, much to his frustration. He feels his lungs burn for breath as he watches you hand the little girl off to your mentor, who props her onto his hip easily.
He watches you throw your head back and laugh, the sound of it distant, but he catches it, the outskirts of it. He used to feel that laugh against his throat, against his lips.
But now he watches you live a life he apparently never deserved.
His bottom lip trembles, a furious scowl marring his face.
He could scream or shout at a world that wouldnât listen. The fact of it all, the helplessness of it all, burns beneath his skin like wildfire, like acid.
Tomura takes one last look at you; the expressive glimmer of your eyes, the flash of your teeth. He lingers on you, commits you to memory as if he could ever forget you. Maybe someday he will. Maybe he wonât have to, if you come back to him.
But he wonât wait on it, in an apartment that still has traces of you in itâs corners and crevices. No, he has more to do, bigger than him. Bigger than you.
Even if the horrible tempo of his heart begs differently, even if the shaking in his shoulders is an indication otherwise.
One last look of youâ youâre talking, saying something with your hands. The little girl laughs again, her red eyes crinkling up happily.
Tomura turns away.
He walks a familiar path to the apartment, the wind tries to slice through his jacket, kicks up leaves and litter in shadowed alleyways.
He enters and there is no one trailing behind him, your hands twisted into the back of his hoodie, or his sleeves. Itâs quiet. Empty. He surveys it once, the bed with unmade sheets. The window that let in beams of colored light, that Ryuji would sit at.
And then he sets his hands on the wall, all ten of his fingers down, the way he used to touch you.
The wall begins to decay, cracks and crumbles beneath his hands. It spreads, and spreads, and spreads like a disease filling out the body of the apartment. Dust begins to fall like early snow.
His heart squeezes painfully, his eyes suddenly flooding with pressure, with tears he tries to keep back. His head throbs, feels like itâs going to cleave apart. His ribs acheâ hurt so bad itâs like he can feel the one you took from him, the gaping part of his chest.
His Quirk flares hard and hot and fast. It burns through him, floods his veins in a way that makes him cry out, suddenly shaking, suddenly pained.
He destroys the apartment, disintegrates the tiny world he created with you that existed outside of the real one. He unpauses the game. He takes apart what the world shouldâve been, when he was here, with you. He sees now that a world like this cannot exist.
The peace, the ideal, the way you had understood him. Your unending compassion. Itâs rare. Not enough to save the rest of them.
So he tears it all apart, pushes at his Quirk in a way he hasnât been able to before, nudges at its strength to test it. It flares outward, eating away at the entire space, at the furniture, at the floor. Everywhere.
He seethes, blooming, finally allowing that livid and vicious thing inside of him to burst forward. Itâs explosive, wrenching out of him in the form of terrible destruction.
Heâll grow into what he was supposed toâ
I wanted to be a heroâ when I was a kid.
The only option he ever really had, the hand extended to him a villainâs, gentle when heâd taken it.
He destroys the boy inside him, the one that was naive and hopeful and weak. He letâs that boy inside of him fall apart, split open and leaks gore before turning to dust, too. He kills the part of him that he had only ever shared with you, in the blue-dark of night, when you were lulled to sleep with just the sound of his heart.
He swallows down his anguish and his jealousy and his bitterness, keeps it safe inside him, like All For One always said to do. Heâll nourish it, let it grow, fester inside of him until the only thing it can do is explode out of him to tear the world apart, too.
When heâs standing in the rubble of the tiny world youâd made with him, the apartment complex demolished, the people inside gone, he knows what he has to do.
And he has so much work to do in order to achieve it.
He tries to forget you, to destroy your memory, too. He will not carry the weight of you around inside him.
(But in his dreams, you sit cross-legged in front of him, serene and beautiful, like a painting he knows nothing about.
In his dreams, you ask for his hands to have, and he gives you them to hold.)
COIN TOSSâ PART II
(18+ MINORS DNI)
PART I
PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x Reader, a little Shouta Aizawa x Reader
SUMMARY:Â As you fall asleep, you wonder faintly, almost sadly, if youâre the first thing heâs fully touched without losing in a long time.
You are Eraserheadâs troubled protege with a Quirk that cancels out others the moment they touch you. Tomura Shigaraki takes great interest in you.
(Enemies to lovers, a lot of angst, some hurt/comfort)
WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, age gap/power struggle, violence, gore, Tomuraâs trauma specifically, (in later chapters) murder, heroesâ abuse of power, smut, some blurred lines, rough sex, a smidge of a spit kink, a smidge of somnophilia (let me know if Iâve missed anything!)
If you are under the age of 18, you should not be reading or interacting with this!
A/N: again, thank you @randomrosewrites for beta-ing!! and thank you guys for the support and comments on the first part! here is your part two!! it's tomura heavy, but for those who love shouta, there's a lot of him in the final part! i hope you enjoy! let me know what you thought!
i also am obsessed with making playlists for when i write and i spend far too much time organizing it all and making sure the songs blend together so if you'd like to take a look at the playlist i made for this fic, it's here!
Read on Ao3
***
Shouta, like the responsible adult he is, soothes things out with you. Well, it doesnât feel very soothed to you, but Shoutaâs made his position clear and youâve both returned to some semblance of normalcy.
He keeps his distance.
You try not to overstep, but youâre aching and furious.
(Youâre holding a secret, too, letting it tear apart your insides, letting it turn circles in your mind until all you can think about is the chill of rain, the bite of a desperate kiss).
You hate that Shouta has retreated from you now. You hate that heâll stop his hand before reaching out to touch you, like he always has to make sure, like he has to decide if that will be good for you. If you can handle it.
You feel shockingly alone.
You lash out at him more, bicker and argue over things you never used to. You donât even know why you do it, canât stop yourself from trying to dig into him. You regret it every time when all he gives you is impassiveness, levelheaded coolness. An adult speaking with an unruly child. Heâs good at that, unfortunately.
Some days you want to beg him for answers. Why canât you love me the way I love you? Is it me? How would you have me? If I was older? I can be more mature, I can be better and better and betterâ
His undercover work grows greater, draws him away from both you and Shinsou more. Shouta seems to ghost around your life now, drawn away from you, keeping a very careful space between you both.
But there are nights where he tells you to train with Shinsou alone now. You feel responsible. Mature. You glow with pride that he can trust you with one of his students, that you could be a mentor to Shinsou, too.
You grow closer to Shinsou because of this, too, when itâs just the two of you in the gym.
There is one evening in particular, when youâre both sprawled out on the floor taking a too-long water break because Shouta isnât around when he admits that he used to beâ still is sometimesâ feared for his Quirk.
He tells you everyone expected him to be a villain.
âI used to be a thief,â you admit, âI was a petty villain, I guess.â
Shinsou looks at you and if heâs surprised, he doesnât entirely show it, except for the lifting of his brows. You donât sense judgement from him, though, when he asks, âReally?â
You take another swig of water, humming in affirmation. You swallow, âI was homeless, had no money, nothing. I was stealing from a supermarket when Shouta caught me.â
âYou were just trying to survive,â Shinsou adds, like heâs trying to justify the crime, like it soothes him to know there was a good reason for a misdeed.
âSure,â you reply, fiddling with your water bottle, âBut I stole things I didnât need, too. Just things I wanted.â
âBut youâve changed,â Shinsou says and you canât tell if heâs trying to reassure himself or you more. âYouâre a hero now.â
âOnly because my circumstances changed. I was given a roof over my head, food to fill me. Clothes of my own that fit and werenât torn. I was accepted.â You explain, âIf it hadnât been for Shouta, I would never have become a hero.â
Shinsou is silent, watching you.
âIâd probably be in jail. Or still a thief, in the least, if any other hero wouldâve caught me.â
You donât know why, but you think of Shigaraki suddenly. You think of how young some of the League of Villains are. You wonder if it had been them who offered you food and a home, if youâd be with them now, and not here, sitting on the floor of a nice, sparkling gym attached to U.A.âs dorms.
Something strange grows inside you, something a little bitter. It simmers with sympathy for them, for their lives. For kids like Shinsou with their villainous quirks. You wonder if heâd been poor, if heâd been alone, would he be here, too? Or somewhere else?
âBut you were good before,â he says, and it almost feels naive, âI know youâre good.â
You shrug, âGood is relative, you know? I thought I was good because I didnât kill people, I didnât steal from other poor people, but society didnât think I was good. I was still a thief.â
âBut you were only a thief because you needed to survive.â he says again, âWhen given the chance, you changed and became a hero.â
âExactly.â you say, âHow many villains do you think just needed a chance?â
Shinsou goes silent now. His brows furrow in thought, pinching together in a way that makes him look a little too old for his age. You think all of the kids at U.A. grow up too quickly, all of them with too much on their small shoulders.
Theyâre only kids.
Youâre barely older.
Shigaraki is barely older than you.
You push him out of your mind, toss your water bottle aside, and rise to your feet again. âCâmon,â you offer Shinsou your hand to help him up, too, âShouta would kill me to know I let you lay around so much.â
This seems to pull him from his thoughts and he snorts, taking your hand.
You pull him up. And you both stare at each other a moment. You think he looks at you in a different light now and it isnât bad, no, he seems to be pondering you more.
(And youâll realize later that heâs become more sympathetic, that he sees you in villains now, reminds himself theyâre people, too, with lives and needs and wantsâ)
It gives you a strange hope, as you begin to train with him again, to know that heâs the future of hero society.
***
Tomura spots you while heâs out stealing with Toga. Usually itâs Twice or Magne with her, but Twice was onto something else and Toga had decided to latch herself onto him for the day. Heâs grown to tolerate her.
Besides, sheâd managed to steal him a jean jacket, dark, rough, and worn with holes but it keeps him warmer while still being able to keep the hood of his sweatshirt up to hide himself. To blend in. Sheâd stolen herself something, too, as the weather begins to get colder and they still donât have a base, wandering aimlessly.
(He feels stupidly responsible for them. But heâs learned good leaders are, in some way, responsible for their people. They donât have to care in any way that is emotional, but they have to care in some way, make the group feel important to them. And begrudgingly, they are important to himâ)
Youâre with a boy around Togaâs age. Wild violet hair. Youâre laughing at something heâs saying and youâre sharing street food, he thinks, something thatâs warm, steaming up into the air.
He feels a vicious surge of jealousy for a moment. Itâs so sharp and jarring that he reaches up to scratch at his neck, tearing into his skin.
But the boy looks too young and you tousle his hair like heâs a younger brother, not someone romantic. While thereâs familiarity between you two, itâs not overly intimate.
Toga, unfortunately, follows his line of sight.
She looks between him and you. She tilts her head and Tomura can practically see the gears turning in her strange little mind.
âDo you know them?â she asks, almost innocently.
He doesnât know why, but he says, âJust her.â
Toga looks back at you. She watches as you talk with the boyâ the sun through the autumn leaves cast you in tangerine light, all golden and warm.
When she looks back at Tomura, a smile creeps onto her face. One that he knows is going to give him a migraine.
âSheâs so pretty,â she trills, eyeing him too closely.
Tomura scratches at his neck again, harder, wincing a little when he feels a cut reopen.
âDo you have a crush, Tomura?â Toga sings, dancing in front of him to force herself into his line of sight.
âNo,â Tomura snaps, bristling, which only seems to encourage her.
âLetâs say hi!â she says, about to bound off and Tomura catches her by the scruff of her jacket like a kitten. Heâs wearing his partial gloves, but he still keeps a finger away from her.
âNo,â he hisses, firmer now, pulling her back towards him. âTheyâre heroes. Donât get distracted.â
Toga twists in his hold, wide-eyed for a moment, before her face settles into another enormous and excited smile. âYouâre in love with a hero, too?!â
Tomura grits his teeth, snarling out, âIâm not in love with anyone.â He shakes her then and she yelps a little, âNow focus. We need food and I donât want to deal with them.â
Toga finally squirms her way out of his hold, pouting at him, âYouâre no fun.â she whines and all he does is shoulder past her. He stalks ahead, trying not to look at you again, if only to not draw your eye.
âDo you want to starve?â he asks waspishly, glancing at Toga over his shoulder.
She huffs, rolling her eyes, before hustling to catch up to him. She hums a strange little tune the rest of the time, knocking into his side, throwing him new looks as if to suggest they share some sort of commonality or secret. He grits his teeth but suffers through her torment.
When they return to the rest of the League with what theyâd stolen, Toga announces to the whole group, âTomura is in love with a hero, too!â
The migraine that had begun earlier in his temples reaches full force now. He doesnât bother trying to deny it. He decides he doesnât care.
Dabiâs laugh grates on him, though, âIs that so? Which little hero?â he asks Toga, and just as sheâs skipping past him, he snags her, snatching the granola bar sheâd had in her hand from their little raid.
She turns to grab it back and he pulls it out of her reach, âI donât know! Give that back!â she squawks, clawing at him.
She must really dig at him because Dabi hisses, âYou little twerpââ Just before Magne snatches the outstretched granola bar from Dabiâs hand. She hands it back to Toga, who quickly rushes off with it now.
And thankfully, for Tomuraâs sanity, youâre not brought up again.
But he hadnât noticed youâ hadnât noticed the way youâd seen him with Toga, too. Just a girl Shinsouâs age, following after him like an eager puppy.
Shinsou had trailed beside you like that, too, when youâd both walked back to U.A. with full bellies and new coffees in hand, warm and content.
***
There is a night where Shouta is out doing work undercover and youâre left to patrol on your own. You canât take Shinsou yet, since he hasnât earned his provisional license. You donât mind these nights, by yourself, when you stick to shadows and rooftops, watching the city from above.
Itâs cooler now and you tuck your face into the high collar of your hero uniform to hide from the wind that brushes past.
Itâs been a quiet night so far. There are other, flashier heroes patrolling, too, meandering around the sidewalks to deter petty crime.
You check the time on your phone, noting that you have a little less than an hour until your shift is over, until you can go home and take a hot shower in an attempt to warm yourself upâ especially your fingers, the tips of your ears.
You stretch, standing on one of the low roofs of a building. Youâre stiff from crouching, so you decide to move around, change position. You use a grappling tool to shoot it onto a higher roof of the next building. You scale the bricks easily and once safely up, retract your grappling hook.
You look out over the quiet city, the golden light of lampposts, the meandering of cars through the streets. Some restaurants and bars are still open, their windows look warm and inviting with the flush of people inside.
You waste most of the last hour of your shift trying to remain warm, keeping a careful eye on the world below.
Towards the end, you notice a familiar figure in one of the alleyways down below. You donât even see his face, just the back of his hoodie, just the angle of his shoulders.
Just the way he walks.
The thought should frighten youâ that you know him like this, that youâre familiar with just the movement of his body.
Shigaraki Tomura walks away from the soft light of the main city, slips away into alleyways and darkness. You glance at the time. Your shift is nearly over.
This counts as hero work, doesnât it? Silently following after him?
You drop down onto a fire escapeâ leap off to latch onto a lower window sill, until youâre dropping silently on to the ground a distance away from him.
You are careful to keep away from him, to use everything Shouta taught you about stealth to remain hidden. And you know Shigaraki is observant, you know heâs always looking over his shoulder so you have to stick to hidden placesâ behind dumpsters, ducking into alcoves of buildings.
He heads back to the part of the city you grew up in, where everything is falling apart, where there are plenty of abandoned buildings for hiding, plenty of places for runaway teens and homeless to sleep. The cheapest apartments, the streets that are the least patrolled by heroes and police alike, where parts of the Yakuza groups are bolder.
These streets are familiar to you. Itâs a strange trip down memory lane.
You think of the last time you saw Shigaraki and flush darklyâ it was around here, too, what happened that night.
Still, you follow him because you think you still have some upper hand. Maybe heâll lead you to the rest of the League of Villains. For a heartbeat, you wonder if youâll tell Shouta, if youâll tell the Hero Commissionsâ youâd have to, right? That isnât some little squirmish. Thatâs important information.
But he doesnât lead you to the rest of the League.
He leads you to an apartment building, small and falling apart on the outside. A window is boarded up poorly. There are stray cats that linger around the side, where the trash is. Youâre sure there are rats and bugs, too. Youâre sure the building is one bad day away from falling apart.
Shigaraki pauses by the door that is nearly falling off its hinges.
He glances over his shoulder, âAre you following me in, too?â
Your heart kicks up, hammering against the inside of your chest. You swallow hard, internally cursing.
For all your effort of stealth, he still noticed you?
Well, thereâs no use lying about it now.
You step around the corner youâd been hiding behind, moving towards the glow of a street light that flickers in and out of power to reveal yourself fully to him.
âWhen did you notice me?â you ask, peering at him, at the shape of him in the dark.
You catch the lifting of his scar when he smiles, just a baring of teeth, âI saw you on the roof.â
Damn, you curse again, youâll have to work on that, âThat bad, huh?â
He shrugs gracelessly, lifting of his shoulders only for them to fall unevenly, âIf I hadnât, I wouldnât have known. You were silent otherwise.â
It feels like a complimentâ a generous one, coming from him. You donât know why you have to hold off a smile.
He turns back to the door, shouldering it open. He walks through the archway without another word. He leaves it open and it seems there is no light on the inside, just a blackness that swallows up your vision. He disappears inside.
You stand there, beneath the light that flickers in and out, eyeing the doorway. You could go now, run back home to Shouta, to the Hero Commission and tell them you think you know where he stays, you have a lead on him. You look behind you, glance at the alleyway you came from with itâsâ dull, fluorescent lights that splash against the concrete, that barely fight against the shadows.
You look back towards where Shigaraki had been, the entrance to the building.
Youâd probably even get extra little hero points for it from the Commission.
Shouta would be proud of you.
For bringing them to this dilapidated, shabby little apartment complex that rests on the streets of the place you used to call home.
You swallow hard, flex your freezing fingers.
Then you step towards the doorway, peer inside carefully. You hold your breath and the door creaks quietly when you cross itâs threshold, into the darkness.
Tomura is mildly surprised when he hears the door creak behind him. He can feel you, even in the dark of this hallway, the tentative steps you take after him. Theyâre almost shy.
But you followed him, didnât you?
You followed and followed and followed himâ and of course you did, he thinks, you had kissed him back, hadnât you?
He supposes you could be playing a part, trying to get close to him but his intuition tells him differently, not with the genuine reaction youâd had. Your sudden guilt for giving in to him. Still, heâll be careful around you.
Heâll probably have to move again, which would be a shame, since he has already killed the tenant of this apartmentâ heâd been sure they wouldnât be missed by anyone, made sure heâd have time. He did the work to get it, thought heâd have it for just long enough until the League made another move.
He almost wants to test you, see if youâre going to run and tattle on his location. He wonders how far youâre willing to follow him.
Tomura walks steadily down the hallway, to the apartment he has taken claim to. He unlocks the door, hands in his partial gloves, shoving it with his shoulder to then enter. He leaves it open for you.
The apartment is a studio, shabby and the heat isnât amazing, but it has hot water and a lack of bugs in this particular room. It has furnitureâ a bed, specifically, was all he had cared about. Thereâs empty wrappers of food and cans of energy drinks on the counters because he doesnât really bother to pick up after himself but otherwise, the space isnât his. Thereâs nothing else of his, besides some spare clothes on the floor.
And still, you follow him here, too. But you stand at the doorway, peeking inside.
He glances at you and is reminded of a fox, something with clever eyes but wary, a little skittishâ would bite if he got too close too soon.
So he gives you space, just like he let you leave.
If thereâs one thing Tomura has learned, itâs patience. Any good plan takes patience. The reward is always sweeter. The longer and harder the level, the greater the wins.
He ignores you, puts even more distance between the two of you as he wanders further in. He flicks on lights. He takes off his shoes, shrugs off his jean jacket and throws it over the couch. He gives the appearance of carelessness, of letting his guard down. Non threatening.
And you take your fist shy step inside. The door behind you remains ajar, though, for escape.
Tomura has to fight a terrifying smile, fight the sudden twisting in his heart, the inhale of his breath.
âI donât know how wise it was of you to bring a hero to your home.â you finally speak, cutting through the silence. Youâre trying to be witty, but he can tell youâre nervous.
âThis isnât my home,â he answers.
Home, with itâs round and warm syllabus, is not what he thinks of this place.
You eye him some more, but before you can respond, he says, âI donât know how wise it was of you to follow a villain into his home.â
âI thought it wasnât your home,â you quip and he only gives you a dry look.
Your bravado is wavering, especially when the door clicks shut behind you, your hand finally falling to your side.
And the two of you are sealed away from the outside world.
âWhy did you bring me here?â you ask him and your voice is deceptively quiet. Small.
âWhy did you follow me?â he asks in return.
You inhale like youâre trying to steady yourself, âBecause Iâm supposed to.â
Tomura smiles now, something lazy, almost amused. He knows itâs a lie, can feel it slide along his skin, can see the floundering, desperate look in your eyes.
âWhy did you follow me?â he asks again, forcing himself not to move, not to step towards you in his budding excitement. Patience, he tells himself, be patient.
âWhy did you kiss me?â you ask instead and the question is raw, as if itâs plagued you, haunted you like an insistent ghost. Crept around in the back of your mind, growing teeth and fangs and spindly, lampshade bat wings large enough to terrify you.
The idea that heâs taken root in your mind in the same way you have infested his is near dizzying.
Tomura weighs his answers carefully. Heâs silent for a long moment and itâs heavy, charged with something that he canât nameâ has never felt before.
When he speaks, his voice is just a rasp of breath, a little more honest than heâd like, a touch annoyed with the truth, âBecause I wanted to.â
Another long stretch of silence where you watch him carefully, where he can see your chest rising and falling too quickly. He can see that frightened look in the rounding of your eyes, the high flush in your cheeks.
And when you speak again, itâs hardly louder than a whisper, like itâs all you can manage,âDo you want to kiss me again?â
It is far too gentle of a question for what he wantsâ it almost feels innocent, juvenile. Out of place between the two of you. But heâll take it, heâll take whatever you give him and then some.
He takes a step towards you. You donât flinch away so he takes another, then another, until he is standing in front of you. Youâre close nowâ so close that he has to force air into his lungs. He reminds himself of patience, of waitingâ
He could take whatever he wanted from you now, he supposes, but he doesnât want to have to wrestle you for it. He wants it given freely, he wants you to kiss back, like you had before. He wants you to willingly submit and itâs taken longer but itâll be sweeter, so much sweeter.
âAre you going to run away again?â he asks and he can feel his heart quicken, the squeezing of it awful and tight.
You look up at him in a way that reminds him of his dreams, the ones he pretends to hate, where you make those small, soft noises. Where you let him touch you and taste you and have you.
And you shake your head no, just fractionally, the barest hint of movement but itâs enough for him.
The force of his kiss slams you back against the door. You make a surprised noise against him as he crushes himself to you. Itâs just as violent as the first, but this time you take back what he gives. You get your bearings quicker, like youâve learned a lesson already. He grins into the kiss, opening it, when he feels your little hands clawing at his shoulders, at his back.
He groans when you part your lips for him, when you lick tentatively into his mouth. He possesses you, bears onto you, pinning you to the door as his hands, still gloved, curl around your sides, your hips.
Your hero costume is tight, fits the curves of you snugly and in a way thatâs making him nearly insane. He isnât careful, doesnât care if heâs moving too fast now as his hands roam and grab and squeeze. Thereâs layers between you, he naturally keeps a finger lifted away.
One of your hands tightens in his hair, pulling when he bites your bottom lip.
But you donât seem to mind, either, with the way your breath is hitching, with the way youâre trying to pull him closer, desperately fuse him to you.
Your lips are so soft, he notices, even with the forcefulness with which youâre kissing him back.
It feels surreal for a moment, like one of his dreams, when he parts from your mouth only to slot his lips against your jaw, your neck. A whine is loosened from you, which breaks when he sets teeth to the vulnerable line of your throat.
Your hands are in his hair still, body arching into him eagerly. Youthful in your earnestness.
Youâre better than anything he couldâve ever imagined, so alive and rosy and warm beneath his hands, beneath his mouth, which is making a mess of your neck. A particular hard suck over the sensitive line of your pulse makes you pull at his hair.
âDonât leave a mark,â you hush and he thinks you meant to sound more threatening, but itâs softened by the desperation in your voice.
He scoffs into your throat, dragging teeth roughly along your skin.
âShigarakiââ
âTomura.â he corrects without thinking, finally pulling away to look at you, which is almost a mistake because youâ
Youâre flushed, lips kiss stung and pink, all swollen. Your head is tipped back, exposing the column of your throat, hair mussed with being pressed to the door so roughly. Your eyes are hazy and fever pink with your Quirk activated, like spring flowers, glowing in the low light.
He thinks of paintings and colors and dreams, something like beauty, if he knew anything about that.
And heâs so hard it hurts, teeth grinding together as he looks at you because he canât even fucking stomach this feeling.
Then you repeat his name for him, âTomura.â
Heâs never heard his name like that, bedroom soft, more of a lullaby and less of a tragedy. He feels like heâs going to shake apart, his body to become just old ruinsâ he feels as if itâll collapse inwards, topple over to crush his heart.
Where heâs usually seething and livid and clawing ruthlessly, the festering feeling in his chest is replaced with a new energy; something bursting and squirming and warm. His Quirk lies dormant and docile inside of him with your hand in his hair, your other now at his neck, fingers pressing lightly at his jaw.
Itâs terrifying, he realizes, to not feel his Quirk at the edges of his fingers.
(Itâs freeing, too, heâll come to find, to not feel itâs weight, itâs demand that had been encouraged and shaped in him.)
Youâre both trying to catch your breaths, looking at each other now. His fingers, still gloved, flex and squeeze at your waist, like heâs scared youâll run off again.
You inch forward instead, rock onto the tips of your toes to press your lips to his againâ softer this time, but no less heated, no less desperate.
He thinks you must be starving, too, with the way you pull him close. His mouth slants over yours, demanding more, a little rougher.
You squirm against the door, the slightest rocking of your hipsâ he can feel it against his thigh, against his waist. It makes him hiss out a breath against your lips, makes him grab harder at your waist, force you to do it again, harder this time.
You whine and itâs the snapping of his patience.
He reaches for the zipper at the back of your hero uniform, gives it a rough tug, pulling it down some. And then youâre pushing at him, nudging him away from the door and itâs a flurry of movement as you yank at his hoodie while he pulls at your clothes. Youâre both stumbling further into the room, towards the bed pushed back into the corner.
Tomura feels young suddenlyâ feels his age. He feels like a twenty something year old with a girl in his apartment who wants his hoodie off. Who's kissing him hard in between every article of clothing that manages to come off.
He sits back on the edge of the bed to ease the rest of your cat-suit down. He watches with interest as you wiggle your hips to help him get the fabric down over youâ and itâs nothing romantic, he doesnât kiss the newly revealed skin, he doesnât gently run his fingertips over you, but you grow shy under his gaze.
Youâre still in undergarments, athletic slips of fabric, but his eyes fly over your face. Youâre nervous, he can nearly feel it, with the way you shift, with the way you catch your bottom lip between your teeth and worry it.
A thought strikes him.
âHave you done this before?â he rasps, hooking his hand in the crux of your knee to drag your forward so you nearly fall into his lap.
âYes,â you grit out, arms coming up to his shoulders to steady yourself. âOnce.â you then shakily exhale.
He doesnât particularly careâ your answer wouldnât have changed how heâd treat you. Heâs not going to be gentler nor slower because youâre less experienced.
âHave you?â you ask, eyeing him, fingers nervously toying with the ends of his hair.
âYes,â he says, perhaps too sharply, but he gives no other information and you donât press him, which heâs thankful for. He doesnât have the patience for useless questions.
Rather, he pulls you down harder, so your bare thighs finally settle into his lap. He slides his gloved hands up the notches of your ribs to hitch beneath your bra. That comes off, too, and then heâs got his hands on you more. You gasp, arching into his touch when his fingers curl around a breast, fingers roughly brushing over the peak.
He doesnât think anymore, just acts, just moves and does as he pleases. All the things heâs done in dreams or in his mindâ he sets lips and teeth to your breast, tongue laving over your nipple. He forces your squirming still with an arm banded around your torso, keeping you flush to his eager mouth.
You yelp in pain when he uses his teeth too roughly, trying to jerk away from him but you canât with his hold on you. He grins, mouth opening, spit slick and wet against your breast again. He groans against you when you pull on his hair.
But then he twists you, throws you down onto the bed only to crawl over you. He yanks at your panties just as you pull him down for another kissâ maybe to distract yourself, to settle your nerves. When you pull away, youâre on your back and heâs over you, your legs hitching over his narrow waist. His hands are on your thighs and youâ
You suddenly grab for his hands.
âTake off your gloves,â you get out, breathless, and before he can respond, your fingers are sliding against his wrist, up to his hand, beneath the glove and against his palm.
It makes him shiver, makes him grit his teeth. You pull off one, then the other.
For a moment, he just looks at you all spread out and bare for him, his hands now open and uncovered, too.
You squirm under his scrutinizing gaze.
âCâmon,â you coax and he thinks youâre trying to find your bravado, âTouch me.â
Thereâs nothing between his hands and your skin now and he settles his palm on your stomach, beneath your breast.
He naturally keeps a finger lifted away.
âTomura,â your voice is pitched, almost pleading, âYouâre not going to hurt meâ câmon.â
He tenses for a moment, eyes flashing over your face. For a moment, his heart stumbles, he grows wary. He thinks of you slipping away beneath his touch, falling away into nothing and all heâd have is a bed of ashes.
But your eyes are bright with your Quirk.
His final finger comes down. Nothing happens, except you smile a little, except you arch up into his touchâ alive and vivid and furiously warm.
He feels like he canât breathe, canât even function.
He catches a groan behind his teeth, falls forward as his hands become feverish and possessive, suddenly confident, suddenly brashâ touching and squeezing and grabbing at you.
His teeth clank with yours as he tumbles into another kiss. Youâre needier now, making those higher pitched noises that used to haunt him.
It drives him insane, makes him feel half feral, overeager and desperate. His fingers wander lower, seeking and searching, just as the kiss grows in intensity again. Itâs messier, all open mouth and tongue.
When he pulls away, a string of spit connects the two of you and he lets more of the saliva pooling in his mouth drip down with it, letting it fall between your open lips, some on your bottom lip, too. Itâs depraved and dirty and his eyes simmer as he gazes down at you.
Your face scrunches up as you go to wipe at your mouth, and he hates it because all he can think of is how cute that face is.
âGross,â you mewl, but his fingers finally move between your legs andâ
And all he finds is that youâre hot and slick for him.
He has to grit his teeth to keep from moaning.
But you nearly cry at the touch, a pathetic little noise, hips jolting like youâre not sure if you want to go towards his touch or away.
âGross, huh?â Tomura asks, voice low, the pad of his finger sliding easily, teasing you slowly before he goads, âWhy are you so wet then?â
He sinks a finger in suddenlyâ just because he can. Just because he wants to watch your face screw up again, which it does, your mouth falling open, eyes squeezing shut.
âHm?â he hums, amused with the way youâre gasping beneath him. He starts a slow but deep rhythm andâ
And heâs had sex before, a handful of times, but itâd always been for him. He hadnât cared how the other person felt, hadnât cared to try and get them off. But now he suddenly wishes he had learned, if only for you, now. He wants you as obsessed as he is, wants you to feel as maddened as he feels.
Thankfully, youâre so expressive. And he doesnât have to worry about his fingers. He can find the spot inside you that makes you toss your head back into the sheets and moan for him, he can focus on the way you keen when he finds your clit with his thumb.
Youâre a sensitive little thing, clawing at his bare shoulders, whining into his neck. He forces in another finger and you start rocking your hips, growing more desperate untilâ
âFuck,â you gasp, âFuck, Iâm going toââ
He curls his fingers harder, watching your face as you fall apart, as you try and twist and squirm beneath him. He forces you through it, isnât gentle, but selfish, wringing everything he can from you.
And when heâs finished watching you whimper and feeling you flutter and gush around his fingers, he takes them out only to force them between your lips.
Once more your face screws up, but you close your mouth around them and he groans low and raw. You look hazy, drooling all over his fingers, lashes fluttering prettily.
He uses his other hand to fumble with his belt, to work his pants down low enough for his cock, aching so bad that he swears heâs going to go insaneâ
He pulls his fingers from your mouth, watching the mess that comes with it, so wet and slick and shiny. He canât help the growl he gives, before covering his mouth with yours again.
As you kiss, sloppy and desperate, Tomura slides the head of his cock against you and youâre so slippery and soft and molten for him that his next moan tapers off into a whine.
You pull away fractionally, âShouldnât weââ
He thinks maybe you were about to ask about protection of some kind, but he shoves inside you hard, breaches your body and watches as your eyes roll back, just about to cross as your nails turn sharp against his back.
You moan, low and drawn out.
He canât help the absurd laugh that is wretched from him, his head dropping onto your neck as he snaps his hips forward. He canât believe heâs actually gotten you here, in his bed, beneath himâ let him inside where youâre so warm and soft.
âFuck,â you gasp, maybe laced with pain, clawing at him, raking your nails down his back.
âDoes it hurt?â he hisses, excited, his teeth coming down to close over your exposed neck.
âYes,â you get out, almost a whimper, âFeels good, too.â
He snaps his hip forwards roughly, grinding deep as he laughs again when you just about sob into his shoulder.
You latch your teeth onto the vulnerable juncture between his neck and his shoulder, where youâd already laid claim to him once before.
He wrestles for your wrist, the one he broke, and forces it down onto the bed.
âLook at you,â he almost snarls, voice low and gravely, âLittle hero letting me fuck her.â
You gasp when he angles his hips, when his other hand reaches beneath you, to fist a hand in your hair and pull so your neck is arched and exposed to him.
âI used to dream of this,â he admits roughly, the confession like a curse being spit out of his mouth, âWanted to stalk you or possess you orââ he groans because he can feel how youâre throbbing around him, how slick you are for him, âWanted to fucking ruin youââ
He pulls at your hair more, tries to get you to look at him through your wet lashes. The flash of pink meets red and his smile is more a cruel bearing of teeth.
âAnd you feel so much better than I dreamtâ fuck, so much tighterââ he babbles as he ruts into you hard and quick. You keen, high and broken, just as he feels you flutter around him again and he almost loses his mind becauseâ
âAre you going to fucking come again?â he growls, pulling harder on your hair.
âYes,â you groan, âPlease, fuck, please, câmonââ your voice is high and wrecked and all he has to do is angle his hips a few more times before youâre shattering, nearly breaking apart, squeezing down on his cock so tightly that he shudders, that he letâs go of your hair just to focus on his own pleasure.
He doesnât even realize heâs drooling into your neck, not as he loses his rhythm, as he shoves himself as deep into you as he can and comes hard. Pleasure races up his spine, turns him white-hot and sensitive, making his eyes roll back into his head, too.
Youâre both breathing hard when he collapses on top of you. Your fingers, which were once scratching down his back to cause sharp shooting pain, are now surprisingly gentle, slipping back into his hair.
You squirm, fussing slightlyâ no doubt sore, no doubt aching with him still inside you but he doesnât move. Doesnât want to.
He mouths at your neck, feels you sigh, before he moves to cover his mouth with yours again. He kisses you languidly now, slow and deep.
Youâre making breathy little noises against him, content and surprisingly soft, your other hand tracing over his side.
(He doesnât like how much he enjoys this part, the afterglow, all that violence slipping away, expelled from you bothâ)
Tomura feels his cock twitch inside of you again, feels your hips arch up a little, and before he knows it, heâs moving his hips again. Itâs a slow rocking, your lips still attached to his, heated and gentle.
âGross,â you say again, just a breath against him as he fucks his cum further into you, feels himself harden, feels the mess he made of you. But you still hitch your leg over his hip, pull him deeper into you.
He grins lazily against your lips, âYou like it,â he says and itâs not a question, rolling his hips until he gets you to shut your eyes and moan against him.
âYeah,â you reply, nudging your cheek against his, rubbing like a cat until he returns the gesture. Until heâs humming because heâs sensitive and you feel so good, better than anything heâs ever felt in this miserable fucking lifeâ
You whine a little, âTouch me again?â
He doesnât deny you for whatever reason, doesnât even have something smart to say as he slides his hand down your torso, down to where youâre both slick and connected. He rubs unpracticed, messy circles around that sensitive bundle of nerves until youâre sighing.
Heâs no expert but he doesnât really care and you donât seem to mind this time, either. Itâs unhurried now, lazy.
This time your peak is a fluttery, soft thing, and he watches as you gasp, as you blink away tears. Sheâs pretty, he thinks, feeling stupidly young again, sheâs pretty like this. Like his dreams.
Tomura spills inside you again soon after, groaning against your collarbones, and this time you force him to slip out of you. Force him to lay beside you as you both catch your breath again.
And heâs not expecting it, but he has the vicious need to be close to you, desperately wants to feel your skin against his. Itâs a new feelingâ usually after sex, he wants to be as far away from someone as possible. Usually he canât leave or kick them out fast enough.
But thereâs something about you now, hazy and pleasure-drunk, fucked out and dazed, that makes him want to stay close. Maybe itâs just that youâve soothed all the festering that usually squirms in his chest. Maybe itâs just that youâve made everything in him quiet for once.
He expects you to find some sort of your regret now, heâs sure that youâll feel guilty, collect your clothes and go. But you donât. You stay in bed with him. And itâs strange but he knows he wants to touch you, so he does. He doesnât deny himself, why would he? Heâs always taken what he wanted.
He curls around you, shivering a little with the skin to skin contact after the fog of sex has cleared from his mind. His hands slide over you, touch you fully and without restraint because he can, because you wonât disappear beneath his touch.
And for a moment, as he traces along the dips of your waist, he thinks maybe you were made for himâ cut from his rib, isnât that how the story goes?
He doesnât know, only that thereâs no one else in the world he can touch like this.
Youâre surprised.
Youâd figured after Tomura had his fill of you, heâd kick you out, send you away. You figured youâd feel guilty, that you would rush out of here and try to wish the whole thing away. But your hero suit stays on the floor and youâre still in his bed.
You didnât think heâd be a cuddler, you assumed that he wouldnât want nor care for any sort of contact after. But his arms are wrapped around you now, one of his hands sliding curiously over the curves of your body. All five fingers down, pressing into your skin.
But you suppose, for someone who has to be so careful with touch, that he would like this. That he might want this. You wonder if he ever gets to touch anyone like this, if he ever allows himself intimate touch like thisâ tender and for no other reason than to soothe or comfort.
You get the impression that he doesnât, that touch is just a means to an end for him; sex is probably just an itch to scratch. You canât imagine that heâs very relaxed or enjoying himself when heâs worried about decaying the person heâs with.
But all his crackling, restless energy now seems subdued, sated, as he walks his fingers over you. His hair tickles your bare skin as he nudges closer, nose running along your jaw.
Once more, you feel your age. You donât feel like a hero, but just someone young, maybe on the cusp of being old. He looks young now, too, with his vivid eyes shut and relaxed, nothing to crease his brow. He doesnât seem like a villain, either.
You brush a finger over his cheek, touch lightly at the scratches beneath his eyes, drag your thumb down to touch the scar at the corner of his lips.
His eyes flutter open to watch you, half lidded, squinted almost like a cat.
But he allows you to run your fingers over his face, doesnât protest or jerk away from your touch.
No, his eyes fall shut again. He lets out a deep sigh that you think he has held inside him for years.
He doesnât have a gentle face, but one that shows itâs angles and sharp edges, the scars and cuts that trail down onto his neck. Youâd noticed some on his chest, too. Proof of an uneasy life lived, proof of violence and pain.
You imagine heâs seen horrors, kept them trapped inside for fear of letting them spill out, like maybe itâll be as gruesome as the memories.
His body hasnât been handled gently, you can tell, with itâs indents and scars and scratches. You donât know who was the last person who touched him without wanting to hurt him. And you shouldnât but you think of yourself when you were a childâ desperate for love and affection, desperate for any scrap of attention like the scavenger you always were.
Maybe still are.
So desperate that youâd end up in the bed of your enemyâ all because you couldnât end up in the bed of your ally. So hungry that youâd eat out of a hand that has harmed and killed and destroyed.
Hands that havenât known gentleness, a body that hasnât known peace. But heâs being gentle with you now, isnât he?
So you try to give gentleness to him now, too, with your careful touch. You keep your fingers kind and sympathetic.
Even your own eyes drift shut for a moment, still tracing idle patterns into his skin.
You only slip away from him for a moment, to use the bathroom, to clean up. Your reflection in the mirror looks strange; raw and flushed with color. Honest in a way that makes you turn away.
You slip back into bed with Tomura, let him latch onto you again. You drag your fingers gently over his ribs, over his sides.
You let your eyes fall shut, too.
Thereâs a sudden, loud buzzing from the floor that cuts through the quiet, which makes your eyes startle open. Itâs insistent and you realize after a moment that itâs your phone, caught up in your hero suit on the floor.
You never came home after your shift. You curse softly, almost certain you know who's calling.
You squirm out of Tomuraâs hold again, which he huffs at in irritation, but eventually allows you up.
âWhere are you going now?â he asks, annoyed, when you climb out of bed to find your phone. Once found, you hold it up to him.
Itâs still buzzing in your hand, lit up with Shoutaâs contact.
You think the guilt should hit you now.
It doesnât and thatâs what you feel worse over. You swallow hard, frown down at your phone.
(Horribly, you even feel somewhat spiteful, as if youâre trying to prove something to Shouta. Maybe to yourself.)
You donât answer.
And then you see the several texts from him, wondering where you are. Theyâre all bland, but you can tell he must be worried. Itâs unlike you to not tell him where you are.
âAre you going to leave?â Tomura asks and thereâs something strange in his voice, something you canât place.
âDo you want me to?â you ask in return.
He doesnât answer right away. But he does eventually give an annoyed drawl, âDo what you want.â
You take that as a no, donât leave, since youâre certain if he wanted you gone, he wouldâve told you.
You send a text to Shouta;
Sorry. Staying with an old friend for the night. Be back tomorrow.
Itâs not unheard of, for you to spend time with an old friend from the foster care system.
You get a dry âokayâ from him in response. You fight the urge to roll your eyes for some reason, tossing your phone away again.
You end up staying the night with Tomura Shigaraki, one of the most wanted villains in all of Japan.
Its not romanticâ he isnât sweet or funny or caring. But he holds you tight, leaves no room for distance. And it is the first time youâve ever slept with someone like this, tucked away into a bed, bare, and wrapped up in each other.
Is this what it always feels like? You press yourself into the crooks of his body. You wonder if youâre supposed to fit this well together.
And itâs the first time since his Quirk developed that he hasnât needed to wear his partial gloves to sleep in fear of decaying something.
He wonât admit it but itâs the best heâs slept in a long, long time.
You wonât admit it, either, but you think you could get used to this, too; this closeness, being held as if youâll slip away, being held like he doesnât want you to.
The morning brings rosy sunlight that slants through the windows. Neither of you talk much. You try to tell yourself this wonât happen again, canât happen again.
But you had kissed him goodbye before youâd left, like he was a boyfriend and not a criminal, and youâd been in a surprisingly good mood for the rest of the day.
Like you had a crush, puppy love you never got as a teenager because you were too busy trying not to starve, only to realize youâd been starving in other ways, too.
But youâre sugar soft and excitable, dropping into bed that night alone, and allowing yourself to admit, in the quiet and privacy of your own thoughts, that you wish you were in his again.
***
One time turns into two which turns into three which turns into so many times youâve lost count. That little, rundown apartment that isnât really Tomuraâs has turned into another world entirely, some harbor away from the rules of society. Itâs almost too good to be true, a dream, a place for a secret as bad as this one.
When youâre here, you donât talk of heroes and villains. You urge him not to; you think youâll keep some part of your innocence in this affair if you donât actually know anything about him or the League of Villains. Youâll feel too guilty, if you know any part of their plans and donât tell Shouta. And telling Shouta anything about Tomura is beginning to feel like a betrayal, too.
You donât know anything substantial about Tomura Shigaraki and thatâs the way it needs to stay.
You know he likes sour candy, though, and drinks too many energy drinksâ theyâre sickly sweet and you think kissing him might make your teeth ache. You know he likes video games but no longer has a console. He has trouble sleeping at night. Youâre familiar with the scars on his skin, the jagged ones across his neck, the one on his lip. The beauty mark on his chin. You know his moods; from the prickly ones to the downright vengeful ones. You even know the calmer ones, the quiet, contemplative ones.
(In this way, he seems like a normal twenty-something-year-old. In the quiet moments, when youâve convinced him to watch a cheap horror movie on the tiny, staticky TV in the apartment, he could be anybody. When heâs got his bare hand up your shirt as someone onscreen screams and begs for their life, heâs not the heir to an underground empire. Heâs just Tomura, with his face buried in the crook of your neck).
He pretends to get annoyed with you, huffs and scoffs against your lips when youâre being cheeky. You wear his worn down hoodies, slip your thumbs in the holes at the sleeves. He eyes you when you wear them, pulls you to him by the collar.
(He likes to fuck you in themâ pushes the hoodie up your stomach to watch you ride him. But he likes things bare and raw, too. Skin to skin. So close itâs terrifying, so close you feel like heâs trying to tear you apart from the inside out. He likes it dirty, you think, because it makes it more intimate.)
You soothe him. You know you do because when heâs festering and angry, all it takes is your hand on his wrist, pulling it away from his neck. Sometimes, when he canât think straight and there is too much on his mind, he forces you to lay on top of him until his breathing slows and his head is clear.
He canât talk to you aloud about whatâs plaguing him, but you must quiet some part of him. He likes to use you to think, runs his long fingers through your hair as you lay atop him. He pets you until his thoughts arenât as jumbled, but smoothed out and sharp. Or until he doesnât want to think anymore at all and he drags you into languid makeouts that always end with him surrounding you, inside you, possessing you.
You bicker sometimes, flash your teeth to make his eyes spark ruby and excited. Mostly, you act your age with him.
You donât know when his birthday is or where he grew up. You donât know what his childhood was like or what memories shaped him, donât know where heâs been or where heâs going to be. You only know him now, in this moment, in this little world youâve created for each other.
Heâs what you imagined first boyfriends are supposed to be; excitable and often immature but fun and new. You never had the luxury of first loves, just odd first kisses with strangers and an uncomfortable loss of virginity with a friend of a friend of a friend who jammed his tongue too far down your throat. You hadnât had anything stable untilâ
Until Shouta.
Shouta has grown suspicious of this old friend of yours and how much time you now spend with him.
He questions you about him and you wish you felt worse for lying. The rebellious part of this affair is thrilling, though. Feels like youâre sixteen and sneaking out from under your dadâs nose to be picked up by the boyfriend youâd know heâd hate. Feels like swiping liquor too young and getting sick off it, smashing the bottles and laughing with your friends because sometimes things just need to break.
âWill you at least tell me his name?â Shouta had asked one morning, when youâd let yourself into his apartment after another night at Tomuraâs. You had your own hood pulled up around your face to hide the rose blossom hickeys against the skin of your neck.
Heâd still poured you a cup of coffee. Youâd watched his careful, large hands as they made it the way you liked it.
Youâd given him a lie, fed it to him the way he feeds you breakfast, âShinta. Are you happy?â
Heâd slid the mug to you, let you catch in the cradle of your palm. Heâd shrugged, but you think his eyes had flashed to you, âYou know you can bring him around, right? You donât always have to go to him.â
Youâd had to bite back a painful laugh. It wasnât funny. It had hurt strangely in the pit of your chest.
You had shaken your head, tried to brush him off, âItâs not like that.â
âAlright,â heâd said, but he hadnât believed you. âYouâre training alone with Shinsou again tonight, Iâll be busy with a job.â Then heâd given you a stern look, âAnd donât cut it early to go see Shinta.â
âIâve never done that!â youâd protested, perhaps a little too defensively. But it was true, youâd never do that to Shinsou, wouldnât dream of it. The only time youâd cut training early was to share takeout with Shinsou, not ditch him forâ
This comment had rubbed you wrong, scratched up against something abrasive and surprisingly fragile inside of you. Maybe because he was questioning your dedication which already felt so flimsy, even if he hadnât been entirely serious, even if maybe heâd just been trying to take a dig at you. At this new boyfriend.
Shouta had grown cold then, shrugged impassively, took his mug of coffee and brushed past you to keep getting ready.
It had angered you enough to bring it up later to Tomura, when youâre falling into his lap and heâs squirming his cold, fluttery hands beneath your shirt to touch skin, to make you hiss through your teeth.
His lips tilt into a small smile as you fidget while he warms his frigid fingers on your body.
âEraserhead asked about you yesterday,â you tell him, letting your nose brush against his, âTold me I could bring my friend aroundâ donât always have to go to him.â
Tomura snorts, eyes falling half-lidded when your lips skim over his. The night is plum dark, presses into this little apartment thatâs tucked away from the world.
âHowâd you get out of that one?â he asks, fingers walking over the dips of your spine. He likes tracing the bone beneath your skin, likes making you shiver.
âTold him itâs not like that.â you respond, your own hands wandering to his neck. You're careful over the ridges of flesh there, skim lightly to get to his jaw.
âNo?â Tomura asks, pulling you closer, pressing his chest to yours, âDonât want to bring me home to meet Eraserhead?â he sneers and thereâs something underneath his voice, lurking, with its hackles raised.
You think maybe itâs jealousy, the same flash of his eyes like Shoutaâs when heâd said Shinta.
But then he kisses you deep and drags your hips against his, forces a warbly, surprised little moan from you.
Most of your thoughts melt away then, most turn to something base and desperate, all desire and need. You canât help but think about it, though, how you canât ever take him home to Shouta. You canât ever expect anything more than whatever stays in this room. He kisses you hard, your teeth clinking against his like clashing with the truth of it all.
Thereâs no happy ending here.
Itâs like smashing bottles because sometimes things just need to break.
***
Tomura thinks you would be a good edition to the League of Villains.
Youâre clever and capable. He comes to find youâre not just a good thief and pickpocket but an excellent one. You swipe everything from his pockets, right from under his nose, just to play with him. Youâre stealthy and sharp; he could use someone like you at his side.
Your Quirk could be useful, though he doesnât like the idea of you getting so close to people while in battles. You have a reckless streak, but he thinks he could temper that. All you need is a little guidance.
You were a thief once. You give him clues of your past; you didnât grow up like the other heroes, didnât come from a warm home with dreams of saving the world. Your head wasnât filled with fantasies of rescuing the downtrodden. You were the downtrodden. And you learned that there was no one who was going to save you, except yourself. So you stole and fought and survived a world that was willing to forget you.
Youâre like him, a very quiet part of him thinks, no one saved you. Not until you were too old, all grown up with sharpened teeth and claws, eyes that see in the dark. That could be now used and extorted by the heroes.
He thinks theyâve leashed you, taught you how to sit and stay and sic âem.
He wonders if heâd have gotten to you first, if youâd be with him and not your heroes.
Tomura doesnât dwell on it, though. He refuses to imagine it. What would be the point? It didnât happen.
Besides, he is certain he is capable of slowly swaying you to them still. You possess a startling amount of compassion for villains which, perhaps wouldnât help you as a villain, but thatâs fine.
(Youâd have him. No one would touch you if you were at his side. You could be as stupidly compassionate as you wanted.)
You meet members of the League with him by accident, times when Toga and Twiceâs meeting with him overlap with you arriving. Toga goes on endlessly about you, it seems. Dabi drops by once in the middle of the night, bloody and demanding a place to sleep because heâs tired of sleeping on the streets.
Itâd been one of the more insufferable nights, perhaps one of the worst ways for Dabi to find out about you. Youâd already been asleep, cocooned beneath blankets and Tomuraâs body, just in one of his loose shirts.
Tomura had already been lying awake, listening to your even breathing when heâd heard the handle of the door shake roughly. Heâd gotten up then, slipped into clothes, melted into the darkness by the door and waited for the intruder to try and step inside.
The lock had been picked.
He had nearly decayed Dabi by accident before realizing it was him.
A ridiculously quiet but terse argument had ensued then, before Dabi had asked, in a regular speaking voice, âWhy the fuck are we whispering?â
Tomura had almost winced when he heard you stir from the bed before your small, sleepy voice had murmured into the darkness, âTomura?â
Youâd said it too soft, too sweet. Itâd been for his ears only and something about Dabi hearing you, seeing you, being in this space that had been for you and for him had made Tomura suddenly livid.
He had watched Dabiâs mouth fall open in shock before youâd switched on the bedside lamp to flood the room with artificial, golden light.
Dabiâs face had been near horrific in the light, one side of it all bloody, the stitches mangled or falling out. Part of his face almost looked like it was melting, his eye squinted shut with the damage.
But heâd thrown his head back and laughed when heâd seen you, sitting up in the bed, blinking sleepily at them. Tomura hated a lot of things, but heâd hated nothing more than the sound of Dabiâs rasping laugh in that moment.
Youâd narrowed your eyes when you had realized who it was.
âI had no idea you had it in you, Tomura.â Dabi had said.
âWhy the fuck are you here?â Tomura had hissed instead, fighting the urge to tear into his neck, fingers twitching agitatedly.
Dabi had gestured to his face with a lazy flourish, âI need medical attention and Iâm crashing on your couch.â
Tomuraâs teeth had ground together, âGet. Out.â
âNo, Iâm sick of sleeping on the streets when youâre here playing house with your little hero bitchââ
Before Tomura could even react, though, you had found the small supply of first aid from beneath the sink in the tiny bathroom. You had come up beside them near silently and offered it up, asked, âDo you want help?â
And there it had beenâ that compassion of yours. Even for the likes of Dabi.
In that moment, heâd wondered how you had ever survived with it. Heâd thought that youâd lose your hand if you kept extending it.
Dabi hadnât let you touch him but youâd gotten a cool rag for him to clean up the blood, watched as he tried to patch up the wound. It was made worse by a mangled staple in his cheek, jutting out strangely.
âDoes it hurt?â Youâd asked but with the way you were looking at him, at his marred skin up close, Tomura could tell that you werenât just referring to this one injury.
Does it hurt? Youâd asked, like you were asking if it all hurt. You werenât just seeing a singular part of Dabi, but a series of tragedies that was proudly presented in large, rippling scars against his skin.
âOf course it fucking hurts,â Dabi had spit out, all venom and bitterness. But you hadnât even flinched.
Tomura had tried to kick him out again once his wound had been treated.
âItâs fine,â youâd said, resigned, tired and rubbing at your eyes.
(Later youâd shrug and tell him, I know what itâs like to not have somewhere to sleep).
âYeah, itâs fine,â Dabi had drawled, already pulling off his heavy boots, prying the coat from his body to toss onto the floor. âJust donât do any weird shit.â
And youâd gotten back into bed with Tomura, fit yourself against him, ducked your head down beneath his chin and pressed your hands against his sides, felt the notches of his ribs.
Sometimes he wonders if you can feel the missing one, the one you took from him, the one youâd been made out of.
It had occurred to Tomura that either you didnât fear Dabi or you trusted him enough to know heâd never let Dabi harm you while sleeping.
Both were acceptable to him, both would aid him in converting you. And they were true, too. You shouldnât fear Dabi, especially not with him around.
Tomura had brought his hand up then, suddenly covered your mouth with his large palm, letting all five of his fingers come down against your pretty face.
Youâd furrowed your brows in confusion, not fear, which made something inside of him grow warm and hungry.
Then heâd slid his other hand down your body, between your legs, just to spite Dabi.
Heâd watched as your eyes went wide in the dark, cheeks flushing beneath his hand. He could feel his smirk, smug and sharp, fitting across his teeth like a muzzle.
Youâd tried to shake your head, tried to squirm away from his touch, but heâd been persistent and soon enough you were sighing against his hand, melting into the bed he pressed you into. Soon enough you were trying to hold back whimpers, all slippery and soft beneath his fingers, silently begging with your eyes.
He hadnât denied you that night; no, you were being good, walking the steps he wanted for you. You were moldable and sweet beneath him so heâd give you what you wanted.
He watched in satisfaction as you came hard around his fingers, face scrunching up in that way he loved, fingers easing you through it. He was gentle with you then, taking his hand away from your mouth slowly, letting you nudge closer and cling to him.
(He loved when you clung to him).
Youâd wanted so much affection that night and he had indulged you, letting your nose brush against his, or rubbing your cheek against his chest while his fingers wound through your hair.
Youâd fallen asleep all tied up in him.
The next morning, you were gone before Dabi even woke up.
Dabi had asked, âWhat the fuck are you doing with her?â
âMind your business,â Tomura had snapped, fingers already seeking out his neck again when they couldn't find you. He hated that he wanted your presence so badly now. (Hated that he missed you, but he would never say that, never even dream of it). Then heâd added,âAnd find someone elseâs doorstep to show up on.â
Dabi had scoffed, âWhatever. Just donât get distracted.â Heâd pulled out a cigarette from his jacket still on the floor then, much to Tomuraâs annoyance, and lit it with a spark of his fingers. Smoke curled into the air with his first drag. âIâm not about to watch all our efforts fall apart because you wanted to play Romeo and Juliet with some braindead little hero.â
Heâd torn into the skin of his neck then. Wished he could tear into you instead.
âViolent delights and violent ends and all that shit,â Dabi had said then, his smile just a curled stitch, smoke pouring from his lips, evidently amused with himself.
But Tomura has never read that play and he doesnât know anything about poetry in the same way he doesnât know anything about art or beauty, just that youâre the only thing heâs bothered to compare to a painting.
***
You put Tomura into your phone as Shinta and when youâre too busy to visit him between missions and training, you text him. Though short, he is surprisingly witty over text, something that has you biting back grins and distracted, feeling like a schoolgirl as you try to hide the screen of your phone from the rest of the world.
You grow distracted with hero work, with Shouta. You pay less attention to your life at U.A. You donât visit Shouta for lunch as often. You havenât spent a quiet night with Shouta in weeks. You tell yourself you donât care.
Itâs better than fighting with him. Itâs better than trying to beg for his love and affection.
Early tomorrow morning youâre supposed to shadow Shouta on a brief mission.
The Hero Commission is trying to train you into espionage and underground work, trying to mold you in the shape of Shouta.
But at night, when youâre alone in your bedroom, tucked away into your own apartment and not with Tomura, he calls you.
You let yourself say his name into the receiver of your phone, hushed and excited.
He doesnât say I miss you or when will I see you again?
He says, âTouch yourself.â
And you donât say I miss you, too, or hopefully soon.
You do as he says, let your fingers fan out over your stomach like they might be his. You listen to his breathing turn ragged over the phone. You moan softly for him.
You do what he says in the navy dark of night, bite back frustrated whines because youâve gotten too used to his touch.
ââWish it was you, fuck, itâs not fair,â you gasp, tilting your hips up into your fingers desperately.
You can hear the hiss of breath he takes, âDid I ruin you?â he croons into the phone lowly, his voice slithering through to you, making your thighs clench. âCanât even touch yourself without needing me?â
You groan, high and defeated, fingers slipping against yourself. Youâre aching and empty and bereft without him, âYes, yesââ
He rambles about what heâs done to you, almost seething by the end, when he demands you tell him that youâre his, that heâs the one who made you this way. Heâs the only one who can soothe you now. You need him.
He isnât wrong, you realize, when you still arenât satisfied after your climax. When it doesnât feel as good as when youâre with him. You realize you hate sleeping alone now. You miss the press of his body to yours. You coo into the phone about it, lay on your stomach, arms curled around your pillow with your ear still to your phone.
It never gets overly sentimental. You donât want to scare him, especially as you grow terrified of your own feelings. It doesnât feel as fun anymore, you realize, only because your attraction to him has now grown serious.
Your crush has grown teeth and claws, ready to tear apart the vulnerable, fleshy parts of you.
But he talks with you until you fall asleep, phone still in hand, heart still on the line.
***
Thereâs a stray kitten that hangs out around Tomuraâs apartmentâ he thinks there must be a colony of strays in the area, since itâs not the only one. But this one is scrawny, just a messy tuft of grey fur. Itâd be sleek and pretty, if it wasnât so malnourished, if it wasnât missing clumps of fur or full of scars and scratches.
The kitten likes Tomura a great deal for some reason. It rubs itself against his legs, follows him around outside of the apartment, much to your utter delight.
You coo and fawn over it, scoop the little thing up into your arms and hold it up to Tomuraâs face.
He hates it, the face you give him. The face the kitten gives him. He hates that the corner of his lips twitch upwards.
âHeâs so cute,â you gush and he can hear now that the little thing is purring furiously in your hands. You wiggle the cat a little bit in front of his face and Tomura finally reaches up to stroke the back of his knuckles against the kittenâs head, if only to appease you.
Your smile is crookedâ an excited curve of your lips, your eyes alight.
Youâre always so expressive and he used to be livid about it, wanted to teach you a lesson in the worst way possible, but now he just wants to keep you from learning them.
He has to turn away from you at the thought, heads towards the door of the apartment building. You follow after him dutifully, coming up to nudge against his side. Heâs become too comfortable with you there, knocking into his elbow.
Youâre still smiling down at the kitten in your arms and he wants to look away because some part of this is starting to sting.
The kitten is excitedly looking around, green eyes all round and bright. Itâs purring happily.
âPut it down, itâs not coming in with us.â Tomura tells you, his voice rough and soft.
You stop in front of the door with him. Your bottom lip pulls out into a pout. Your eyes get round like the kittenâs.
He gives you a cold stare.
You hug the kitten tighter to your body, âCâmon,â you whine, âItâs just a baby.â
âIâm not taking care of a cat.â
âIâll take care of it!â
âNo,â he responds, harsher, voice a little sharper.
Maybe, in the beginning of this little affair, you wouldâve headed the warning in his tone, but now you donât even bat an eye at him.
âYes,â you respond indignantly.
You both glare at each other. The kittenâs purr still rumbles on.
Tomura can tell youâre not giving this one up, he can tell by the set of your jaw, the way youâre clinging to that little creature. Thereâs a determined flush to your face. Your eyes are bright and fiery.
All over this little stray.
âYouâre a brat,â is all Tomura says and you take that as a win, because your face immediately morphs, brightens up completely. You duck past him, into the apartment building with the kitten cradled in your arms.
He heaves a deep sigh, following in after you. âIâm kicking it out when you leave.â
âDonât be mean,â you reply, waiting at the door, and the irony is not lost on him. He comes up behind you, his chest to your back, crowding you against the door.
âI think you need to remember who youâre speaking to,â he says, his voice just a rasp against your ear and maybe at some point, it wouldâve sounded threatening, but now you just lean back into his chest. His heart beats against the curve of your back.
Something soft is growing between the two of you, he can feel it. It has no place here, though, in this world. In the two of you. His ugly infatuation with you, all that anger and vitriol he had for you has melted, turned spring soft inside of him after an unforgiving winter.
He unlocks the door, he lets you in.
The kitten ends up coming and going. He opens the window to let it in and out, letâs you feed it. You call it Ryuji. It lives partially in this new little world the two of you have built.
He thinks of it like the pause screen in a video game, somewhere to return to when heâs frustrated or tired or done. Idle, soft music and the freezing of his screen. A moment away from the turmoil or struggle of the game.
But heâll have to unpause eventually.
He canât stay here forever, he knows it, but he just has to be sure he plays it rightâ he doesnât think heâll be able to start over this time, with you.
And he wants you there at the ending, at his side like in his dreams.
The ones where itâs all in ruins, the world nothing but his, destroyed, but he gives you his hand to have, and you take it in yours to hold.
***
The distance between you and Shouta stretches and grows until it snaps in the form of a blowout argument. Which, is mostly just you, shouting, crying furiously, and Shouta stone-faced and cool.
It had started with an offhand comment from him about how youâre not focused anymore. Youâre getting sloppy. Youâre distracted. And usually, you take his criticism with a stiff upper lip and a determined glare.
But you and Shouta havenât been the same since you tried to kiss him.
You blame yourself, maybe, but part of you feels angry with him, too. Bitter. You thought, in some way, he reciprocated your feelings. Heâd acted like it. And when heâd rejected you, heâd pulled away, been more careful with you.
(You wonder if this proves your point, that he was toeing a line with you then.)
And maybe your lies are starting to eat at you, too, starting to rot away on the inside of you. If you focused on them too hard and all that Shoutaâs done for you, you think youâd start crying every time you looked at him.
But Tomura has also thrown all you know into question. And youâd already been critical of the life you were afforded by becoming a hero.
You look at all of Shoutaâs students and you just get angry. You look at Shinsou, so determined to prove he can be a hero, that heâs good and you are livid. You look at Toga, with her villainous Quirk. Sheâs near Shinsouâs age and something about it just makes you ache, it makes you sick.
You look at her and see who she couldâve been as a heroâ you wonder if they wouldâve stuck her in espionage, with the likes of you and Shouta. You wonder if she wouldâve gone to U.A. You wonder what it wouldâve taken to change her fate.
Even Tomura, you look at him and in the safety and privacy of your own heart, you dare to wonder what he wouldâve been like if he hadnât been a villain.
(He couldâve been a rescue hero, you think, and he couldâve decayed debris to save people. This version of him lives in the quiet, tentative parts of you. It grows soft and underground, a seedling that has sprouted on the inside of your chest, and one day you think this little dream of yours will grow so large inside of you that itâll breach skin and show the world itâs horror.)
It feels like a coin toss, almost, like the difference between a hero and a villain sometimes is one flip away from changing.
You donât bother to wonder what wouldâve happened if it hadnât been Shouta that found you, but someone like Tomura. Or All For One. You know if youâd been given somewhere to sleep and a warm meal, you wouldâve done what they wanted.
You wish you could say you were a noble, starving person, that there was something shining and golden inside of you. But all you were was starving.
Shouta says youâve been underperforming lately. He says heâs considering limiting the nights you patrol until you can get it together.
The Hero Commission was supposed to come observe you to see if youâd progressed enough to begin accepting your own missions. He tells you he doesnât think they should come any longer. It feels like a dig, too, like heâs reprimanding you somehow.
And you snap, âWell maybe I didnât want them to observe me!â
He looks taken aback for a moment, before he asks, âWhat is that supposed to mean?â
âI donât know! Maybe Iâm tired of being observed and used and watching all of these kids be observed and sought after andââ
âAlright,â Shouta sighs, and it makes your teeth grit because he sounds like heâs trying to parent you, âItâs one thing to be upset yourself, but I donât see how this has anything to do with these kids.â
Your nails dig into your palms as you try to find the words to get him to understand you.
But he speaks before you can, almost patronizingly, âClearly, youâre struggling through something, so itâs probably a good thing weâve put this off.â
Tears well up hard and fast. It hurts to be dismissed like this. It hurts to look at him, to think that heâs a part of the ever growing issue that has been itching beneath your skin. Youâre a part of it, too, but you have the sudden urge to run. To get out.
Still, you swallow down all of that turmoil and say, âI hardly know what I want now, so how do you expect children to know that they want to be a hero?â
âWhat is this about?â Shouta asks.
âItâs about the Hero Commission and U.A. and the entire fucking system. Thatâs what itâs about.â you seethe, looking up into his eyes, trying to find something there.
âItâs not just about you?â he asks, unperturbed.
âWhy canât it be both?â you respond, trying to keep your voice from going high, from going hysterical. Thereâs so much you want to say, so much that itâs making you sick, that itâs turning your stomach. âIâmâ Iâm barely older than them!â you say, because all you keep thinking about is how theyâre just kids. And you were just a kid. And at one point, Tomura was just a kid.
Heâs barely older than you. Closer in age to Shoutaâs students than to him.
âI didnât invent the system,â Shouta says and he sounds weary, âI just try to give my students the best opportunity at surviving being a hero. I try to teach them everything to keep them alive.â
Theyâre just kids! You want to shriek, kids that were chosen or forgotten or accepted or shunned.
Looking in the face of the system now feels so massive that itâs hopeless; a system that produces shiny heroes from children with their perfect and acceptable Quirks and discards the rest. Even you and Shouta, with your Quirks that arenât as flashy, are pushed into the shadows to do the Hero Commissions business. And what business is that? You have to wonder their intentions, too, with all the money thatâs pumped into it. Into all of these heroes. A system that forgets anyone who doesnât fit into itâs perfect mold.
âBut you see how itâs wrong, right? And just because you didnât invent the system doesnât mean you get to throw your hands up!â You say, voice raising.
Shouta levels you with a cool look. He lets loose a sigh. âWhat would you like me to do?â
You donât have an answer, itâs too big of a question.
(You see the appeal suddenly, in wanting to get rid of it all, in destroying it since itâs such a mess.)
But you hate his aloofness, you hate that he doesnât care. You hate that you feel crazy.
âI donât know!â you shout, tears finally falling down your angry and flushed face. âI donât know!â
âAre you done?â Shouta asks and it makes you want to scream more. You just want a reaction from him, you realize, you want something more than his impassiveness. You think of trying to shout more, to try and say something cutting or powerful or enough to make him wince.
But nothing comes to mind and youâre just stubbornly trying to keep back a sob.
So you shoulder past him, rush out of his apartment, rubbing at your cheeks and trying to keep back your hiccuping cries.
You have every intention of going to Tomuraâs.
But you realize when youâve nearly made it to his door that it might be foolish to go to someone like Tomura with tears in your eyes. What is the leader of the League of Villains going to do? You have a feeling you might just get your feelings hurt more.
So you pause, rub at your eyes again, try to dispel all the turmoil inside you. It doesnât work, so you turn away from him, too, and you start moving.
Your feet carry you to the train station, carry you across town, to a warehouse you used to vandalize and hide in when you were young and alone.
You havenât been here in years.
It feels strange, loping around the side of the building. The alleyways are cast in garnet light with the fading sun. It makes it look prettier than it is. You enter through the same hole in the wall that you used to when you were young; youâre bigger now, though, need to duck lower, curl yourself up to get through it.
You think of yourself scurrying around, knowing the ins and outs of this dilapidated building the way most children know their childhood home.
Itâs strange, stepping back into a place you havenât been to in years. You know, in some way, it has to have changed. Itâs falling apart more, thereâs larger holes in the ceiling, letting in auburn light, setting everything ablaze. Thereâs a lot of debris; from torn tents to discarded sleeping bags to spare junk, itâs all spread out throughout the place. Graffiti covers every corner of the walls. You used to look for a face painted in pink, itâs eyes dripping down itâs face in the back corner of a wall. When your eyes slide along all the artwork, itâs nowhere to be found now. No doubt covered up by the years, but you know itâs there, somewhere beneath all that color and paint.
There are a lot of empty bottles, glass laying around that crunches beneath your shoe.
You pick up a glass by the spout, watch as it catches in the light, murky gold and sunkissed.
You feel small again, fragile like the bottle in your hand. You stopped crying at least, but all thatâs left is the aftertaste. Just the lingering frustration, the bitter aloneness that settles over you as cold as Shoutaâs stare.
Your fingers squeeze around the glass, curling tight, before you suddenly hurl it at the wall.
It bursts on impact, explodes into thousands of shining, glittering pieces that spark in the sun.
It feels good, so you pick up another glassâ this oneâs mint green, pretty like the sea, reminds you of spring and the stems of flowers.
It breaks prettily, too, the sound ringing and sharp in your ears, your eyes trying to catch all the splinters of it. It explodes in the light. Itâs cathartic, letting all your aching frustration and hurt rush out with each breaking, with each smashing.
You donât get through many more, not before you hear footsteps behind you.
You canât say youâre surprised to find Tomura, but you canât say you were expecting it either. Quickly, you turn away, try to school your features. You try to rub at your eyes again, as if this will somehow dispel damp lashes and splotchy cheeks.
âAre you stalking me?â you ask, but thereâs no bite to it as he comes to stand beside you.
He doesnât answer.
You think he might be, but you canât find it in you to care.
The sound of the distant city is just a hum between you two. Glass sparkles on the floor like stars in the fading, ruby light.
You turn to face him, donât bother trying to look up into his face, just shove yourself into his chest. You bury your face into his hoodie, rubbing your cheek against his chest. âCreep,â you mumble, âWhat are you doing here?â
His hands come up, one at the back of your head, the other along your back. He has his gloves on. Not that it matters.
âI followed you from the apartment,â he admits and his voice is quiet, but it seems to echo in this open space. Then he says, âYou should be more watchful.â
âDonât start,â you grumble, letting your fingers curl in his jacket, âBeen scolded enough today.â
The hand at the back of your head tugs at your hair lightly, lifting your head from its hiding place against his chest so that he can look you over carefully.
The light casts him in maroon and russet, saturating him, making the dark of him stand out sharply. It makes the silver of his hair seem peach, brands him in all the sunâs honey and whiskey glory.
His eyes are vivid, maybe the most true shade of red youâve ever seen in your life.
He takes in your face, perhaps your bloodshot eyes, your damp lashes. You arenât a fool; youâre certain he can tell youâve been crying. You have the urge to squirm away, to try and hide from his gaze.
But all he asks, in a surprisingly gentle tone, is âWhat happened?â
You shake your head fractionally, âNothing. Got into an argument, thatâs all.â
He hums lightly, tracking your expression. You want to glance away from him, but he holds you still for a moment longer.
When you canât take his scrutinization any longer, you ask, âWanna break some shit with me?â
He lets you go finally, letâs you step out of his arms despite not responding. You pick up another glass, this once an icy blue that reflects light that reminds you of the color of morning skies.
You watch as it explodes against the wall, flashing like a little firework. Glass rains down onto the ground, some of it flinging up into the air or back towards you. Tomura pulls you away from it by the back of your jacket, yanks you back into his chest as glass shards fly past you.
He glares at you somewhat and you can tell he wants to scold you, but he doesnât. You squirm out of his grasp to do it again.
Glass showers down as you break another bottle. It rains in shards of tangerine and pale yellow, bright pops of cherry in the light. It feels good, to watch it all burst apart in the sunlight, like watching little stars burst and explode at your hands. Itâs so pretty, for such a violent act.
You hand a bottle to Tomura, offering him the chance to also act out. Instead, he pulls off one of his glovesâ tugs it off with his teeth, the glint of sharp white against flesh pink. You watch fascinated for a moment, catch his eyes, blazing and barbed.
When he takes it with all five fingers, you watch as it first cracks in your palm, before fluttering away into dust. Into nothing.
You make a face, âThatâs not as exciting as breaking them.â
He rolls his eyes, but you catch the way the corner of his lips hike up. He takes another glass, this one icy silver, caught peach in the honey light, though. He keeps a finger lifted away delicately as he lifts it up to the beams of scarlet sun that flare through the rafters.
And in that fiery patch of dusk, with the glass reflecting iridescence onto the angular plains of his face, your heart gives a violent lurch, like itâs trying to burst free from your chest.
I think I love you, you think, unbridled, and so suddenly that it feels as if the thought has slammed into you the way a body might fall from the ledge of a roof.
I think I love you, you think again, because you canât quite believe it, as he lobs the bottle at the wall. It fractures into a thousand little beams of glass and light, like an exploding comet. You feel as fragile as that, like heâll do the same to you. Maybe youâll be nothing but shards by the end of this, nothing but dust slipping through his fingers.
He turns to you, no doubt to say something snarky, but youâre already taking quick steps to him. He doesnât get the chance to speak, not when you collide with him, hard and reckless, throwing yourself up onto your toes to kiss him with a new violence.
He makes a surprised noise, soft, but catches you otherwise. His hand is already up, worming beneath your clothes to press chilled fingers into the bare skin of your upper waist. He likes the way you hiss into his mouth, and you like the way they dig roughly into you. He forces you closer, melds his mouth to yours, rough at the edges, slick and warm at the center as the kiss blossoms into slow simmering heat.
And by the end of it all, when the light has given way to violet darkness, the press of indigo shadows that stretch tall in this abandoned warehouse, there is too much glass on the floor. Everything is shattered or decayed. Your lips are stinging from sharp-toothed kisses and the desperate press of his mouth to yours. Youâve turned molten, fallen apart the way glass does.
You walk home together, hand in seeking hand.
Your eyes flush pink with your Quirk, brightening up in the dark.
You knock into his side like youâre a kid, eagerly trailing beside him. He has the hood of his sweatshirt up, hidden, as you rush into the next train back to the part of town that holds the little, distant world of his apartment.
You sit beside each other on the train, knees pressing into each other. He leans over to crowd you against the cool glass as the world streaks past you in a wash of darkness. He ducks his face to yours, his hood hiding the both of you from any onlookers as he seers his mouth to yours again.
You feel like a teenager, kissing in front of strangers, beneath the flickering light of the train car. You feel young and reckless, letting him have you like this, while the city burns like a blurry halo behind you. But you feel older, too, older and in love, like you finally know the secret of the universe, the one that every adult knows and has only learned in the burn of a kiss, in the messy squeezing of your heart.
He licks into your mouth slow, you curl your small hand into his worn hoodie. If people stare, you donât know, donât care.
He pulls away from you, forcing you up when your stop is announced, leaving you a little dazed and dizzy, but you eagerly follow after him. Your hands bunch into the back of his jean jacket. You stumble behind him a little, feet tangling with his as you duck beneath his arm to come to his side.
Ryuji finds the two of you on your walk home the closer you get, follows you both inside, happily chirping at your coos. But he paws at the window to be let out again a short time later, after youâve fed him something. Tomura opens the window for the cat, but not before you catch him rubbing a knuckle against the kittenâs fuzzy cheek, brief but gentle.
You think he likes Ryuji more than he lets on. You think he loves all this more than he lets on.
Tomura takes his time with you that night, surprisingly languid for once, like youâre not on borrowed time. Like this is an entirely new planet, a version of the two of you that is not bound by pasts and future expectations. No strings puppeteering you both, no invisible hands holding you both back.
He pulls you down into his lap, to sink onto him, fill yourself with him as you please. You twine your arms around his slender neck to pull him close, eyes half lidded and pyretic pink, fiery and soft with the way your Quirk reacts to his. It always hums somewhere inside of you, brushes against his until it quiets, until heâs soothed and relaxed.
âDo you feel powerful?â he murmurs against your lips, eyes flickering up to find yours.
The question takes you by surprise for a moment, pulling away fractionally from his parted lips. And with the way your heart squirms in your chest, looking down at him like this, you want to say no, I feel terrified and new and desperate.
But he drags nails down your back, makes you gasp and roll your hips down onto him, which startles a groan out of him. The sound of it turning your stomach in the best and worst ways, making you flush, making you squirm to try and sink lower onto him. Greedy and desperate, you wiggle your hips to make his breathing come out ragged.
It makes you realize you have one of the most dangerous villains beneath you, as desperate as you are.
You roll your hips again, slow, take what you want of him. You fist your hand in his hair, tilt his head back and watch as his eyes flutter. His cheeks are flushed.
Pretty, you think faintly.
âYeah,â you breathe, gliding your lips along his, heart a storm in your chest to have him looking up at you like this, âI do.â
His lips tilt into a knife-sharp smile, enough to gut you.
And he lets you take what you please of him that night, and the thief that you are, you take and take and take. You steal from him with deft hands and a smile that he thinks heâd destroy the world for. You take all the love that you want from him, gorge yourself on it until you feel sick.
Until you feel as if you could rot with it, carrying your love for him in the pits of you, coveting in the safe, secret parts of you, for no one else to find.
Just you and him, like this, hand in seeking hand.
***
PART III
COIN TOSSâ PART I
(18+ MINORS DNI)
PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x Reader, a little Shouta Aizawa x Reader
SUMMARY:Â As you fall asleep, you wonder faintly, almost sadly, if youâre the first thing heâs fully touched without losing in a long time.
You are Eraserheadâs troubled protege with a Quirk that cancels out others the moment they touch you. Tomura Shigaraki takes great interest in you.
(Enemies to lovers, a lot of angst, some hurt/comfort)
WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, age gap/power struggle, violence, gore, Tomuraâs trauma specifically, (in later chapters) murder, heroesâ abuse of power, smut, some blurred lines, rough sex, a smidge of a spit kink, a smidge of somnophilia (let me know if Iâve missed anything!)
If you are under the age of 18, you should not be reading or interacting with this!
A/N: oof itâs been a hot second. this became way, way too long. and i cut A LOT out, too! i struggled through it greatly and almost gave up several times but i finished it! and i am proud of myself if only for that! this will end up being 3 parts! it's already fully written, so i'll post the next two chapters soon! i tried to keep tomura in character but MAN was it HARD!! iâm always open to constructive criticism/feedback! let me know what you thought!!
thank you again to @randomrosewrites for beta-ing this!! i really appreciate your help!!
Read on Ao3
***
The first time Tomura sets his eyes on you, it is against a bleak, grey sky. You are a dramatic slash of movement against it, all bared teeth and scorching eyes, vivid in your darkness. He thinks of Renaissance paintings- the dynamic body, the tragic face. He thinks of the jagged cut of a lightning bolt. The sea when itâs surly and blue-black and hungry. Youâre a gash, a striking, open wound against the pale sky behind you.
There is something so youthful in you, too, so viciously full of life, of vitality. Youâre all heat, all fight. All living, breathing, messy life.
(He doesnât want to admit it, but youâre a siren song. The moment he laid eyes on you, he knew somehow, someway that you were different. Some part of you calls out to some part of him, lures him in, ensnares him.
He gets his answer in just a moment, but he likes this part, when he doesnât know a thing about you, when you havenât completely flipped his world on its head.)
You favor close combat, he realizes. Close enough to cut, to strike, to touch. He does, too. He watches you slide beneath the explosion of blue flames that Dabi sends careening towards you. You are so swift that he nearly misses how you latch onto Dabiâs wrist- his flames gutter out like theyâve been doused- and use your momentum to knee him in the chest, sending you both rolling backwards.
You end up atop him, three, gleaming blades between your knuckles now pressed up against his throat. Dabi lifts his hand again and Tomura almost winces, prepared for the flames, the blast of them, the heat of them that will incinerate you.
But they never come.
âWhat the fuck?â Dabi curses, flexing his fingers like heâs trying again. You dig the sleek little knives deeper into his throat and blood wells up. Tomura sighs. Is he really going to have to save Dabi from you?
He lopes closer, comes to stand behind you, has every intention of simply letting you fall away into nothingness. He doesnât have time to deal with you. Doesnât careâ no, no matter how intrigued heâd been, he doesnât care. Thatâs what he tells himself, at least, when all five fingers close around your shoulder.
And absolutely nothing happens.
What the fuck?
Tomura squeezes, as if that will trigger something. And when it doesnât, when you donât fall away into dust and bone, he nearly panicsâ
âI see youâve met my new protege,â A low voice comes from a little too close, before pain explodes in the side of Tomuraâs head.
He drops like a stone, teeth clicking together, jaw lancing with pain at how hardly he clamps down. His temple throbs. He thinks he can feel blood trickle down the side of his face.
When he turns, Eraserhead is already a flurry of movement. His capture weapon nearly snags Tomura, before he manages to roll out of the way.
Why didnât you decay?
Was it Eraserhead?
Tomura rises back to his feet, swiping blood from the side of his head, âSo it seems,â he agrees on a rasp, âHowâs the elbow?â
Why didnât you decay?!
All he gets from Eraserhead is a scowl, just before he catches movement towards you and Dabi. Tomuraâs eyes follow, and he watches as Dabi finally manages to get you off, shoving you off so that you roll into the stone wall. And the moment youâre off of him, his flames come roaring back to life.
âVoid!â Eraserhead shouts and his capture weapon is so fast that itâs just a blur, it snags you, draws you to him so he can throw an arm around you, hunch over you to keep you safe from the flames.
How sweet, Tomura thinks bitterly, glaring at you just as Eraserheadâs eyes flare crimson and Dabiâs flames are cut out again. Dabi curses, looks at Tomura. They share a silent conversation.
They hadnât intended on dealing with Eraserhead. They hadnât intended on dealing with you, either, but you were just a runt compared to your mentor.
His mind is all unsettled now, like a broken record asking;
Why didnât you fucking decay, though?
Regardless, they needed to get out of here. They could use a portal.
He barely catches the quiet murmur of Eraserhead, ââjust like we practiced.â
And then youâre a streak of darkness rushing for him. Eraserheadâs capture weapon is tightened around your torso, wrapped around your waist. You feint, to dart around Tomura, and then back around so that he can feel the weapon near his calves. Youâre wicked fast, a sly little thing as you try to wind it around him, to trip him up. But all it takes is Tomura snagging a part of the capture weapon. Immediately, it begins to crumble away, spreading out slowly but surely.
You lurch for him, your little hand closing tight around his wrist, and your eyes flaring into a bright, feverish pink. His Quirk stops in its tracks. Gone.
Tomura snarls, trying to lurch away from your hold, but you claw into him. Whatâs left of the capture weapon snags, pulling so that the two of you end up falling.
For a moment, time feels suspended as he falls with you. Your lips are pulled back to bare teeth, vicious little thing that you are, growling in his face, wild and untempered.
(Heâll remember this momentâ heâll think you looked perfect and horrible. Itâll haunt him.)
Your eyes are startlingly bright, burning. Your grip on him is tight and there is nothing in the pit of his chest where his Quirk usually rests, like a cemetery behind the gates of his ribs. There is no fizzling, creeping decay, no hungry destruction ready to spread from him onto the rest of the world. Nothing. Just a void.
Ah, so thatâs where your name comes from.
He lands hard on his shoulder as all of time rushes up to meet him. Youâre on him in an instant and he scrabbles for you, sinking all five fingers down again on your wrist, only for nothing to happen once more.
What the fuck?!
âShe can nullify Quirks with a touch,â Eraserhead says and his eyes are still on Dabi, capture weapon finally pulling away to go after the arsonist. âSheâs probably the only person you can touch without decaying, ever.â
Itâs supposed to mock him, maybe. Boast. Clearly, youâre Eraserheadâs favorite pet.
But that sentence rattles around inside Tomuraâs head, sinks down into his bones. It distracts him, allowing you to gain an upper hand on him, another small knife sliding from your sleeve, to press beneath his chin.
The blade is sharp. His vermilion eyes slash to yours, meeting the scorching pink of them.
âIs that so?â he rasps, prompting you as he looks up at you, stupidly wishing to hear you speak.
To hear you speak to him.
Your knees are on his chest. He doesnât care, the weight of you solid and one of his hands is still gripping your wrist, small and seemingly fragile in his hold. He wants to inspect you, take you apart, lay all five fingers along your rib cage, your spine, over your face just to see, just to check if youâre real, if itâs true.
He could break your wrist, he even considers it. Are your screams as pretty as you? Do you whimper? He doesnât think so, maybe he wants to try and pull the noise from you, though.
âThatâs so.â you finally speak and he hates that you have his attention. Hates that your voice does something to him, touches some part of him that is hidden and trembling. âMeet your match, Shigaraki Tomura.â
(He loves how you say his name. He hates that he loves it.)
And he canât decay you, canât decay anything with you atop him, but he grabs for the knife, trying to wrench it away from his throat, from your grasp. He slits his palm for the trouble, but he manages to twist it in such a way that you yelp, and he can toss it away from your grasp. He hisses through his teeth, cut stinging, just as he surges up to to knock you from him. You both go tumbling, rolling with each other. Itâs more artless than he cares to admit but at least heâs got you under him for a moment and he doesnât need to decay you to wrap his hands around your throat and squeezeâ
A portal rips open in the alleyway.
âThat's our cue,â Dabi says, and then, âMove, Shigaraki.â
He lurches away the moment Dabi gives the order, leaves you gasping and heaving for air. He rolls towards the portal, just as blue flames sear towards you and Tomura thinks youâre toast for a moment, youâre gone, in and out of his life as quick as a lightning strike.
He only glances back when heâs near the safety of Kuogiriâs portal. Youâre back beneath Eraserheadâs arm, your clothes singed. The blood from his palm is smeared in a messy dash, the shape of his hand on your throat. You look half feral.
You wear the shape of him, the blood on your neck, well.
The two of you watch him and Dabi disappear. The portal closes behind them.
Kuogiri returns them to base.
âWhat the fuck was that?â Dabi snaps at him, âYou let some sidekick nearly kick your ass.â
Tomura heaves a rattling sigh, âI think I stepped in to save you from her in the first place.â
âI didnât need you,â he responds and Tomura only rolls his eyes.
Still, he doesnât like how heavy youâre weighing on his mind, how he can still feel your skin beneath his hand. The searing pink of your eyes, the snarl pulling at your lips, flashing your teeth. All volatile and hungry. All that brutality, all your vitality.
Youâve left an imprint on his mind, like an ink blot, haunting and twisted.
Eraserheadâs words wind around his mind, clinging to them, like theyâve seared themselves to his brain.
Sheâs probably the only person you can touch without decaying, ever.
Ever.
The word feels like a death knell, rattling around inside of him, all echoing and final.
***
Shouta is careful with your bruised throat as he wipes away the drying blood that has clung to your skin. You think maybe you should be more grossed out, but youâre exhausted and sore, and the cloth he uses is warm, surprisingly soft.
âYou shouldnât have rushed for them like that,â Shouta scolds softly, wedging himself further between your legs so that he can peer at your neck better. He doesnât need to do this, youâd told him so. But when youâd gotten back to his home, heâd only given you gruff instructions. One worded. Terse.
Bathroom.
So youâd gone. Heâd followed you in a moment later.
Sit, heâd said, nodding to the sink counter. Youâd done that, too. And now here you are, with him fretting and fussing over you in his own way. He takes care of you after patrols, it's become habitual. So long as you donât need more medical attention, heâs the one bandaging you up, the one taking care of you.
Shouta has always cared for you like this. Heâd taken you under his wing, guided you. You think he feels responsible for you, in some way.
A little over two years ago, freshly eighteen and just trying to get by, heâd found you. Youâd stolen from the gas station and just so happened to be in his line of patrol that night. You had put up a fight, trying to cancel his Quirk as you pawed at his hold on you. Heâd only realized youâd manage to cancel his Quirk when he couldnât use it on you while you touched him. Heâd almost been amused. Howâd you manage to erase Eraserheadâs Quirk?
Other than that, you donât know what heâd seen in you, donât know why he decided to change your lifeâ pity, maybe, looking at you, so youthful and frail. So hungry and angry, hissing and feral, maybe just to mask all that fear. Heâd offered to just walk you home. You told him you didnât have one. Parents? In and out of foster care your whole life, just some orphan that aged out of the system on your own. Someone society forgot.
You had no one.
(Later, youâll hear everyone say itâ âYou like strays, donât you, Aizawa?â
He has three cats. All strays, once ill-tempered and now docile. Loving. A little wary of strangers, but adoring of him.)
He hadnât been certain what to do with you at firstâ too old to go to UA, his school. At first there were mentions of college but youâd barely made it through high school. Not because you werenât smart, only because youâd barely done the work. Barely went.
Besides, you decided quickly that you wanted to be a hero. Like him.
(Maybe it was just because he was the first person in your whole life who gave you any sort of attentionâ who cared what happened to you. Maybe you didnât want to part from that, wanted to hold tight, take all that he would give you.)
Reluctantly, heâd agreed to train you.
He had asked a favor of Principal Nezu, set you up in a tiny studio dorm that was beside his. Right next door. Your very own space for the first time in your life.
But you often stayed with him. Nearly attached at the hip. You often crashed on his couch.
(Or in his bedâ the nights that youâd fall asleep watching movies in his living room, only to wake up curled in his bed, and find that heâd taken the couch. Sometimes you nap there, while heâs teaching. His cats join you, curled by your legs, sprawling and taking up space.
He never wakes you when he finds you like this.)
And your training had been non-stop for those two years, a rush to get you your provisional licence so that you could patrol with him and then a rush to get your official hero licence, too.
They needed heroes now more than ever. Especially with the fall of All Might. The rising of the League of Villains.
Two of whom, youâd just run into.
Shigaraki Tomuraâs blood is currently being cleaned from your neck. It should frighten you more. He should frighten you more, but he doesnât.
Heâs only two or so years older than you. You feel like you couldâve known him, couldâve seen him in and out of orphanages and foster homes with you. You feel like maybe you wouldâve talked to him. Another young face forgotten by society.
He canât hurt you, not with his Quirk anyways.
âI didnât want them to get away,â you finally answer him, your voice raw, probably from nearly being strangled. .
Shouta sighs, dragging the cloth over your neck gently, like youâre something fragile, âYou canât take two of our most notorious criminals on by yourself.â
âI wasnât by myself,â you counter, tilting your head off and to the side, offering up your throat. It feels vulnerable, with him so near.
This is how things usually go. Shouta fusses. You give him a hard time. Heâs always scolding you for some reason. And youâve never had that attention before, never had someone that cared about what you did or how you acted, never had anyone to care if you rushed into danger. No one has ever reprimanded you the way he does.
You like it. You crave it.
And itâs not like he can ground you or stick you in detention. Youâre not one of his little students. Youâre not his daughter. Youâre an adult, so all you get is a stern talking to while he cleans you up.
You like to remind him of this a lot.
What are you going to do? Ground me? You smirk when you say it, lift your eyes up to his, Iâm not your daughter, Shouta.
Maybe you say it too often. More than you should, almost calling attention to your relationship with him, what it might be, or is not.
Not one of your students, either, you tell him slyly.
There is an eleven year age difference between you and Shouta.
You donât think eleven years is so bad in hindsight. But you canât decide if youâre too fresh faced for him, canât decide where you sit in his eyes.
He takes care of you like a child sometimes, takes care of the child in you that was never cared for. He looks after you, cooks you breakfastâ knows your favorite foods, knows what you wonât eat. Sometimes, he will swipe those foods from your plate and bring them to his. He dresses your wounds. Makes you ice your bruises.
He also lets you sleep in his bed. His clothes, too. Heâs bundled you in coats and sweaters, you have at least two of them sitting on the floor of your bedroom now. His eyes linger on you, on your form in your catsuit that you wear for hero work.
He practically comes home to you.
You canât decide if he sees you as a child or an adult. Canât decide if he sees his students in you, someone to be nurtured and encouraged, or if he sees you as mature, as his partner.
You donât think he can decide either.
âYou know what I mean,â he responds slowly and heâs so close that you can see his dark lashes fanning across his cheek. His scar is a crescent moon on his angular face. You can smell teakwood, mahogany, a little lavender, maybe. Some sweat. Itâs familiar. Itâs his.
Itâs a comfort, you realize, your muscles finally easing. Adrenaline slowly begins to slide away from you, leaving you a little bereft, a little cold, so you cling to the comfort of Shouta. His large, rough palm at your throat, his low, rumbling voice.
âYouâre too reckless still. I know your Quirk requires you to get close, but you canât just go barrelling for enemies and hope youâre strong enough to hold tight to them.â Shouta tells you, âAnd you need to remember people can hurt you without their Quirks, too.â
Now the cloth falls away and Shouta leans away fractionally to observe the ring of bruises in the shape of a hand on your neck. He takes your chin in hand, tilts it off to the side to see your throat more clearly.
He sighs lightly, wary, âIâll get you some ice. Does it hurt?â
He finally steps away from you and you have the absurd notion to bring him back. You think itâs the adrenaline wearing off, the sudden neediness, the buzz in your brain slowing, fizzling out to a whine.
You turn to face the mirror behind you, to examine the bruise.
Itâs almost perfect, the press of his hand into your skin. Marked. Like a collar of fingers, the shape of his palm.
Anyone else would be dead.
His eyes were so red. You can still see the tilt of the scar on his lip, pulled into a sneer.
You can see the shape of all five fingers pressed deeply into your skin now, a reminder of him that will linger for awhile.
You reach up with a careful hand to press experimentally against the mottled skin, hissing a little at how tender it is.
âItâs a little sore,â you tell him, turning back around, but he is already disappearing from the bathroom.
âShower,â he commands over his shoulder, âIâll make us food. You can ice it after.â
âI need clothes,â you call back, but in a moment, he has already returned with a sweatshirt of his, like he knew you would askâ itâs black, crewneck, soft on the inside. Grey joggers, the ones with the tie at the waist, so that you can fit them to you.
Youâve worn these clothes before. Theyâre familiar to you in the same way your favorite book is, in the same way your pillow is.
And then Shouta is gone again, bathroom door clicking shut to offer you privacy. You stare at the door for a moment, at where he once was. And now youâre alone, with your draining adrenaline, and his clothes in your arms.
You turn on the shower, strip carefully. There is some blood soaked into the collar of your hero uniform.
When you shut your eyes beneath the scalding stream of water, you see the silver dash of his hair. You see the look in his eyes, after Shouta had told him that you could nullify Quirks with your touchâ that strange expression, half curious, half wild.
Like he couldnât believe you were real.
His hands were warm at your throat.
You fit your hand against your neck the way he had.
You wonder if itâs the first time heâs touched anyone with all five of his fingers. You wonder if anyone ever touches him willingly.
You wonder about what it mustâve been like, as a child, to not hold your toys or your pets or your parents with all that you can. With tiny, frightened fists.
You used to cling to anything, anyone.
Youâd learned the hard way, but you couldnât imagineâ
You shouldnât be sympathizing with him. You should be frightened. You should be worried about what he wants to do next, what heâd been doing that you hadnât been able to stop. You take your hand from your throat like itâs burned you.
You scrub hard at your skin, as if it will clean away your thoughts, as if it will all just rinse down the drain in a swirl.
You shut the water off. You dress in Shoutaâs clothes. You are careful not to find your reflection in the mirror, lest you see those bruises again. When you emerge from the steamed bathroom, you wander, bare foot and quiet to the kitchen.
Shouta stands at the stove, shoulders slumped slightly, hair pulled away to expose the curve of his neck. He stirs something at the stove. One of his cats, the sweet calico, Kyoko, is rubbing her head against his shin in a desperate plea for attention. Her tail is botched and sheâs missing a bit of her right ear, but you still call her pretty when you rub your finger to her cheek.
She chirps at him, before throwing her head into his legs again.
You watch as Shouta murmurs to her, glancing down, you think he asks if sheâs hungry. Maybe something about how sweet she is, too.
The window above the kitchen sink glows softly with the light of night in a city. Gold streetlights. The dash of the moon. The occasional, meandering car on the road. The lights in the kitchen are warm and muted, too. Itâs cozy, something you never had growing up but always dreamed of.
You donât know why, but an ache settles somewhere inside of you. A little bubble of happiness that is twinged with melancholy. You want to go to him, to push your forehead into his chest for attention, too, want to be wrapped in the warmth of his arms. You suddenly feel deeply understanding of the little cat at his feet, canât stand to hear her small cries for attention anymore.
You move to snag Kyoko, who immediately begins to purr once her little head is tucked beneath your chin. You hold her tight, cradle her to your body to soothe her. Her happy purrs rumble against your chest. The two of you peak over Shoutaâs shoulder at what heâs cooking.
Soup with mushrooms and green onions. Steamy and savory smelling.
You realize he made something easy like soup for your throat and that ache inside you only grows, takes root until you think it will spread through all your limbs, all your body. And you will just be a girl with a pit inside her, with the roots of joyful melancholy. Maybe it will bloom through your skin and you will be consumed with flowers.
âSmells good,â you tell him and he glances down to you and Kyoko. You catch the faintest lift of his lips into a smile. He has such a nice smile, if heâd ever share it.
How selfish, you think, to covet such a thing.
âWill you feed the cats? They havenât had dinner yet.â
You nod, looking down at Kyoko as you ask her if sheâs hungry. You set her down again, but she quickly weaves between your legs as you go to the fridge to pull out the cans of food.
The moment a can is opened, the other two come from their hiding places, dashing for the kitchen. The other girl, Yuki, whose a sleek white cat with a missing eye, twines herself around your legs, too, when she realizes youâre going to feed her. Her one, shining blue eye peers up at you expectantly. And finally, Kitaro, the tomcat of the house, whose lithe and black like a little panther, but covered in scars, saunters over.
He is the most temperamental of the cats. He usually swats and hisses at everyone, including Shouta from time to time, but he is terribly fond of you. He chitters at you, flashing sharp little teeth and you smile down at him.
Theyâre eager when you finally get the food into their bowls and set it down for them.
And the night progresses quietly. Shouta showers as the soup simmers on the stove. When he returns, hair damp and messily braided away from his face, you eat together at the kitchen island, sitting on stools. Your throat does hurt, and youâre thankful for the gentle heat of the soup.
Shouta also makes you ice it after youâve both eaten. You settle on the couch afterwards, curling up into one corner. Shouta sits at the other end, glasses perched on the strong bridge of his nose, laptop on his thighs, school papers spread out across his coffee table. You share a blanket, one that youâve pulled up to your shoulders as you lay down, but only reaches part of his legs. Still, if you moved too much, you could probably feel the press of his legs to yours. You could tangle them together.
You donât. Instead you curl your legs into yourself, even if it jostles Kitaro a little, who is laying in the crux of your knees.
The TV plays softly in the background. The rustle of papers, the quiet clacking of the keys on his computer, the occasional scribbling of pen all soothe you, lull you gently. You doze, eyelids growing heavy.
You curl a small fist around the blanketâ itâs your favorite of Shoutaâs. Itâs soft beneath your touch, the fabric bunching between your fingers and you think of him again.
With his startling eyes and wiry frame. With his warm hands.
As you fall asleep, you wonder faintly, almost sadly, if youâre the first thing heâs fully touched without losing in a long time.
***
It has been weeks since Tomura met you and he is still dreaming of you.
He is already a fitful sleeper, but now that he sees your face behind his fluttering lids, he has resolved himself to staying up most nights. When he does sleep, unconsciousness sweeping in to claim him, he sees you there; dark and harsh and brilliant in his mindâs eye. Sometimes you are moving, a slash of brutality against his hazy dreams. Sometimes you sit in front of him, cross-legged, your face surprisingly calm.
The world around you is falling apart in these ones, the very fabric of the sky decaying, splitting at the seams to crumble away. Itâs all muted, smoky grey and pale blue, watercolored to bleed together.
He hates these dreams, where you lift your hand up, palm open to him. Fingers spread wide.
âGive me your hand,â you say, voice coaxing, almost sweet. Your features are relaxed, gentle in a way he shouldnât know. Shouldnât envision.
Tentatively, he offers up his hand to you, watches as you reach out to flatten your palm to his. The touch is a little surprising to him, your hand soft, almost ticklish against that sensitive skin that is so rarely touched. His hollow chest is heaving as he feels it, feels you.
Then, as carefully as possible, you let each of your fingers press to his. His thumb to yours, his pointer, yours. Middles next. Ring fingers pressed like a steeple. Then, finally itâs just both your pinkies, hovering away from each other.
He doesnât know why, but he grows scared. He can feel the way his stomach rolls sickly, the sudden lurch of his heart as your pinkies come together like a promise.
Nothing happens, except you smile fractionally.
âYour hands are so big,â you tell him but his heart is still thundering in the cavern of his chest, still rattling around inside of his treacherous body.
âTheyâre so soft, too.â you tell him and you tilt your head, eyes cutting to his, which shine like twinkling rose quartz with the use of your Quirk, âLike youâve barely used them.â
âI-I canât,â he gets out, âI canât without decaying something.â
âYouâre not decaying me,â you say, your voice barely a whisper, eyes lifting from the two of your hands pressed together to find his face.
âNo,â Tomura agrees shakily, swallowing, âIâm not.â
âWhen was the last time you could do this?â you ask softly, but the moment you do, your features always begin to shutter, blur. Your voice grows strange, layered with a childâs. One that he has not heard in many, many years.
And then itâs his little sisterâs tiny, fragile hand against his.
He tries to lurch away from her but itâs too late. Itâs too late and all of that gore seeps into the grey washed world, bleeds vibrant, horrible color into his dreams. He hates that the image of her falling away into horror, crimson and thick and sickening, is still so sharp in his mind. He hates that he has not been able to fill it with time.
He hates that his brain has not allowed him to forget it, has not repressed or shoved it away for his safety and well-being. He thinks his mind is a traitor.
How is he supposed to live with this?
Some nights, he doesnât think he can.
He clings to his Masterâs words, though, the ones that he takes comfort in. He repeats them like a prayer, a slithering whisper about how he should hold fast to these emotions. To the guilt and the rage and the festering anguish.
He thinks itâs burning a hole through his chest, corrosive and flesh-eating, taking out the tender parts of his body so he is nothing but leanness. So that he is nothing but hollow and starving, crooked and desperate and hungry like some hyena, half deranged with its sloped back and mad yelps and cries. Salivating over scraps.
He thinks of you, wily like a coyote and vicious, small and sharp-toothed and nimble.
Scavengers, the both of you.
He wonders if it hadnât been the heroes that got to you first, would you be like Toga? Or Twice? Dabi? Some marooned child of society, looking to sink their teeth into anything. You had too much grit to be a hero, he thinks.
You wouldâve served better here, with him.
The moment he thinks it, he wishes he hadnât. Wishes he could rip the thought from his own skull and decay it himself.
But he canât.
And it sits there, like a tombstone, like a garden bed.
(If he isnât careful, it will take root inside him and grow. And there is no space for life in a body like his.)
***
Youâre not even patrolling when you catch a glimpse of a black hoodie, a flash of icy silver hair again. One of your hands had been tucked into your own coat pocket, the collar of it upturned to keep out the early autumn chill.
The coffee in your other hand, warm, freshly bought, drops sharply as you watch Shigaraki Tomura round a corner, blending into the people going about their everyday lives. Coffee splatters on the sidewalk. You curse, others glance at you, but dart around you, continuing about their day.
You scoop up the now empty cup, breaking into motion. You shove the cup in the nearest trash, snapping your eyes ahead to try and find his form again. You pick up your pace, trying not to sprint, lest you give yourself away, but also trying to keep up with his long strides.
You round the corner, catch sight of him again. You try to force yourself to not break into a run again.
You knock into someone in your haste, brushing past them. They grumble at you.
You manage a vague apology, eyes ahead, on the back of one of the most wanted villains in the country.
Faintly, you hear Shoutaâs voice in the back of your mind, urging you not to run straight into danger.
You fish for your phone in your pocket blindly, and youâre about to thumb out a text to him, warn him that youâve just spotted Shigaraki again.
Heâs in class now, though, you know it. Itâs doubtful heâll see it. Itâs doubtful heâd see a phone call, too, and the closer you get to Shigaraki, the more that would give you away.
You know Shouta would want you to stay a safe distance away, not to engage. Heâd want you to follow as far as you could and then contact him, return back to UA, return back to your little apartment safely. But then this will be the second time that Shigaraki has slipped from your grasp.
You watch as he slyly ducks into an alleyway.
Shit, you curse. You can either try for Shouta or follow.
Your body moves before your mind does. You follow, disappearing down the yawning mouth of the alleyway, too. You try to be silent, your phone still in hand. But the alleway is quieter, darker, especially the further in you wade. You donât miss that you have now lost the safety of people nearby, too.
Briefly, you wonder which hero is on patrol now for this area, wonder if they could somehow reach youâ
Just before he rounds another corner, he glances over his shoulder.
It seems natural for him, like heâs always wary, always waiting for something to catch up with him.
You freeze as the red slash of his eyes cuts to you.
He almost could look normal, without the severed hand clutched to his face. In the simple, black hoodie. Black jeans and red sneakers. He looks your age. A year or two older. You could see him in college, overworked and exhausted. You could see him at the movies, at the mall.
Once more, you are painfully struck with the idea that he couldâve just been some other teen with nothing to their name. Maybe he was like you, wandering in a world that didnât want him.
But he isnât.
For a moment, neither of you move. His chest heaves strangely, rising and falling rapidly. His eyes are a little wide, almost as if heâs terrified of you, like youâre some ghost come to haunt him.
But then his eyes narrow, a sneer pulling at his lips to reveal the flash of white teeth in the darkened light of the alley, âItâs you,â he hisses, and you are almost surprised that he recognizes you.
You glance to your phone, fingers suddenly twitching. You need to call Shouta, someoneâ
The moment he realizes your intention, he lunges, a blur of movement. You try to sidestep him but he is fast, blindingly so, and his body collides with yours. Heâs all harsh angles, so sharp you could get cut on him if youâre not careful.
You take the brunt of the fall, the wind leaving your body the moment your back hits the pavement with all his weight on you. Your head snaps against the cement and youâre lucky you donât pass out, not as black stars flutter to life in your vision.
Your phone clatters noisily out of your hand, skidding onto the pavement. Youâre certain the screen is at least broken. Still, you force air into your burning body, scramble for your bearings.
You bring your knee up hard into his stomach, using your momentum to shove him enough to get out from beneath him. You twist, crawling towards your phone. Your knees and palms get cut up against the gravel, but you manage to get your phone in hand again.
You scramble to unlock it, to get to Shoutaâs contact, messages, anythingâ
Your ankle is grabbed, lurching you sharply back to him. It scrapes your chin against concrete, making you yelp as your teeth click together. Blood stings to life, slipping down your chin and to the line of your throat.
You grapple with Shigaraki and it feels childish for who he is. Who youâre supposed to be. Youâre both just wrestling for the phone in your hand. It feels absurd until youâre on your back again, belly up and vulnerable, and his body is digging down into the soft parts of you.
You growl in frustration as you stretch your arm away from the two of you, as if that will keep your phone from his grasp. Youâre kicking futilely, too, desperately flailing and wriggling under his weight.
Frantically, you try to find a way out, your body and mind screaming. Think! You demand desperately, come onâ
The line of his neck is by your face, the bend of his shoulder. Heâs stretched above you, reaching for your phone. His teeth are bared in effort as you clutch as tightly as you can, covering as much as you can so he canât get all five of his fingers in it.
You donât have any of your knives on you, no weapons or tools, but something inside you snaps, some survival instinct that lurches forward, yanking free of its bonds. Itâs a violent, twisted thing, ugly and shameless and desperate.
You reach with your free hand to lay fingernails into flesh. You will become your own weapon.
You feel his hiss more than you hear it. You dig in deeper, scrape sharply and roughly, tearing up skin beneath your nails.
And then you sink your teeth into the vulnerable juncture between his neck and his shoulder.
A bark of a laugh ruptures out of him.
Itâd be ridiculous if you werenât so maddened, so full of fear and white hot adrenaline.
You feel half wild, forcing your teeth into the meat of him, harder, deeperâ
The warm, copper tang of blood begins to blur into your mouth and you force yourself to stay, to bite harderâ
He growls now, though, in pain, in frustration. You can feel his hands clawing at your fingers, trying to force them up so he can get to the phone.
You donât let go of him, jaw locked, as more blood fills your mouth. You feel part animal, near franticâ
His fingers, strong, dexterous, shove at your wrist and you yelp as it twists dangerously.
âCâmon,â he rasps, âLet go and I wonât break your wrist.â
You kick uselessly, but stubbornly donât let go.
He makes a sharp movement and you jolt beneath him as vicious, searing pain rips through your wrist, up your arm. Your hand goes limp with the burst of jarring pain.
But you bite down harder, screaming between your clenched teeth, between all the blood in your mouth, and into his shoulder. Itâd be disgusting if you werenât in so much pain, if your brain wasnât quick-wired to survive, to fight.
The moment your phone is out of your grasp, he wrenches himself away from you. A noise of pain is forced from him as your teeth rip through his flesh, as he tears away from you.
Once your touch is gone, your phone slips to dust between his fingers.
Fuck.
You scramble up, too, spit his blood out from your mouth and at his feet. Youâre sure you look insane, all horror and heat, lips dashed with crimson, teeth flashing dangerously when you level him with a glare. Youâre sure your eyes are feverish and rosy, the color they bleed into when your Quirk is being used.
Itâs strange, though, the way heâs regarding you, like there is something in you to be picked apart. His eyes are garnet, flashing as they fly over you, searching, searching, searchingâ like you have the answer to a question heâs been asking his whole life.
You take a sick pride in the gash at his slender neck, the open wound from your teeth, your strength, your terror.
Youâre both a little breathless, as still as predators, as still as prey with your heaving chests. You have your broken wrist, which throbs painfully, cutting through your adrenaline addled mind to warn of your danger, curled into your body protectively.
You should run or shout for help. No phone to call Shouta, to call for anyone. Broken wrist. Facing off with one of the most dangerous and wanted villains. Your odds arenât good.
But your odds were never good, life never threw you luck. You got by with bared teeth and wit and your sharp-toothed instincts.
You wipe your blood-slick mouth with the back of your good hand and decide youâre not done with him. You lunge for him. He sidesteps, nimble and lean, grabbing your arm to swiftly wrench it behind your back at an odd angle.
You cry out, the pain lancing up your arm, ringing through your broken wrist in a way that damn near makes you sob.
âShould I break your arm, too?â he asks and there is almost glee in his voice as he twists sharply, pulls you into his chest and wrestles you still. The pain makes your vision blurry and wobbly, tears pricking to life.
He is solid behind you, his chest pressed to your back, with your twisted arm between you two. You dig for training or rational thought, but all thatâs coming up is your fear and pain. All thatâs coming up is the instinct to thrash, to escape.
âCareful,â he hisses in your ear, his grasp on you tight, unforgiving, âOr youâll break it yourself.â
You donât heed his warning and the moment you squirm again, fighting and thrashing in his grip, there is a sickening snap that rattles through your arm.
Your cry is piercing, guttural, echoing down the alley. Bouncing off stone.
Shigaraki drops your broken arm, âI warned you,â he scolds, loping around to watch you fall to your knees, to try and bite back sobs and whimpers that are forcing their way out.
âYouâve a lot to learn, donât you?â he asks, observing you, the tilting of his head reveals the sharp line of his jaw as he gazes down at you.
Still, you try to force yourself up, stand on shaking legs. Your arm is limp at your side, the pain seering, nearly overwhelming.
But you stand.
Shigaraki snorts, half amused, the scar on his lip hitching upwards.
Youâre prepared to fight again, when a figure appears in the mouth of the alleway.
âWhatâs going on over there?â they shout, âWe heard screaming.â
Itâs police and before you can even open your mouth, Shigaraki is disappearing, melting into the shadows and easing away silently.
He gets away.
Shouta is livid with you. He chews you out the entire time that Recovery Girl heals your broken bones. By the time sheâs done, youâre still a little sore and Shouta still isnât done lecturing you.
He makes you dinner, though. And after falling asleep on his couch, you wake up in his bed by morning.
And thereâs the remnants of a dream caught in the back of your mind, thin like cobwebs, translucent and shimmering like glass and gossamer. It slips from you the way water does, the way Shigaraki didâ silent and deadly and leaving you with something broken, misplaced.
***
Shouta is harder on you in training lately. You canât tell if heâs punishing you or trying to teach you a hard lesson. But heâs rougher when he spars with you, he doesnât hesitate to make it hurt more, to show you that you have to think.
âYour instincts are sharpâ you fight dirty when you need to, but donât lose rational thought in the process.â He tells you after heâs knocked your feet cleanly from beneath you and youâre staring, dizzy and winded, up at the ceiling. âIt could be the difference between life or death.â
And then his hand is being thrust into your vision, large and scarred and strong. You blow your hair from your face and reach up to take his offered hand. Itâs warm. Rough. He pulls you up to your feet easily.
For a moment, your breath is caught in your throat and youâre looking up at him through your lashes. His hand is still wrapped over yours, dwarfs it completely. You think he even pauses, glances down at you like this, tousled, with your chest rising and falling.
He drops your hand, âLetâs go again,â he says, giving you space. You let loose a breath, watch him as he turns from you, as he puts distance between you two.
He kicks your ass. Again and again and again. Youâre well acquainted with the floor at this point. Your body is littered in bruises. Youâre aching and exhausted and can hardly think straight. Your legs shake with effort when you whine, âCanât we be done?â
âNo,â is his clipped response as he settles into another loose fighting stance.
âShouta, Iâm tiredââ
âIs that what youâll say to villains when you donât want to fight anymore?â he asks, just before he moves, a flash of darkness, swift and sure. You barely dodge his fist, the second strike to your stomach makes you twist away, trying to keep on the balls of your feet. Nimble, quick.
You huff, âYeah, I said that to Shigaraki and he let me go.â
You donât catch the quirking of his lips in slight amusement, not as you leap to latch your legs around his waist, hooking your arms around his neck to pull and throw all your momentum into flipping him onto his back, onto the ground.
He grunts as you exclaim in victory, âHah!â
Itâs short lived, though, because the moment the two of you are on the floor, heâs grappling with you, twisting until heâs got you under him.
His knee digs into your stomach to keep you down. You wheeze, struggling, worming a hand to fist in his hair and pull in some petty attempt at getting out.
Shouta makes an irritated noise, before reaching around to seize your wrist, fingers digging into a pressure point to make you yelp and let go.
You thrash, just as he wrestles your arms down onto the ground, straddling your hips. Pinned.
You groan in frustration, giving up, kicking childishly as you say, âLet me go.â
âYouâre a brat,â he responds, squeezing your wrists, âAnd no. Figure it out. Iâve taught you how to get out of this. Think, instead of pulling my hair like a child.â
You push against the hold he has on your wrists, trying to dislodge him. But his weight on you is too strong, too heavy.
âShoutaââ you whine.
âFigure it out and weâll be done.â he responds, laying his weight into you more.
You suck in a breath, forcing yourself to look up at him, the lines of his shoulders. His arm. Sluggishly, your mind works something out.
You shove your hips up into a bridge, sending him forward, destabilizing him just as you slide your arms down against the floor to break his hold. You latch tight to his middle. Tight so thereâs no room, tight so he has to focus on balancing himself with your weight. Your temple digs into his chest, just as you trap his arm.
You twist, he goes rolling onto his shoulder without the support of his arm. You shove him onto his back.
Then youâre seated atop him, chest heaving, hands at his throat, one twisting his face away threateningly.
He smiles finally, small, but enough to have you easing up.
âGood,â he says, voice low, and the praise turns warm inside of you, gooey. He taps your thigh in request to be let up.
You ease off him, rolling onto your back again. Tired. Your whole body feels like itâs throbbing, like itâs all one tender bruise. You sprawl out on the floor.
âCâmon,â he murmurs, easing up and once more offering his hands to help you up. Reluctantly, you take them, but you make him do most of the work in pulling you up to your feet. He huffs at your dramatics, especially as you go limp, forcing him to take your weight. You slump against his chest, letting your knees give out so he has to hold you up.
âCarry me,â you whine and he snorts.
âNo,â he says but thereâs something amused in his tone, maybe fond, âIâm going to let you go and youâre going to fall.â
âNo you wonât.â you respond, perhaps a little too arrogantly, because he does let you go a moment, just to scare you. You yelp, but before you can drop, he has you again, strong arms hoisting you back up.
And he laughs, low and soft, as you claw at his shirt, as he forces you back up onto your feet.
You could almost feel the sound rumble inside his broad chest and it makes you want to cling to him. It makes you want to be close, to be held tight in his arms. Something about it makes you desperate for his touch, for his smile, for his praise.
You feel young, holding him like this, looking up at him with wide eyes. You feel small and vulnerable.
But he rights you and you finally force yourself to stand. He lets you go. You wish he wouldnât.
âIâm showering first,â you declare, reaching for your water bottle, heading for the door of the training room.
âYou have your own shower, you know.â he responds dryly, but you shoot him a frown over your shoulder and he rolls his eyes. Itâs half-hearted. He doesnât fight you on this more. No, you think he likes having you around.
For entertainment, in the least.
And thatâs how most of your evenings goâ thereâs a routine in them that is comforting. Itâs yours and his. You two also patrol together, sometimes eat late dinners and become night owls. Sometimes you catch lunch with him and you sit perched on the corner of his desk until his students trickle back into his classroom.
Theyâve come to like you, mostly because you give their teacher a hard time. Your banter with him amuses them.
And maybe thereâs something about him when youâre around, a little more open. Gentler. Perhaps more agreeable.
Sometimes you drop by to disrupt his class momentarily. His students try to take advantage of it, try to get you to hang around longer. Shouta always ushers you out, though.
You donât see Shigaraki again, not for a few more weeks. But strangely, when youâre out on your own, you look for him. Sometimes you think he might round a corner, in that black hoodie. With red sneakers. Sometimes you think youâll just turn and see his eyes, so ruby, catching yours.
Youâre not scared of him. Youâre not looking over your shoulder like youâre frightened heâll be there, heâs not some monster in the dark. Just an itch you canât scratch, an unanswered question. You have a curiosity for him that you canât shake.
Whatâs someone so young doing with so much spite he wants to tear the world apart with it?
So you let yourself look for him when youâre all alone. When youâre on patrol with Shouta.
But time goes on and your life feels normal, almost simple. Stable in a way you have never known. It almost makes you apprehensive.
A change finally happens in the form of a student following Shouta into the training room one afternoon. His hair is a messy tuft of indigo, his eyes lidded, the same shade of purple. Heâs lean, though relaxed. He almost looks as exhausted as Shouta. Thereâs something a little comical about it, the two of them, tired-looking and fixing you with similar stares.
âThis is Shinsou Hitoshi,â Shouta introduces, âHeâs a student from the General Department who I have agreed to train. He may eventually shadow us on patrols but will not be able to use his Quirk, since he doesnât have his provisional license yet.â
And then Shouta gives your name as an introduction, âSheâs my,â and thereâs a fraction of a pause, a minute debate in his mind before saying, âPartner. Youâll be training with her most often.â
Iâm your sidekick, you think, but you donât dare say it. Something inside you twists, warms slightly.
You ask about Shinsouâs Quirk, who seems reluctant at first to say it and once he does, once he tells you that he can brainwash people, you understand why. That is a Quirk that youâre sure people judged him over. Youâre certain that society has not been kind to a Quirk like that. You can practically hear their sneers, their whispers.
But when you donât give any adverse reaction, he seems to loosen up a little. Even more when you inform him you have another Quirk that nullifies others.
Shouta doesnât waste time and he throws the poor kid into training with the two of you. And just like that, it then becomes the three of you. Shinsou joins each of your training sessions after school. You end up sharing snacks with him during small breaks, trail mix and granola bars. You bond over how stern Shouta can be. He snorts at your teasing.
Heâs a good kid.
You think even Shouta is pleased, you think thereâs something fond in him, when itâs just the three of you. You know he loves his students, despite seeming so aloof and guarded, but he seems more open in these moments. He laughs a little easier, though itâs still rare, but the sound is sweet to your ears. You love having someone to bond with, to roll your eyes to when Shouta is being a hard ass, to torment, too.
Plus, itâs not so bad to win more sparring sessions finally, even if itâs a little cheap since Shinsou is only fifteen. Still a student, still training. Youâve never officially beaten Shouta, just gotten the upper hand for a while. Still, you take what you can get with him.
You always take what you can get with Shouta.
But this part of your life, when youâre busy, when you spend your afternoons with Shouta and Shinsou and your evenings patrolling, are peaceful. Whole and warm and simple. Theyâre golden in your memory, almost sweet, like the halcyon rays of sun before the hungry, hurting storm clouds roll in.
You just wish you hadnât needed to go and ruin it.
You wish you could even say that you take it all back, everything that happened after this time, wish you could say you regret it.
But you donât and maybe thatâs the worst part of it all.
***
The next time Tomura sees you, it is mid-morning. There is a chill in the air, a bite of the cold to come. The sun is out, though, bright and casting you in its brilliance. Youâre not on patrol. Youâre just walking, with your hands tucked into your coat pockets, all alone.
The cityâs quiet bustle is enough for him to blend in, but not enough to bother him. He needs to go to the store to steal food again. He and the rest of the League are practically homeless. Foodless. Penniless. Theyâre all growing thin and wane and snappish.
Theyâre hungryâ for opportunity, for more than this society will allow.
He has no business watching you from afar, not when he still needs food. Not when he could be spending his time and energy elsewhere. As it stands, he has no idea what heâs doing when he begins to trail after you.
Youâre oblivious, brows furrowed lightly on your otherwise peaceful resting face. You dip your chin, burrow down into the warmth of your scarf against the wind that picks up. Tomura shivers. His hands are near icy despite the partial gloves heâs wearing to keep himself from decaying anything.
He shouldnât but he follows as you walk into a nearby park. Every step towards you is another further from the store, further than what he should be doing.
Heâs careful, keeps his steps even and sure, far enough away so that you donât notice him. Is he stalking? Is that what this is?
His stomach growls. His teeth chatter as his body wracks with another shiver.
You look so warm, so sweetly oblivious.
He feels like an animal, watching as you settle onto a park bench. The tree that arcs above your head is filled with sun kissed leaves beginning to melt into shades of yellow and orange, little dashes of red. It casts playful shadows over you, scattering you in itâs light and dark. Youâre like a painting, lively and entrancing, this slice of something beautiful and surreal. Too bright and vivid for the real world.
He feels himself scowl.
What does someone like him know about beauty, anyways?
He traces the curve of your cheek with his eyes, the gentle lines of your lips. The arc of your lashes. The way the light makes your eyes glimmer and he thinks of you in the dark with him, with your eyes blazing fuchsia, all sharp and defiant.
(Heâd thought you were beautiful then, too, the same way catastrophes are. The chaos of you is sweet to him.)
He watches you pull out a phoneâ shiny and newâ and smile at the screen for a moment. Just a small tilting of your lips, something he bares his teeth at.
Something heâs seen in his dreams.
He hates you, he tries to tell himself, he hates you and he wants to tear you apart. He wants to wipe that smile from your face. He thinks of your screamâ thinks of you beneath him, livid and thrashing.
He thinks of your teeth in his skin.
Tomura watches you tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear delicately.
He thinks of you in his dreams, with your palm up and offered to him. Your fingers are gentle when they press against his, when you compare your hands to his. You are caught in his misty dreams, tucked away in a place of his mind he wishes he could rip out.
He stands, rooted in place, observing you.
His stomach cramps with hunger again, desperate and aching. Another painful shiver wracks through his body.
He wants to put his cold hands on you, leech the warmth from your body. He wants to sink his teeth into your skin.
Your phone gets tucked away and you pick your eyes up suddenly. He isnât expecting it, but as if you can feel his gaze on you, heavy and blazing, your eyes cut to his.
He watches your face, the way your mouth falls open in slight shock, the rounding out of your eyes. But then all that gentleness sharpensâ your brows furrow, your lips pull back to reveal teeth. You raise your hackles.
He doesnât know why, but he smiles.
The sickle curve of his lips slices across his features and you jolt into standing.
He arches a brow, challenging.
You glance around the citizens milling about, the peacefulness of this park. You glance at the phone in your hand, then at him.
He could almost laugh because he watches you try to decide what to doâ youâre too expressive, he wants to mock. Itâs all written right there on your face. Youâre too inexperienced, too, unsure how to handle situations without your handler to guide you. Are you going to cause a scene? Would you endanger a civilian by rushing for him now? Going to call for help?
Whatâs the heroic thing to do?
In your indecision, Tomura allows himself to turn away and it is supposed to be offensive to you. Youâre not much of a threat to him, not when you canât decide what to do. Not when all you know how to do is bite and kick like a child.
He heads back to the store. He doesnât have to look behind him to know that youâre following him. Thatâs fine. Heâs gotten away easily each time heâs encountered you and this time will be no different.
When he walks into the store, heâs blasted with warmth finally, the artificial, stale kind. But heâll take what he can get. He notices that you follow him but surprisingly, you stay outside. He can see your form by the shop windows.
He steals what he needs to; quick, small foods that he can shove into pockets. He tries to get as much as possible. In the least, so he can share with Toga. He doesnât care about her in any substantial or friendly way, but he cares less for the likes of Dabi or Spinner.
(Besides, thereâs an unspoken agreement between all of them that Toga eats before them. Maybe itâs because sheâs a kid, he doesnât care.)
And when he exits, youâre right outsideâ on the phone, though, and it almost seems normal. You cooly follow after him, lest you frighten the poor citizens around you. He thinks he can hear you quietly arguing on the phone with someone.
He isnât foolish enough to lead you to where heâs going, so he leads you elsewhere. Down a few alleyways, some twists and turns. When he gets tired of your stalking, he finally stops, looks over his shoulder at you.
âMade up your mind yet?â he asks and he can faintly hear the tinny, faraway voice on your phone shouting at you to do not engage, do you hear me?
Your name is said over the phone when you donât respond.
That piece of information settles into him for a moment. He wished heâd never heard it, never learned your name.
You have the audacity to end the call youâre on. The voice scolding you now gone, forcing the silence of the alleyway to stretch between you two. He knows he needs to get away soon, before all your reinforcements arrive.
He isnât surprised when you rush for him with a vengeance. He does a lot of sidestepping, quick dodging from your swift attacks.
He feels as if youâve gotten faster, keener.
You land a succession of jabsâ theyâre not particularly hard or debilitating, but it takes him a moment to right himself. However, when you dance away from him, you hold something upâ
Itâs one of the granola bars heâd stolen, one from his pocket. You blink at it. Then at him.
At the same moment that you realize heâd only stolen food, he realizes that youâre an excellent pickpocket. He narrows his eyes at you.
An expression flickers over your face. A wince, almost. He doesnât understand why.
You toss the granola bar back at him. He catches it quick, reflexively keeping his pinky lifted away, despite his gloves.
And you donât rush at him again. You frown.
He bares his teeth to hiss something at youâ is this your idea of kindness? Is this your idea of being a hero? Being oh so benevolent to the starving villain? Do you think thatâs going to change him?
The sound of feet on pavement growing near makes him pause his suddenly violent need to teach you a lesson. He shouldnât waste time with you. Heâs already wasted too much.
You donât follow him when he finally turns to leave, to slip away again. You stare after him, he can feel your eyes pressed between his shoulder blades. He disappears and no one follows him. It feels strange, he feels cagey and pent up. He tears at the skin of his neck with his fingers, opening cuts, lashing out on himself in frustration.
He hates you, he seethes, scratching furiously, he wishes he could destroy you.
However, what he wonât find out until heâs returned to the runned down place theyâre pretending to call homebase for awhile, is that you also swiped his phone. Just a burner phone. Thereâs nothing on it that will aid you in your search for him. Heâs too careful. But itâs annoying nonetheless since he needs to get his hands on another one.
More than that, it offers him another piece to the puzzle of you that he did not ask for.
Youâre a thief, he realizes. Or perhaps were one, at some point.
And though youâve only taken his phone, it feels as if youâve stolen something else from him, too, just left him with this new facet of you.
This new piece of you that he didnât ask for, that he wishes he could stop thinking about.
You had let Shigaraki get away.
And when Shouta had gotten to you, eyes flying over you wildly to make sure you were okay this time, youâd had a pained expression on your face.
Heâd been about to scold you again, really lay into you for directly disobeying him and hanging up on him.
But youâd reached into your pocket and held up a cellphone, old, somewhat outdated. âI stole his phone,â youâd told him, but there had been a wobble to your voice. Something he caught immediately.
âWhatâs wrong? What happened?â heâd asked, coming around to face you, to place two, large hands on your shoulders.
You had swallowed hard.
âHe just wanted food.â
âWhat?â Shouta had asked, ducking his head down in an attempt to force you to meet his eyes. Youâd felt like a child again beneath his gaze, beneath those warm, heavy hands.
You had blinked, tried to force away the feelings rising in you like a swelling bruise. Youâd felt tender, suddenly fragile and aching.
âHeâd stolen food. Just food.â you had answered. And Shouta had understood then, drawing in a slow breath.
You hadnât been expecting it, but heâd pulled you into a hug then, pulled you right into his broad chest. His arms had gone around you, slow but tight, broad palm moving against your back soothingly.
Youâd ducked your head, let yourself fall into his comfort, his safety. Youâd sniffled, tried not to suddenly burst into tearsâ because of Shigaraki or because Shouta had treated you so gently in that moment, you hadnât known why.
Only that Shouta had said, âLetâs go home,â and you had.
And heâd been quiet with you the rest of the day, soothing and coaxing, his voice a soft rumble.
Youâd fallen asleep against his shoulder that night, feeling as if there was something squirming in your heart. Something you were too scared to name.
But youâd dreamt of him again, of his hungry, scarlet eyes and wiry frame. Of the way heâd watched you, envious of your warmth.
And not for the first time, youâd wondered about him, wondered why it was you, now, tucked away in the world of heroes, while he slipped away into the underbelly, hiding from a world that wouldnât accept him.
A world that wouldnât feed him, the same one youâd been pulled from, just as desperate, with stolen food stuffed into your bloated pockets, and so much bitterness you could almost taste it between your teeth.
***
Tomura doesnât know what heâs doing as he stares at the library computer with your name typed into the search bar. He tells himself heâs just curious. He just wants to see what he can find on you for his next encounter with you.
But there isnât much known about you, just a small town news article about your debut as a hero, as Eraserheadâs sidekick. The article says remarkably little; your Quirk cancels out other Quirks with a touch. You show a lot of promise to become a hero that works behind the scene, like Eraserhead. It suggests that perhaps youâll even follow in your mentorâs shoes and become a teacher at UA eventually.
Thereâs a photo of you; itâs while youâre moving, presumably fighting, because your smile is sharp edged and victorious. Your hair is a dramatic splash behind you, mussed with battle. Thereâs a scrape on your cheek. You look every bit like one of their newly sculpted heroes.
Tomura scratches at his neck, eyeing your face; the one that has come to haunt him. That has made him desperate enough to search your name, search for anything about you.
You smile back at him, like youâve won something.
He growls in irritation, standing from the computer and stalking out.
He tells himself his little interest in you is harmless, something that he can drop whenever he wants. Itâs not a problem.
But itâs the same way he tells himself that heâs not stalking you when he watches you through the window of a cafe or ends up discovering what store you favor and what path you like to take through the park when you arenât patrolling.
Itâs not stalking when he even figures out your usual patrol schedule or how you take to the roofs to watch the world from above like a bird.
Itâs harmless, he tells himself, harmless in the same way hungry dogs areâ whining and crying and begging until they decide to bite.
***
There is a distinct shift the next time you encounter Shigaraki.
It is often easy to forget that villains are human. Many heroes do itâ itâs probably easier that way for them. It allows them to focus, to not feel remorse if they hit a little too hard. They can forget if theyâre a little too rough.
Or why they are the way they are. Everyone likes to condemn the thief, but not wonder why they were stealing. Itâs easier that way, when everything is clear and cut cleanly between good and bad.
Youâd steal, too, if you were hungry, youâd told Shouta, morals are a privilegeâ you can have them when youâre fed.
So itâs easy for you, horribly easy, to see villains as people, to not see them as singularly evil but a culmination of their tragedies.
Monsters are made, not born, and everyone likes to forget who is making them.
Shouta used to tell you that it wasnât a fault of yours, to see people as people, no matter how terrible. He thought it was a strength, that it was admirable. Every hero should do it, perhaps it would teach them something.
But you donât think the strangely playful tone of your next encounter (or the next or the next or the next) with Shigaraki is what he was referring to. The trouble with seeing him as just a person, is that then he seems like just a man around your age, then. You forget who heâs supposed to be, what heâs supposed to have done, when youâre trading quips and catching hits.
You think he allows you to spot him, since no other hero has had nearly the amount of encounters that youâve had with him. Or maybe heâs following you. The thought crosses your mind and it should frighten youâ you should mention it to Shouta. Especially since it almost seems like youâre crying wolf at this point.
For a while you donât call for reinforcements as quickly as you should. Maybe you let him get away each time, you donât fight as hard as you could. And you donât think heâs fighting as viciously, either. Heâs not trying to kill you. Youâre not trying to capture him.
You donât play nice, though. Heâs not gentle with you. Youâre not particularly careful with him, either. But itâs exciting, the rush of adrenaline, the sharp lilt of his smile to counter the mischievous glint of your eyes. It feels like an unspoken game of cat and mouse, following each other around until you both collide like reckless stars.
You separate sharply, too, all of it brutalâ the coming together, the falling apart.
You both speak the same language, you think, something about the violence of it all, the fight of it all thatâs familiar and knowing. Like there was never any choice in your lives, like it always meant to be spitting out blood and getting back up.
Eventually, you stop calling for reinforcements at all. At some point, you stop telling Shouta of your encounters.
You donât linger on it, donât dare contemplate it, lest guilt latches onto you, weighs you down, drags you into crawling. You feign some foolish form of ignorance, like you donât know whatâs happening during these encounters. Youâre still fighting, arenât you? Itâs not like youâre helping him in any capacity.
You pretend not to notice the thread between you and Shigaraki that youâre pulling on, pretend not to notice the way itâs tethering you to him. You pretend itâs not going to eventually suffocate, that itâs not dangerous.
(But some days you have a hard time looking at Shouta, especially after everything heâs done for you, everything he does for youâ)
Your teeth click together when your back is slammed against the drywall of an abandoned store. It cracks beneath your weight slightly, just as Shigarakiâs forearm bares down hard against your throat.
You gasp and wretch for breath, your toes barely on the ground as he keeps you pinned with his arm. You claw at him, fingernails digging into flesh.
He leers closer, âYou donât learn lessons, do you?â
Heâs smiling, though, regarding you in amusement as you squirm and struggle.
You manage to knee him in the stomach, enough for him to drop you, so you can suck in large lungfuls of air.
If you were really fighting to hurt him, fighting to win, youâd kick him while heâs doubled over, move fast so he canât get back up. But itâs more fun when itâs closeâ like little kids wrestling, you feel young and dumb with him. You feel reckless in the same way you did as a teenager, playing chicken near the train tracks with a bunch of other lost kids, when you used to dare each other to walk on the edge of high bridges and buildings. Everything was cut to close.
You had nothing then, so there was nothing to lose.
You try to tackle him instead, sending you both rolling onto the floor filled with debrisâ you hiss in pain as your palm catches on a spare shard of glass. Your palm opens with hot blood, runs rivulets down your wrist.
But youâre too busy wrestling with Shigaraki, too busy trying to get the upper hand to notice much.
There is a strange moment, though, when you end up atop him, straddling his stomach. A beat where youâre both breathing hard, staring at each other.
His hair is spread out around his head, like a halo of silver. Itâs getting longer, you think, which is a dumb thing to notice about him.
He narrows his eyes at you, just as he catches your wrist before you can strike him. Itâs the hand streaked with blood.
Reflexively, he holds a finger away from your wrist.
But then he stares at it, at his hand now slick with your blood, wrapped around your wrist. His fingers dig into your pulse, like heâs looking for your heartbeat.
Then, almost curiously, his last finger comes down to join the others against your skin.
Nothing happens. He knows nothing will happen and yet, each time heâs able, he seems to try again and again.
(You donât think he actually wants his Quirk to work on you, only that he canât fathom otherwise, so he has to try and prove himself wrongâ)
He squeezes tighter, before those ruby eyes flick back to your face.
âFunny, I was always told I was a fast learner,â you finally answer him.
It takes him a moment, a beat where he watches you and you become aware of your positionâ of him, warm and lean beneath you. Of his hand, lithe and large, still wrapped around your wrist. Something inside of you shivers, makes your cheeks flush hot and prickly.
He snorts then, but he doesnât seem very amused anymore, before shoving you off of him.
âYouâre naive then,â he sneers, standing easily, apparently done with you.
Maybe you are, you think, standing now, too. You clutch at your bleeding hand, wrap your own fingers around your wrist now to cradle it to your body.
You try not to think of his touch.
He turns his back on you, evidently to leave, which makes you bristle. You donât think, you just let that irritation bubble and fizz over and out of you, so that you rush for him again. You wrap your arms around his neck, use your momentum to flip him over again, onto his back. And this time, you use all of that training that Shouta has beat into you and you grapple with him seriously this time.
But he manages to catch your arm, force you onto your stomach, with it wretched behind your back. His other hand shoves your face into the ground. Even now, you can feel only four fingers on your head.
âIâll teach you, if thatâs what you want,â he snarls and you feel panic flood your veins, feel the white heat of it, the shaking that overcomes you. You thrash, hard, but he only shoves your cheek down harder, âYou naive, stupid little girlââ.
You cry outâ itâs a smaller noise than youâd like to admit.
And then heâs gone. All of that weight and pressure leaves so swiftly that it almost gives you whiplashâ too sharp of a contrast. Even his leaving is brutal, somehow.
He has disappeared by the time youâve picked yourself up from off the floor.
Itâs raining, cold and hard, when you walk back to UA.
You lie to Shouta for the first time that nightâ a real, spoken lie, rather than just omitted truth.
You tell him you cut your hand cooking earlier, not wrestling with Shigaraki Tomura in hollowed out buildings, where the prying eyes of society canât touch you.
You feel sick, when he rewraps the bandage around your palm. Heâs careful with you, gentle in a way that Shigaraki isnât.
You donât sleep that night.
You just keep thinking about the look in his eyes, when heâd dropped that final finger against your pulse, and the concern in Shoutaâs voice, when heâd asked what had happened to your palm.
Shouta had held your wrist, too, fingers against your heartbeat.
But it hadnât beat the same and you canât stomach looking in his eyes for the rest of the night.
***
Tomura dreams of you in soft light now, the red heat of morning, maybe the lullaby violet of evening.
He hears that little cry of yoursâ but now itâs sweeter, more desperate.
He hates you, he thinks, even in his dreams, all warbly and tender, as he presses two of his fingers between your plush lips. He presses them down against your tongue and you whine, turn wide eyes on himâ
Youâre so eager and soft in these dreams, which feels ridiculous for all your sharpness. He doesnât know you as compliant or sweet like this, and his mind feels traitorous for imagining it. You wouldnât take this lying down, wouldnât take his fingers in your mouth, or let him fall into the crux of your body.
Youâre so vivid, so warm and alive to all his cloying decay and death.
He wants to hurt you, he tries to convince himself, but he never does in these dreams. He can never make himself, not when youâre laid out beneath him, offered to him like sacrifice, slick and too-warm.
He wakes aching and livid. Doesnât rest until he puts his hands on himself, touches and strokes and catches his groans behind his teethâ itâs a broken, frustrated sound, rattling around in the cage of his chest.
He thinks of you spread out beneath him, above him with your hair tickling his collar bones. He thinks of his hands on you, spread wide, all five of his fingers grabbing and squeezing and possessing you.
He thinks of that stupid little cry youâd given him, the one now that haunts himâ
He doesnât feel shameful when his hands end up sticky and heâs bitten his lip so hard itâs started to bleed to keep back a whine, doesnât feel shame when he thinks of you, a little hero, welcoming the likes of him into your body.
Itâs not shame, he thinks, with his chest rising and falling and the sweat cooling on his skin, itâs not shame justâ
Irritation. Infatuation. Infection.
Youâre a fucking disease, he decides, and heâs blistering with you, sick with you.
He wants to vomit you up, purge you of his body and mind.
But he canât, so maybe the thought of you will just fester and rot inside of him.
Maybe heâll just wander around this world, feverish and longing, like an open wound, like a walking corpse.
***
Shouta usually keeps a careful distance between the two of you. He isnât afraid to touch youâ he canât be, as your mentor, as someone who has trained you and taken care of you. His hands know correcting; they have laid flat against your back to correct posture, or curved along your shoulder to guide you, they have molded you and shaped you. They have also stitched you up and soothed you, swept blood from your skin, pressed ice to inflammation.
But those touches have always remained somewhat professional, somewhat formal. Clinical, at times. Almost fatherly.
Even when heâd needed to cut away your hero suit to get at a wound youâd received while patrolling. Even when youâre sprawled on his bathroom floor, half bare for his eyes to assessâ there has always been a careful distance between you two.
But lately, that distance dwindles, slips away like thread between your fingers.
The other night, heâd tucked a strand of your hair from your face.
Your legs now tangle with his when you both occupy opposite ends of the couch.
He lays his hand on the small of your back as you walk beside him. He ducks his head low for you, so that you can speak into his ear and he can murmur back to you.
But itâs a careful dance, one that youâre unsure of. He remains distant with you around others, especially his class. Especially Shinsou. You suppose you canât blame him when students like Kaminari start rumors that youâre his teacherâs girlfriend.
Shouta always corrects him, grits out in a low voice that you are not his girlfriend and some part of you begs to ask, would it be so bad if I was?
Especially when you sleep in his bed. In his clothes. When you occupy some unnamed space in his life that seems to only be growing.
You suppose you donât know a lot about relationshipsâ youâve never had one. There wasnât much time to find love when you were just trying to find something to eat, when you were just trying to find somewhere safe and warm to sleep for the night. And now, with Shouta, you feel like youâre grasping at something you canât quite reach.
You canât decide if he knows what heâs doing or not, you canât decide if the shift in your relationship is intentional on his part or not.
But youâre nothing if not curious, maybe a little too desperate for even the potential of his love. Youâre so eager for it that it almost hurts, that youâd take nearly anything. And the idea of his rejection is a bitter weight that lies atop your chest.
(Looking back, you think this couldâve been the point of no return. This couldâve been your damned moment, the precipice of your fall. Maybe if the night had gone differently, if you hadnât been such a childâ)
There is an evening when Shouta stumbles home, with a gash ripped across his chest, near soaking wet with the icy rain that has just begun outside. Heâd gone to work alone, working on an undercover mission that you know little about. Such is the nature of Shoutaâs hero work, sometimes.
The Hero Commission expects you to follow in his footsteps. One day it will be you with secrets, slipping through shadows, moving through the underground world of the city. You know it well already, was born and reared down there, so it makes sense that you would return to it one day. But now in the form of a hero, some force to be reckoned with.
But looking at him now, bloody and exhausted and freezing, you wonder why everyone ever thought thereâs glory in hero work.
You rush to him, Kyoko being dumped from your lap in the process, rushing off because of the commotion.
âIâm fine,â Shouta says quickly, the moment he sees the concern on your face. âItâs not that deep.â
Still, he looks wane. He looks tired. He looks cold.
You usher him in and he lets you. Itâs your turn now to get the medical supplies, to grab a rag and have him rest against the bathroom counter.
âI can do it,â he tells you when you gently reach to begin cleaning up the wound, but you shake your head.
You donât know why, but you want to prove you can care for him, too. You want to prove youâre like him, maybe, that youâre an adult with careful hands.
âLet me,â you reply, perhaps quieter, more tentative than you intended.
And he does.
You gently pry away his hero suit from the wound. Shouta only hisses quietly through his teeth at the pull, but otherwise remains still for you. He was right, it isnât a deep wound, you can see that now. Just a long, drawn out graze that was just deep enough to bleed.
Itâs over his heart and your hands flutter there, to and fro, gentle with him.
You can feel him watching you, dark eyes heavy and soft on your face. You look up through your lashes at him, just for a moment, and you feel suddenly nervous, suddenly small standing in the shadow of his large frame. In the shadow of his eyes.
You focus on cleaning the cut on his chest, listening to the way his breath stutters when it stings. You focus on bandaging him up, making your hands busy, watching as the red pricks through the white cloth.
âWhat happened?â you ask and your voice is hushed in the small bathroom. You donât dare look up at him again.
âNothing terrible,â is his short answer and you know he canât tell you much about the mission, or what happens on these nights when heâs all alone. You canât help but feel somewhat excluded, though, like youâre only a part of fragments of his life. Still, like thereâs a distance he holds you at, so impossibly careful.
You donât want to be careful anymore.
You want him like this, near and warm and beneath your hands.
You donât know why you say it and the moment you blur it out, your cheeks flare into warmth, âI donât like when you go out alone.â
The corner of his lips tick upward in amusement. He reaches up, nudges your chin with his knuckle gently, almost playfully, âNow you know how I feel.â
His voice is low, rough and warm, like the crackling of a smoldering hearth. Soft thunder to lull you to sleep.
You pick your eyes up finally, peer up into his face.
âHow you feel?â you ask, voice just barely above a whisper.
He lets his knuckle brush lightly against your jaw, slow, smooth strokes as his features soften up, as his dark eyes flicker in the low light of the bathroom.
âHm,â he hums softly, âHow I feel.â
He tucks a strand of your hair away from your face delicatelyâ youâve never been treated so gently than when Shouta is touching you like this. Like youâre spun glass, something lovely in the palm of his rough, broad hand.
âThank you for patching me up,â he murmurs then, his voice just a soft rasp.
And you think heâs going to pull away again, heâs going to ease away from you and youâ
You feel your heart splinter, you feel the childish urge to latch on tight and not let go of him. You donât want the distance, you donât want to watch his features slide back into stoniness. You want to be hisâ oh God do you want to be his.
And you donât want to be careful anymore, not when the risk is worth so much reward.
You press up onto the tips of your toes, let your stomach barely touch the hard lines of his, lean into his orbit carefully. Everything feels as if it could shatter at any moment.
He freezes beneath your hands.
You tilt your lips up in offering, parted soft, parted sweet.
And he letâs youâ
He lets you lean in the rest of the way, press your warm lips to his. Itâs a tentative kiss, almost unsure, like youâve never done it before (you have butâ but itâs never been like this). Youâre lamb soft and unsure, moldable.
He kisses back.
You can feel his stubble scrape against your upper lip, can feel the exhale he gives against your cheek. The way you melt, silken and bending to what he wants of you.
His hand is large, chilled against your cheek.
You try to bite back a noise, a small thing that he ends up swallowing, as you eagerly push towards him. But that slight roughness, that desperation, makes him pull away suddenly.
His hands come down on your shoulders, holding you away, holding you at that distance and youâ
âShouta,â you breathe, almost whine.
But you watch as the walls rise, watch as all that softness slips from him, reveals only cold stone. âNo,â he says, firm but gentle for you, âNo, Iâm sorry, I shouldnât have done thatââ
You feel heat rise up, the shameful, bitter, angry kind. You feel it swell inside of you, sickly and horrible and vicious.
Your lip wobbles suddenly.
âWhat do you mean?â you hiss quietly, frustrated with the sudden sting of tears that you refuse to let fall.
âI shouldnât have done that.â he says again, stoic and calm in the face of all your furious shame and anger and it justâ
It makes you livid.
âWhy not?â you ask, sharp, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice, âY-You wanted to!â
When heâs silent, your eyes turn almost pleading, chest heaving. Your voice is small and uncertain when you ask, âDidnât you?â
Your throat feels tight and choked, a lump forming there that hurts. One you canât swallow down, not when you feel like your heart is on the outside of your body, like youâve got all the most vulnerable parts of you bare and exposed.
Shouta exhales hard, squeezes your shoulder and you can tell heâs warring with himself. You can tell he wants to comfort you, assure you otherwise but he canât, shouldnât.
âItâs not that,â Shouta says, soft now, âItâs not that. Itâs just inappropriateââ
âIâm not a child!â you snap and the tears finally break over the line of your lashes as if to contradict you, falling hot and angry against your flushed cheeks.
âIâm your mentor.â Shouta responds, almost soothingly, almost like heâs trying to placate you. Especially when he reaches out, goes to brush a tear from your cheek as if he isnât the one who caused it.
You jerk away from him, waving away his hand, âDonâtââ you say, voice breaking, âDonât do that.â
Shouta swallows, âIâm sorry,â he says again and you can tell he means it, feels like he almost means heâs sorry for more than just this. Like heâs sorry for not giving in, sorry he wonât let himself have what youâve offered.
You have to look away from him, have to look away from his concern and defeated shoulders. More tears slip down your cheeks, quick and furious, and you wipe at them with the heel of your hand.
You want to say somethingâ you want to scream or shout or fight him. You want to cry. You want to throw a tantrum, you realize, with all of that prickly embarrassment and knife sharp rejection gutting you seamlessly. You want to throw it up at his feet to see what heâs done and how bad this hurtsâ
But all you do swallow it all down, it goes down like needles, like splintered glass to tear up your pink insides somewhere.
âI-Iâm going to go,â you say instead and you turn away from him. Turn to leave the bathroom, to shove your shoes and coat on despite his gentle protests.
Shouta catches your wrist in your flurry of movement and you have to keep back your sob behind clenched teeth.
âItâs raining, youâre just going to your apartment, right?â he asks, still worrying about you, still trying to care for you and it makes you see red.
âYeah,â you lie, lurching out of his grip, ripping your hand from him, and finally wrenching open the door only to slam it shut behind you.
You donât go back to your own apartment.
You go out into the night, into the freezing rain, which comes down in sharp, stinging pelts. Feels good against your overheated cheeks, though, almost feels good with your pounding head, like itâs icing your bruised and tender spots for a moment.
It soaks you quickly and down to the bone and eventually all that soothing chill becomes icy cold, seeps beneath your jacket, burrows down into your body that aches with a sudden loneliness.
At first, you donât know where youâre walking to, aimless as the rain slants against you. The streetlights are like lanterns in this weather, glowing fuzzy and all alone in the streets save for the occasional car.
When you get into a busier part of the city, anyone who is walking has an umbrella, huddles beneath it, trying to keep their hands warm. A couple walks past you, huddled together and giggling, their breaths puffing out in front of them in this cold.
You wipe at your eyes, turn away so that no one sees the way you try to keep your face from crumpling.
You keep walking and walking and walking until you realize youâve carried yourself to a part of the city you used to frequent; before Shouta, before becoming a hero, when you were nothing but a thief, some scavenger that society would rather not have.
Itâs filled with abandoned warehouses and rundown drug stores, a seedy motel and dilapidated apartment complexes. Itâs removed from the eyes of the main city, so they donât have to look at the orphans and beggars.
But itâs familiar to you.
You wish you could say it still feels like coming home but it isnât home anymoreâ no, home is Shoutaâs bed, and the couch you spend evenings on with him while he grades papers. Itâs the window in the kitchen, right above the sink. Itâs training rooms and the walk from your apartment to his. itâs him and his stupid cats and violet-haired kid.
You bite back a groan, maybe another sob. Your teeth are chattering violently now with the freezing rain, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself as if youâre trying to hold all of that heartache on the inside of your body.
Even in all your frustration, though, you force yourself to glance around, to peer through the rain at your surroundings. Itâs second nature at this point, since Shouta started training you, because youâre his good littleâ
You jolt in surprise when you see him standing behind you in the rain. His silver hair is plastered to his face, to his neck. His hood is thrown up to try and block out the rain, but heâs also soaked, red eyes gleaming in the lowlight.
Itâs almost comical, you think, the both of you standing out here, shivering and soaked in this downpour like drowned strays.
Shigaraki Tomura eyes you warily.
You donât think either of you were expecting to see each other.
For all your earlier anger, you donât have a lot of fight in you, donât want to fight. Canât fathom trying to use your brain enough to battle him off. And Shigaraki, for reasons beyond you, has yet to really harm you every time heâs come across you.
You feel strangely casual, strangely unguarded and wavering.
âWhat are you doing here?â he finally rasps, glaring at you.
A broken laugh ruptures out of your aching ribs, between your chattering teeth.
âWhat are you doing here?â you counter and he clearly doesnât care for whatever strange humor youâve found in this situation.
He lopes closer, though, almost tentatively, watching to see if youâre going to make any sort of move. You remain with your arms hugged tight to your body, shivering in this cold.
He doesnât answer you. His hands are tucked away into his pockets. You can see him trying to hold back shivers, too, can see the way his shoulders tense, the way his jaw grinds together.
âI used to live around here,â you admit for some reason, out into the alleway space between the two of you. Maybe if only to say it aloud, to say that you were someone before Shouta, maybe just to spite Shouta, to tell Shigaraki Tomura a piece of you that is personal and kept inside your heart.
The rain swallows your words, though, and for a moment, you think heâll ignore you entirely.
But he asks, âSo you decided to visit in the freezing rain?â
Heâs not being humorous, but you smile anyways and it feels wobbly, a little bit absurdâ the kind of smile that comes after crying, when you feel half-mad, when everything is a mess and your emotions are an overflowing fountain, spilling out in any way it sees fit to drown everything in sight.
You shrug, open your arms out to the space, looking around for a moment, as if it will back you up when you ask, âWhy not?â
Shigarakiâs next few steps towards you are almost cautious, like he can feel your fragility from here.
Maybe starting a fight would do you well. Maybe you want to taste blood. Maybe his eyes on you will keep you warm out hereâ will make you forget about Shouta, which strikes you with another sharp and buzzing pang.
And somehow, someway, when he steps close enough to touch, he manages to hit the one spot where youâre hurting the worst;
âDonât you have a nice warm home to be in?â
You wince like heâs struck you, face falling for a moment, arms collapsing back down to your sides.
You think of Shouta, back in his apartment, with his cats and his blankets and the fond way heâd always look at youâ
All that frustration keens at the thought, though, flares quick and hot inside of you. That urge to scream and sob and fight comes back with a vengeance. When Shigaraki gets too close to you, you lash out, shoving him backwards.
Itâs artless, but he stumbles a half step back after your palms had pushed against his chest.
Unknowingly, you hit a nerve in him, too, when you ask, âCanât you leave me alone? Youâre always fucking stalking me!â
âI donât waste my time stalking bratty, useless little heroes.â he snaps, biting out the words.
You donât know why that stings, too. Maybe itâs the way he said âuseless,â or the mockery of âhero.â Maybe itâs because thatâs how you feel, like some bratty child, scorned and angry and bitter. Maybe thatâs why Shouta doesnât want youâ
You shove at Shigaraki again, acting as the child you feel like. He almost snorts, except you do it again, and again, until youâre shoving against his chest with everything you have.
And strangely, he lets you for a moment, watching your face, watching the way your lip trembles and your eyes grow all glassy. He canât tell with the rain butâ
He grabs your forearm, tight and firm to stop your sudden shoving. He keeps a finger lifted away from you naturally. He doesnât need to, you think dimly, but he does.
You beat at his chest with your free hand before he snags that one, too, grips you to haul you closer to him, to peer down into your face with blazing red eyes.
When you look up at him, itâs through angry, indignant tears.
âLet go,â you hiss, trying to jerk out of his hold.
He bares his teeth in some semblance of a smile, âWhat makes you think Iâd listen to you?â
You thrash harder in his hold, but he just yanks you closer, until you lose balance and stumble into his lean form. You can feel his chest against yours, the line of your torsos, your hips.
You look at him through wet lashes, and thereâs something strange in his expression now. It freezes you, stills you against him. You can feel his chest rising and falling rapidly, can feel the sudden shuddering of his bodyâ you pretend itâs from the cold. But you suddenly canât feel the cold anymore, canât feel the breath in your lungs.
Hunger, you finally place the look in his eyes, just before he pulls you up to meet him halfway in a kiss that feels more like a car crash.
Itâs jarring, shocking to you the way impact is, like free-falling and finally hitting the ground.
His lips are rough around the edges, you can feel the indent of his scar at the corner of his mouth, but the center is warm and almost soft. Wet, between the rain that turns everything slick and the way he parts his mouth against yours.
It should be gross, you think, it should be horribleâ you should try to pull away, but heâs clutching you tighter, crushing any possible distance between you two, shattering it with a vengeance. And itâsâ
Itâs everything you wanted from Shouta, maybe, that closeness, the grabbing of his desperate hands. The vicious wanting, of being wanted so viscerally, so tremendously.
And maybe itâs to spite Shouta, too, a bad decision for the books. You havenât made one of those in awhile, have you?
So you fist your hands in his cold, wet hoodie, and throw your other arm around his neck to drag him down into you, deeper into the kiss.
He makes a noise, something like a groan, a growl that splits off into a whine at the end. You swallow it, open your mouth to let him into you. Your teeth clink together, itâs messy and hard and fast, all heat and desperation.
The absurdity isnât lost on you, the strange irony that comes with kissing in the rainâ it isnât romantic. It doesnât cause your heart to flutter but full on stop. Itâs freezing and rough and brutal.
Youâre not kissing the man of your dreams (but you have dreamt of him, havenât you?), youâre not kissing some dashing hero, thereâs not going to be a love confession after this.
Youâre kissing one of the most wanted villains in rain that hits you like ice, surrounded by a place you used to call home.
You could laugh, if you werenât so busy trying to claw at him, to get more.
He kisses like heâs trying to tear you apart. You can feel the sting of his teeth, the hungry push of his lips into yours. Heâs all scavenger, heâll take everything you give him and moreâ
And you feel him, the hard line of his desire for you, digging roughly into your stomach and thatâsâ thatâs finally what shocks you. Itâs what forces you to lurch away from him.
He lets you go, surprisingly, but you both stare at each other, wide-eyed and shocked.
The irony of you stuttering out the words, âI-I shouldnât have done thatââ is so cruel and hysterical that you feel like youâre going to split apart at the seams.
But he doesnât look upset. No, he looks like heâs won something, like heâs snapped a piece of the puzzle into place. Like he knows something you donât.
You shove past him.
You run home, force your body to move, to breathe hard and heavy, to try and forget the way heâd felt against youâ or the way Shouta had cradled your cheek or the way youâve never known something like either acts. Never been treated so gently. Never been wanted so badly.
When you get to your apartment, you slam the door shut behind you. Throw the lock into place and let your chest shake and heave and breathe, forcing in huge lungfuls of air. Youâre so soaked that you drip all over the floor.
You shuck off your cold clothes in the living room because you can, because you feel like youâre going crazy, feel like youâre unraveling.
You take a shower so hot that it hurts, trying to scrub him off of you, or trying to remember the heat that heâd forced into you.
You sleep naked for once, something you donât do often, but need to feel the sheets against bare skin, need to know that youâre alone and with yourself.
But you lie awake, twisting and turning and restless all night.
You refuse to let your hands wander, refuse to give in to whatever spark that had fanned into a flame in the low parts of your stomach. Refuse to picture red eyes. Refuse to imagine raven hair between your fist, too.
You refuse it all, try to force it down into the depths of you to never see the light of day again.
You end up getting sick from the rainâ feverish and woozy and exhaustedâ but you also think youâre sick with something else, something thatâs wormed its way into all the secretive, vulnerable parts of you.
Something that makes you furious and flushed in the lonesome hours of the blue-dark night.
***
PART II
tbh i hope more horror movies come out (specifically slasher films) with new slashers bc im always open to building my 'thats-kinda-weird-to-be-attracted-to' collection.
