In the National Quirk Rehabilitation Center, quirks are treated like illnesses and patients are told they need to be fixed.
Aikara has spent her whole life there, learning to fear her corrosive aura and control herself through strict routines and silence. Then Bakugo arrives — volatile, loud, and dangerous in ways that mirror her own.
Forced to stay six feet apart due to their unstable quirks, the two keep crossing paths anyway. And somewhere between conflict, quiet understanding, and the sound of Aikara’s piano, Bakugo starts remembering what “home” once felt like.
More to come!!!
OH MY GOSH!!!! I READ SEAFOM A FEW MONTHS AGO AND I THOUGHT IT MIGHT NOT BE CONTINUED!! I’m literally overjoyed it was my fav Denji fic and I loved the plot sm!!! Thank you sm😽😽
AHHHHHH NO THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING AND SUPPORTING MY WORK. IM SO GLADDD. More is to come!!! 🫣😛💃🏽
Chapter Four: Devils Amongst the Gods. [ Masterlist! ]
taglist OPEN!
The car reeks of smoke.
It's the first thing you notice, and a flash of Denji’s “owner” from the night before plagues your vision. You shiver.
You slide into the backseat without being told to. The door shuts with a dull sound, sealing you in. For a second, it feels too much like being underwater again.
The serious man doesn’t look at you when he starts the engine.
Just cracks the window. Lights a cigarette.
You press your forehead lightly against the cool glass. Watch the ocean disappear in fragments between buildings. Blue—then gone. Blue—then gone.
Like it’s blinking at you.
Like it knows.
“You got a name?” he asks after a moment.
His voice is even. Not curious. Not unfriendly. Just… filling space.
“You already know it.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I want to hear you say it.”
“…Y/N.”
He nods once. Like that was something important.
“Aki Hayakawa.”
Silence settles back in. Thicker this time.
The tires hum against the road. Steady. Predictable. Nothing like the waves crashing unpredictably against your boat.
My fingers twitch in my lap. You curl them into the sleeves of your dark coat.
“You from around here?” he asks.
“No.”
“Figures.”
I glance up at the mirror.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs, barely visible.
“You don’t look like you belong anywhere.”
The ocean shows up again—wider this time. Open. Endless.
Your chest tightens before you can stop it.
You shift, pressing your shoulder harder into the seat, angling away from the window.
He notices.
Of course he does.
“You sick?” he asks.
“No.”
“You look it.”
“I’m fine.”
When the hell is this car ride going to end?
.
.
.
The elevator dings.
You don’t know why your stomach knots at the sound.
Maybe it’s just the fluorescent lights. Maybe it’s the cold air. Maybe it’s him or her.
“There are over a thousand devil hunters in Tokyo, including civilians, but Public Safety has the best benefits—”
You see Denji before he sees you.
His eyes find yours like a lifeline. They widen.
“Beach girl?!”
Your body doesn’t move. But your mind stutters.
He’s already running.
The world snaps into slow-motion the second he crashes into you.
Warm.
Solid.
Real.
His arms wrap tightly around your waist, clinging on for dear life. As if you’ll vanish again if he lets go. You recognize the smell of udon holding on to his suit. Feel his breath panting into the sensitive crook of your neck.
“I thought you died! I swear I saw you get torn to pieces! When I woke up you were just gone, a pile of bubbles beside me—!”
You freeze.
Your arms don’t move.
Your body stays stiff.
Your brain can’t catch up. It’s like—like you’re underwater again.
You shove him.
Hard.
He stumbles backward, blinking at you like a kicked puppy.
You can feel Aki watching.
The silence thickens until—
“Inside,” Makima says, calm as ever.
You don’t look at her when you follow her into the office. You’re not sure you can.
Your fingers are still trembling from the hug. From the warmth. From the weight of being wanted.
You don’t sit.
“We haven’t properly met yet, have we, Y/N? I’m Makima.”
You stay where you are.
Standing like some weird sea creature dragged into the light, not quite human. Not quite safe. Salt still crusted behind your ears. Hair still too damp. Your arms sting faintly where he held you.
“Before we start,” she continues, voice smooth, “I’ll introduce you both to your new coworker.”
She turns her head slightly.
“This gentleman here is Aki Hayakawa. He is your senior by three years.”
Aki Hayakawa stands with straight posture, fingers resting neatly at his sides—except for the faint tap of his thumb against his knuckle. Controlled. Measured. Like even his smallest movements are on a leash.
He gives a short nod. Not quite a greeting. More like acknowledgment.
His eyes flick to you. Completely ignoring the blonde boy beside you.
Assessing.
Then away again.
Then–flip.
The sound of Makima opening a folder cuts clean through it.
She merely glances down at the folder waiting on her desk. Pale red nails flip it open, revealing pages of notes and grainy surveillance photos. A few blurry ones of you, drenched and staggering out of the ocean.
Her smile fades.
“Y/N L/N,” she reads, voice even.
“Age: Unknown. Approximate physical age—seventeen. Found unconscious by the shoreline this morning. Suspected prior exposure to devil influence.”
She flips a page.
“There was… an incident. Nearly a decade ago now. A fishing boat sank off the coast of Okinawa. All crew lost. No remains recovered—except for one child. Found ashore. No pulse. Body later disappeared from the hospital under unknown circumstances.”
She looks up at you, eyes unblinking.
You say nothing.
“The Ocean Devil,” she continues, tone now colder. “Classified as an existential threat. Responsible for an estimated three hundred thousand deaths per year, worldwide. Second only to the Gun Devil.”
Denji swallows audibly.
“We’ve never been able to locate its true form.”
Her gaze pierces through you like ice. But her smile returns, faint and unreadable.
“I’ve been trying to find both of you for quite some time,” she says.
She doesn’t explain what she means by “both.”
She doesn’t have to.
You already feel the Ocean's voice curling like seaweed around your lungs.
A flicker of something ancient brushing the back of your skull.
Cold. Familiar.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The words sit in your throat.
Heavy. Waterlogged.
You force them out anyway.
“…I’m not it.”
Makima doesn’t react immediately.
She closes the folder with a soft thud, fingertips resting on top of it as if she’s sealing something back inside.
“I know,” she says.
Too easily.
Not a question. Not a relief. Just a fact, placed neatly between you both.
Something in your chest tightens.
Not comfort. Never that.
Recognition.
Her head tilts, just slightly. Studying you the way someone might observe a wound instead of a person.
“But you belong to it.”
The room feels smaller.
The air—thinner.
You don’t move. Don’t speak. Because if you do, you might feel it again—
that voice.
That pull.
That endless, suffocating want.
Makima’s smile softens, almost kind.
“And that,” she continues, “makes you very valuable to me.”
Silence stretches.
Denji shifts beside you, uneasy now. The earlier curiosity in him dulled into something closer to confusion. He glances at you, then at Makima, like he’s trying to decide which one of you is more dangerous.
He doesn’t land on an answer.
Makima straightens.
“So here’s how this will work.”
Her tone shifts—lighter. Decided.
“Y/N will be joining Public Safety as a devil hunter.”
A pause.
Not for your agreement. Just enough for the sentence to settle inside your brain. Just enough for the Ocean beneath your skin to start raging.
You turn to Denji and he’s already looking over at you like he doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, just that it has something to do with you.
And then—
it presses in.
A quiet, suffocating awareness that settles at the back of your neck, slides down your spine, wraps slow and certain around your ribs.
Makima.
You don’t look at her.
You don’t need to.
“Don’t worry,” she says lightly, almost amused, “Denji will also be a devil hunter. He’ll be working with you.”
Denji blinks, then grins a little, scratching the back of his head like that’s all it takes to process it.
“In return,” she adds, eyes never leaving yours, “you’ll help me make contact with the Ocean Devil.”
There it is.
Not a request.
You feel something cold coil behind your ribs.
A distant tide pulling back.
You already know what happens next.
It always comes back.
You say nothing.
Makima takes that as acceptance.
“Good.”
She turns, just slightly.
“Denji.”
He steps forward immediately. No hesitation.
“Yes, Miss Makima?”
“You’re going to shadow Aki for the day. Think of it as a field test.”
Denji perks up at that, like a dog catching a word it recognizes.
“With him?” he says, a little too eager. “For real?”
Aki doesn’t look at him.
“Yes.”
Flat. Final.
Denji’s smile lingers for a second too long before it starts to slip, like his face didn’t get the message fast enough, like something inside him is still catching up—because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go, was it? He’d finally made it here, finally standing in the same room as Makima, close enough to hear her voice without it being a dream, close enough to—
His eyes flick to you.
—and now you’re here too.
Still damp. Still quiet.
Something in his chest twists.
Weird. Tight.
Not the same as Makima.
Not clean. Not warm.
But he doesn’t want to walk away from it either.
“…Wait,” he says, slower now, the word dragging as he tries to piece it together, gaze moving between Makima and you like if he looks enough times it’ll change something. “So I gotta go… with him?”
Denji lets out a small, breathy laugh—like he’s trying to play it off, like he’s not suddenly aware of how far away that answer puts him.
“But I just got here,” he says, the words starting to spill now, uneven, “like—shouldn’t I stay? I mean, you said I’m a devil hunter now, right? So I should, y’know… learn from you, or whatever—”
His voice catches, just slightly.
His eyes drift back to you again.
“And—she’s here too, so…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
Doesn’t know how.
He just knows that leaving feels wrong.
Like walking away from something he’s supposed to hold onto, even if he doesn’t know why.
Aki doesn’t entertain it. Just grabs him by the back of his white button-up and pulls.
“Well, you thought wrong. She’s still out of your league, you don’t even play the same sport.” he says, already moving.
His hand lifts, not quite reaching for Makima—
not quite reaching for you—
just hovering there, caught between the two like even his body can’t decide.
Denji’s eyes widen and he falls on his ass. His body being dragged carelessly by Aki.
“Can’t she come too?” he blurts suddenly, the thought arriving whole and unfiltered, like it skipped every step between feeling and saying. He turns fully now, looking at you—really looking, like he’s trying to pull you into the decision just by asking. “I mean— she needs to learn too, right? You said she’s a devil hunter, so then it’s fine, right? We can just all go—”
A beat.
Too hopeful.
Too quick.
The Ocean underneath your skin doesn’t react. You thought it would given all the times it sacrificed you for the blonde boy getting mercilessly dragged. Instead you feel some sort of relief?
Like some pressure you didn’t realize was pressing against your lungs finally loosened its grip for half a breath.
The Ocean inside you doesn’t surge forward to correct it. Doesn’t punish the feeling. Doesn’t tighten the leash.
It just… allows it.
Makima steps towards Denji’s form, kneeling slowly in front of him. “Perform well and we’ll work together down the road. The road’s length depends on you.” She gently reaches for his loose black tie around his neck, agilely tying it for him. “So chin up and do your best. Y/n is staying safe with me.”
Denji can’t help the rush of blood to his cheeks.
‘Safe with me’
Three simple words— but they land heavier than anything else she’s said.
Because this—
This isn’t about devil hunting.
This is about you.
Alone.
With her.
The Ocean inside you shifts.
Listening.
.
.
.
The city doesn’t feel alive the way Denji thinks it should.
It’s not exciting. Not like movies. Not like his magazines. Not like anything worth saving.
It just moves—people brushing past each other without looking, the smell of oil and something fried lingering in the air like it’s been there forever and will never leave.
Denji walks like he belongs in it anyway.
Aki doesn’t.
Aki walks like the city is something he tolerates.
The difference is obvious even without words.
“Hey, big man.” Denji trailers a few steps behind Aki, “Is Miss Makima single? Or…?”
He is met with complete and utter silence. Just the shuffling of the city to fill the gap.
“Hey!—”
“Come with me.”
The alley is narrow enough that the light forgets how to reach the ground.
The noise of the city doesn’t disappear—it just becomes distant, like it’s happening in another life.
Denji looks around.
“Uh… this is the part where you tell me she’s taken or something, right?”
Aki stops.
Denji almost bumps into him.
Then—
Aki punches him. A hard and precise hit to Denji’s jaw. No warning. No shift in posture. Just impact.
Denji’s head snaps to the side, body falling back into the wall hard enough to make his teeth click together. Bloody spit pooling inside his mouth and dripping against the side of it. And before he can stand upright. A kick to his stomach. Another kick. And the last one strong enough to throw him into the stinky trash bags at the end of the alley.
Aki casually stands over him, taking out his pack of cigarettes and hitting the box twice. Giving Denji a dirty look before lighting it between his lips.
“Yeah, you really should quit. Show up tomorrow and I’ll kick your ass again.”
“What the hell is your problem?” Denji slurs.
“Just that my kindness seems a bit wasted on you.”
Denji couldn’t give less of a flying fuck about whatever ponytail was saying.
Aki knows that but still continues. “The only ones who survive are the ones with strong convictions at their core. Like your beach friend.”
And the word associating the shore makes him perk up.
“At least she knows when to shut the hell up.” Aki takes a long drag of his cigarette, blowing the arid smoke towards Denji.
Denji frowns.
You didn’t really talk much anyway.
So what does that even mean?
“But let me guess, Makima’s the sole reason you're here.”
Denji hesitates.
“Makima’s why I’m here. You get half a point for that.”
A pause.
“But beach girl, too.” Denji put a finger on his chin, lost in his thoughts. “She has a really nice figure… have you seen her in a bikini? It’s the best sight!”
Just wait until Denji finds out he saw you completely naked.
✧ 𝐂𝐖. Fluff, a glint of purple in Gojo’s hair ┊⟡ ｡˚
“Toru, have you ever thought about dying your hair?”
Gojo and you were currently lying down on a long couch, watching a low quality 1999 Digimon episode on his flat screen TV, cuddling in a comfortable embrace. He raised a snow eyebrow at your random question, his hand caressing your shoulder with a subtle smirk. “Hm…yeah, but I’m blessed enough with my immaculate genes. Why change perfect?”
You slowly thinned your lips out. “You’re such a cornball.”
“I’m joking, baby! Don’t get all grouchy on me.” Gojo fake pouted, leaning his face into yours, cheek smudging cheek.
A single aquamarine iris staring at you.
Apologetic.
Playful.
You roll your eyes, silent.
Gojo blinked twice before sighing, moving his face away, still holding you close. His head rested on top of your hair, going back to watch his favorite childhood show. “Welp. I knew what I was signing up for when I decided to date a sarcasm queen.”
You smirked a little to yourself, glancing at him.
“That’s right.”
“Ah, so now she speaks!”
You giggle as Gojo immediately lifted his head, staring down at you with furrowed eyebrows. The TV lighting reflected his attractive facial features…a little too well. Those big blue orbs that glowed subtly, long silk colored lashes covering them. His jawline that had a bite on it from last night. And that luscious fluff of hair that was messy, the two of you recently napping.
But that’s when you see it.
That small tint of lavender hiding in his ocean of white.
“What? Back to the silent treatment?” Gojo taunted, getting up in your face, making you fluster with another thin smile.
“Shush, boy. I’m tryna check something.” you scold, leaning up to sit on your calves, fingers inspecting Gojo’s hair. Digits move along his clean scalp, feeling like a nice massage to your boyfriend. Gojo bit his bottom lip to not smile too hard, hands finding your waist to pull you closer. “Oh yeah. Keep touching me, babe...” he teased, fingers squeezing into your clothed skin. You gently smack his head, hearing Gojo quietly yelp.
“It’s not like that, freak. There’s…purple in your hair.”
Gojo squints his eyes, looking up at you, hands still in his hair.
“What? Pfft— no there’s not. This is pure snow, girl.”
You raised an eyebrow with an amused expression.
“Tell that to the highlights in your hair.”
The both of you silently hold and stare at each other for a good five seconds, Gojo suddenly standing up to walk to the bathroom with a short grunt. His finger flicked the switch up as you were right behind him, a dim yellow buzzing inside the light bulbs, but still bright enough to see everything. Gojo stood in front of the mirror covered in some wolf stickers. “I swear if that Megumi kid dyed my hair as a prank—”
Gojo’s six eyes got to work as he stared at himself in the mirror, analyzing all the platinum hair strands he had on his head. Counting them with ease, sensing for any other color.
Oh?
He actually found one.
And it was natural.
A holographic purple that was shadowing his soft tresses.
Gojo raised his neat eyebrows, surprise at the sight, carefully turning his head to side to check out his fresh undercut, seeing some amethyst tones inside of it. His shiny lips parted.
“Huh, no shit.”
“Noooo shit.”
Gojo began to smirk, taking a finger to twirl around a fluffy strand, making it coil a bit when he let it go. “Damn…it looks pretty good. Heh, I look pretty good.” he drawled out, now checking out himself in the mirror, flexing a huge bicep while having a sexy look on his face. You face palmed yourself, slow.
“I should’ve just stayed quiet…you and your stupid ego.”
Gojo put down his arm with a smile, his tall muscular frame perching down to wrap it around your shoulder. “Hey now. I only look good because of one thing.” he calmly spoke. You spread your fingers, staring at your lover through your hand.
“And what’s that…?” you muttered.
Gojo used his other arm to come near your face, his own hand removing yours, fingers softly tilting your chin towards the mirror. His mouth brushed against your ear, still watching the two of you inside the vertical glass. “Because of you, pretty.”
Your glossed lips quickly formed into a lovesick smile.
“Corny.”
Gojo laughed, moving his lips to kiss your temple, smiling.
10x more lovesick than yours was.
“Mhm. I love you too, princess.” he whispered, happy.
he licks his fingers and holds it up to the wind to see what direction its going... "why yes, its going 40 miles per hour towards the south" SIR EXCUSE YOU???
thank you for the tags LOVE you guys and hit me up on my disc for a kiss: @gojodickbig @fayerie @sugurusladyknightt @fear-is-truth
currently reading: haha who reads lol...
last song: cowboy gangster politican - goldie boutilier
last film: superman
last series: overcompensating
sweet/savory/salty: spicy i make my own rules
tea or coffee: anything with caffeine to keep me going
working on: getting over this gosh darn cold that wants to keep me shackled in my bedroom
✦ nine no pressure tags my loves: @prosypepper @joemama-2 @letteremi @hellowoolf @redrrem @getouyuri @eraserbread @nialovessatoru @kunareads
currently reading: jjk volume 25!
last song: passion play- joni mitchell
last film: sinners
last series: tlou 2 but I didn't finish it
sweet/savory/salty: salty
tea or coffee: coffee unless it's matcha
working on: more wife guy! like always lol and my stupid little house in minecraft
currently reading: dorohedoro vol. 1 (anime was good!)
last song: пачка сигарет #somber
last film: the transporter (Jason Statham 👅)
last series: mr. robot #GOATED
sweet/savory/salty: sweet 100%
tea/coffee: which is sweeter lol? I’ll take that
working on: pink merchant x toji fanfic ;)
AAAAA i feel so honored to be tagged!! thank u, star 💘😽
currently reading: shatter me by tahereh mafi 🤭
last song: you are the music in me (i was rewatching hsm)
last film: ready or not
last series: jjk rewatch
sweet/savory/salty: salty😛
tea/coffee: i loveeeeeee tea, BUT ONLY HOMEMADE
working on: bad reviews, tomura shigaraki x reader fic
bro I'm so sorry for my deranged responses, they were probably 3x as deranged as normal because it was like 1:30 AM and I was already sleep deprived 💀 truly sorry if I just seem demented
ALL DERANGED RESPONSES ARE WELCOMED POOKS😈 i love reading your reblogs/replies THEYRE SO FUNNY 👹👹 KEEP EM COMING RIGHT NEOW!!!!!
BAD REVIEWS [PART SIX] : shigaraki tomura x reader [taglist OPEN!]
"been alone for so long, ive got something to prove.”
[MDNI] tw: angst. throwing up. a bit of smut.
<< previous — next >>
The date starts off…bad.
To say the least.
You’re still holding pinkies as you walk, his hand barely brushing yours with every step.
It’s ridiculous, really.
Tomura led the way to what seemed to be a greasy little diner in the middle of nowhere.
You barely get one foot in before your stomach betrays you. The smell of cooking meat hits you like a punch to the gut— fat, grease and sizzling grills— suddenly it's just too much.
You gag. Hard.
Your hand flies to your mouth, eyes watering. You spin and back out the door with a choked gasp, you don't get to make it to the sidewalk. Heat rushes to your face, your throat burns and you hurl.
Right there. Right on Tomura’s red sneakers.
The shame is instant.
You drop to your knees, one arm wrapped around your middle. The other wiping furiously at the fountain of tears leaving your eyes. You sob loud, cracked and ugly. And it all comes spilling out.
“I’m so sorry–” you gasp between uneven breaths. “Oh my god– Tomura, I didn’t mean to– fuck– your shoes–”
And suddenly it’s not just about the shoes.
Your chest hurts. Your body aches. Everything feels heavy and wrong.
You can’t stop crying and just the thought of taking a deep breath sounds like a challenge.
“I hate this,” you sob. “I hate being pregnant. I hate that I’m such a crybaby. I hate that I can’t eat anything without wanting to puke, I hate that I want sushi more than anything in the fucking world—”
You hiccup and sniff into the fabric of your long sleeve. Voice cracking with every word.
A wave of anger hits you.
What are you apologizing?
Why are you always apologizing?
Your hands clenched into fists against your thighs.
You look up at him—at him, standing there quietly, unmoving. Unbothered. Calm.
NOT GIVING A DAMN!
“…Why am I even saying sorry to you?” you snap, breath catching.
He blinks.
You push yourself up on shaky legs, rage suddenly burning beneath your skin. “Seriously. You? You, who broke into my house. Who attacked my coworker. Who left me alone for weeks and then showed up again like you had every right—”
Your voice wavers, thick and hoarse. “You weren’t there. When I found out. When I was scared. You weren’t there when I needed you.”
Your throat tightens, a sob rattling out.
“I’m the one who’s pregnant with your child! I’m the one who was left alone with no one else to turn to. And somehow I’m the one feeling guilty?!”
You were left breathless. Falling down to your knees once again. Sobbing into your sweaty hands–
And through all of it, he doesn’t speak.
The vomit cools on his sneakers.
He's watching you. Analyzing every word you threw at him.
Then slowly, he crouches. Close enough that his knee brushes against yours. Close enough you can hear the rasp of his breath, a subtle shift of clothes as he moves like he’s trying not to startle you.
You sneak a peek through your tear soaked fingers.
Without a single word–
He lifts a hand.
You flinch, just barely.
But he doesn’t grab you.
He just… places his hand over the crown of your head. You feel four fingertips threading gently through the locks of your hair.
His touch is certainly awkward– as if he’s not sure he’s doing it right, but you can tell he’s trying. For you.
He swallows, jaw flexing as his thumb brushes behind your ear, tucking a strand of hair away.
“I don’t care about the shoes.” He says. “So, don’t cry like that.”
You look up at him, eyes swollen, lips trembling.
“I should’ve been there,” he adds, barely above a whisper. “You’re right.”
And the thing is—
You believe him. Not because he’s forgiven. But because for once, he’s not lying. Not even to himself.
And for some reason, that makes everything worse.
Because now he’s being gentle. Now he’s touching you like you mean everything to him.
Your heart shouldn’t beat faster when he touches you like this. Your fingers shouldn’t ache to hold him tighter.
And your stupid, aching heart shouldn't feel safest here, with a man who seems to embody every quality a man shouldn't have.
“I feel like I ruined everything…”
“No.” He says. “You didn’t”
He shrugs, barely. “We’re outside. You’re here. I’m here.” His hand shifts, just barely tracing the curve of your temple like he’s committing it to memory. “Still counts, woman.”
The tears threaten again—frustrated, exhausted, touched. All of it. “You really think this counts as a date?”
He mutters something incoherent under his breath, then starts wiping the vomit off his shoes with his coat. You watch, half-grossed out and half-comforted by the care he’s giving to your puke. “One we’ll never forget, that's for sure.”
When he’s done, he looks up at you briefly– blood-red eyes unreadable as he raises his hand and grips the coat with all of his five fingers. The previous coat now turned into gray ash blowing through the wind between the both of you.
“That’s done.” Standing up, he runs his palms against his jeans. Now looking down at you, quiet. Patient. Waiting. “There’s a ramen shop just down the street.”
He pauses, looking away from you. His hand scratches his neck nervously. The comes a twitch of his fingers. “Do you want that? I’m not gonna make you eat here, it’s gross anyway.”
You laugh.
And then—carefully, like it costs him something—he holds out his hand.
Not his whole hand.
Just his pinky.
That dumb, little offer of peace between two broken people who yearn for one another.
You look at it through blurry eyes.
And you take it.
The ramen shop is tiny– barely fits five tables, and quiet except for the low hum of broth boiling behind the counter. The warm yellow lights flicker above you. It smells like soy and earth and nothing that will send your stomach into a frenzy. Thank God!
You sit in the corner booth, red-eyed and sniffling, with a tissue in one hand and chopsticks in the other.
Tomura watches you from across the table like you’re some wild creature in a zoo.
You slurp your first bite of noodles.
And cry harder.
Not like the big gasping sobs from before—but wet, sniffly, exhausted tears that just won’t stop.
“How the hell are you still crying?” He mutters, baffled. Sliding more napkins across the table towards you.
“I don’t know!” you wail, your tears mixing in with the bowl in front of you. “I feel awful, Tomu!”
You wave your chopsticks at him threateningly.
“I’m tired all the time,” you go on. “Everything smells bad. I cry when a cat video plays and I can't go to bed without eating a tub of ice cream! AND YOU!”
Your eyes narrow. A fresh storm brewing behind them.
“You dropkicked my coworker, Tomura!”
He shrugs, deadpan. “This again? He was clearly hitting on you. And he touched you.”
‘He touched what’s mine.’ Is what he really wanted to say but stopped himself.
“I wasn't interested!”
“You work for the heroes.”
“I work for Eraserhead,” you correct, stabbing at your noodles. “Didn’t you say you liked him? I’m sure I can get a picture with him—”
Tomura freezes mid-slurp.
You swear you hear him choke for a second, but masks it with a cough and a sip of iced-tea.
He fidgets with the collar of his t-shirt before saying. “...I didn’t say I liked him.”
“Tomura.” You stare.
He doesn’t meet your eyes. “I said he was efficient. Not the worst hero I've seen– he’s smart and quiet. Doesn’t waste time with bullshit. Uses that binding cloth, which is underrated, by the way. Everyone goes for flashy quirks—
Why am I still talking? He thinks.
he just erases yours and breaks your face.”
He shoves another bite of food down, chewing like it’ll shut him up.
You’re looking at him now—like really looking—and he feels it. He feels that awful warmth creeping up his neck again, right beneath the itch. Like he’s a twelve year old boy again and just got caught geeking out, more embarrassingly, about his favorite pro-hero.
He hates it.
He hates how much he doesn’t hate it.
You grin, a devilish look in your eyes. “Is this your way of saying you want me to get something signed?”
His eye twitches. “Absolutely not. That’s lame.”
You raise an eyebrow, smug. “No autograph or picture. Got it.”
A beat.
“…Maybe if it’s, like, on a napkin or something.”
You burst into laughter. It’s too bright for a world like his. Too loud, too soft, too much.
He frowns, trying to act indifferent, but his ears are pink and his fingers are twitching.
“How did I end up falling in love with you?”
Silence.
The world stops right then and there.
He’s still. He’s shaking. Fuck. He doesn’t know anymore.
You said it so earnestly, so sweet like candy on his tongue.
The need inside him spikes—violent, desperate, terrified. It's not butterflies in his stomach. It’s moths chewing through every soft thing in his body. It’s panic.
What if you change your mind? What if you take it back?
His eyes bore into you. Not blinking. Red and raw and hungry.
He wants to grab your face. To press your palm against his chest and scream ‘feel this, feel what you’ve done to me, woman.’
He wants to kiss you until your lips bruise. Until there’s no one in the world but the two of you. Until you forget anyone else ever existed.
He wants to bury himself inside the space you engraved into his heart and rot there, happily.
He wants to live under your skin.
In every sense of the words– gently, lovingly peel back each layer of your skin. Tangle himself in your veins, wrap around your bones and press his ear to the muscle of your heart to hear how it beats when you think of him. How it beats when his name spills from your glossy lips.
Because it has to be him. It has to be.
He wants to sit behind your soft gaze, watch the world with your eyes. Wants to be the only reason your stomach flutters, the only reason your breath catches, the only reason your chest aches. He wants to know what it’s like to be loved by you from the inside out.
He wants to claw his way into your dreams, the bad, the good ones, the wet filthy ones, until your subconscious is full of him. Tastes like him.
Oh, god. To relive that moment, when he fucked you again and again and again.
It replays inside his head daily. If not more.
He wants to make you cum on his tongue, taste your sweet nectar and drink it all up like it's something holy. Wants to hear you beg for mercy when he thrust inside your tight, wet cunt. Paint your walls white like he did once before.
He won’t stop until every beat of your heart, every perfect atom that constructs your body matches his destruction.
He wants to bleed into you. Deeply, irrevocably poisoning everything else that has ever made you feel safe.
Because no one else gets to have you.
Not after him.
Not ever.
You chose him.
Why?
Why would you ever choose him?
He doesn’t deserve it.
But fuck if he’ll let you go now.
Because inside the broken, rotted space of his mind, you are salvation.
You are his sanctuary.
His sacred altar. Where nothing else matters, but you.
And he’s on his knees, broken– shaking— pleading— praying with hands soaked in another man’s blood and for the thing taking control over him— that thing he doesn’t fully understand.
One thing he is certain of is that you're the only god he believes in now.
And he will worship you with the kind of love that kills.
That devours.
He leans forward, slow. Voice low and rough.
“Say it again.”
“Huh?”
“Say it again. Say you’re in love with me.”
He’s not asking. He’s starving.
Because if this is real—then maybe he’s not completely lost.
And you think. Fuck it.
You launch yourself across the table.
You kiss him.
It’s wet with the salt of your previous tears and the remnants of dinner breath and your nose bumps his too hard and he thinks your elbow just knocked over a cup—
But still.
You kiss him.
And Tomura can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t move.
He thinks his ribs are going to explode. He thinks he might die if you stop touching him.
Hands trembling in the air, afraid he’ll ruin it. What if when he touches you… you vanish?
Afraid he’ll wake up from this dream and end up alone in the dark solitude of his room, and this will just be a sick trick born of hunger and obsession.
So he lets himself feel it. How your plush lips seem to perfectly fit against his own.
So when your lips part, just slightly, and your forehead rests against each other, your nose still smushed against the bridge of his—
“I’m in love with you,” you whisper again.
And he’s ruined.
Absolutely. Utterly ruined.
Because now he knows what it feels like. To be so intimately touched by you.
To be kissed by you.
To be truly, unconditionally wanted.
Now, maybe just maybe, the child inside him, the one left to rot in the dark, finally found something worth holding onto.
Even if he has to destroy the world to keep you. The two of you.
“HEY!!”
A rough voice cuts through the ramen shop.
You both freeze.
The waiter stands behind the counter, a half-wiped bowl in hand, glaring. The whole shop had gone dead ass quiet. Except for the comedic slurp of someone in the back pretending he didn’t witness the whole ordeal.
“This is a restaurant, not a porno,” he barks. “Get off the table!”
Tomura turns his head. Rigidly.
Dead red eyes meet the man in a stare so sharp it could skin the guy alive.
With zero shame and full offense, he barks. “Don’t you see we’re having a moment here, asshole?!”
You slap a hand on your face, trying to keep yourself from bursting out in laughter(and failing). “Oh. My. God.” Sliding back into your seat, dabbing the napkins on the spilled drink across the table. Cheeks flaming.
“She’s pregnant, y’know. Outta have some more respect!”
“Tomura! Stop!”
“S-sir, I apologize–the meal will be on the house—”
“Good.”
“Geez, Tomu. That was not necessary.”
a/n: this was such a pleasure to write- i love obsessive tomu hes my favvvvvvvv :) share your thoughts <3
You and Geto get along as lovers for the most part—you understanding his duty to fulfill this religious agenda he’s pushing, still loving him, Geto loving you back in return. But then he says something out of line. So what do you do? You fuck him, right in front of his entire cult.
⟡ ࣪˖ 𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑑𝑒𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑠 — 1.8k 𝒘𝒄, public sex, Sub!Geto, hair pulling, foreplay, degradation, interacting with Geto’s subjects briefly, gagging with panties, pegging, backshots, bondage, cumshot
“So, tell me Suguru’s followers…”
The crowd below kept their heads low, palms pressing tight into the wooden floor, as you and Geto were the only ones on the stage a few inches above his devoted followers. The sight was more of a performance than a speech. A statement made with sex instead of a proper wording. Geto’s robe attire was folded neatly on the corner of the cold platform—previously making him strip fully naked in front of everyone, smiling soft.
Now, Geto was on all fours, dragon tattooed back arched, your hand slid down the muscles to make it more defined for your sick pleasure, underneath his lengthy raven hair with a smallish bun in the middle. The faux transparent cock you wore around your waist was soaked in lube, the fat silicone tip gently tapping onto the rim of Geto’s asshole, him whimpering in return. “Please…” All quiet and pathetic under his breath.
You smiled more, eyes lidding low.
“Is this your leader? Your God? Because right now...”
Sliding out your tongue to slowly lick at his black matte gauge, saliva lapping up to the shell of it, you whisper into his ear.
“He’s looking like a weak little bitch.”
Geto bit the plumpness of his bottom lip as you moved away, bare figure shivering out of excitement at the degradation. Both of your palms caress his ass cheeks, soft and round, always shaped through his decorative robes. “Lift your heads.” you command, and they listen. “That’s good. Heh, I can see why you like being a cultist, Sugu. It’s nice being in control, isn’t it?” Geto reluctantly nodded, your dirty words from before making his fully hard dick throb in between his thighs.
Warm watered precum embarrassingly leaked out, hitting the floor underneath the two of you. A cute small puddle of clear.
Shaped just like a heart.
Your back arched a bit, sliding the dildo up and down between his cheeks, lace bralette subtly straining against your boobs.
“Well, I’m in control now. And I’m gonna make you cum hands free right in front of your freak show cult. Make them see what happens when you try to act all high and mighty towards your partner. Understand, Master Geto?”
Your honeyed voice was full of mockery.
Geto grew harder at it, feeling his dick hit his rigid stomach.
Jumping and leaking like a whore—all because of you.
“Mm…p-please…”
The palm of your hand slapped strict against Geto’s rump, watching it ripple with the strong print mark stinging red. You narrowed your eyes, your other hand wrapping around his long rich strands to form a ponytail—tugging hard as punishment. You watch Geto’s face contort into pleasure, mouth gasping.
“That didn’t sound like a ‘yes, ma’am.’ Did it now?”
Glancing at the blushing crowd for a moment, you scoff.
“You all best not look away. Suguru told me before this little incentive, that he’ll behead anyone who dares to disobey me while I’m on his stage.” you purred, now looking at Geto, still arching for you. Still hard for you, achingly so. You grinned.
“Must really love me, huh, Sugu?”
Geto quickly nodded, biting his lip at your hair pulling.
“Mhmmmm.”
“Gosh…you make it difficult to stay mad at you.”
Your fingers move to let go of Geto’s hair, but he quickly stammered while looking back, flushed in the face. “N-No! Want you to pull it…pull on it while you punish me, gorgeous.”
An eyebrow raised, now hesitantly tightening your grip on it.
Geto moaned at the action, staring at you all teary through pretty lashes. Lavender eyes so in love despite the pain.
Your dominant gaze fades for a moment, enamored.
He looked so beautiful like this.
“Fine…now enough talking. This isn’t a chat. It’s discipline.”
Pulling back on Geto’s tresses, your other hand rests on his ass that was still embedded with your print mark, thumb rubbing soothingly on it. “Take a deep breath for me, lovely. Gonna let everybody here watch you get fucked stupid.” Geto’s dick cried more, nodding at you with quivering lips. Staring down at him, you shift your belted hips to slide the entire tip inside Geto’s winking hole, smirking as he whined.
“Just look at you, babe. Only the head and you’re already whining…it’s like you’re enjoying this. Being stretched in front of all these people. Oh, I bet they’re all itching not to stroke it to their beloved ‘savior.’” You start sinking your inches deeper with a lip bite. “Oh…f-fuck.” Geto silently moaned with parted lips, his violets rolling back to reveal nothing but blissed out white, slender fingers trembling against the wooden floor.
One more thrust of your faux member—and you finally bottom out inside your lover. Every inch of your dildo filled Geto up without missing a space. All the veins. All the thickness. Just tightness wrapped around it. His hole was stuffed full, with tons of glistening lube smudging against his ass and the glittery toy itself. Soft breaths left Geto’s lips as the stretch burned, making him throb even more, so hard with arousal.
“Stuffed full of me…full of my dick. Tch, what a slut.”
Geto breathed out more with a moan, his shaky hand brushing against his leaking shaft, feeling brief electric pleasure until you noticed with a tusk. “Ah, ah, ah. I said hands free, babe.” You take one of his hands to rest on his lower back, then grab the other one—all while you keep his silk hair in your left grip. There was a small box next to you, full of sex toys and panties.
Perfect.
You take your fingers to grasp at some fuzzy purple cuffs and snap them around both of his wrists. Geto’s strong buff arms move to tug against it, needy. “You’re being too cruel...” Geto frowned, about to cry. You grinned as the fluttering of his hole calmed down around your faux cock, taking your pair of lace panties out of the box, now closing it shut with a click!
“Yeah? I’ll show you cruel.”
Geto’s eyes widened a bit as you suddenly leaned forward to flush your waist right against his plush cheeks, accidentally moving the dildo inside of him, width grazing into his gummy prostate. “Hahhhh, gorgeousssss.” Geto sighed with a dazed smile, but his angelic noises are quickly muffled once you stuff the dirty panties into his mouth, hearing sobs replace sighing.
“I said enough talking. Awe, you weeping for me?” you coo.
Geto’s eyes blink with his thin black eyebrows furrowed sadly, glancing back at you when you pulled his hair a bit. His sexy eyebags were covered in tears, flowing out in euphoria and frustration at this whole ordeal. You fake pout while smirking.
“Relax. I’ll make that cock weep too once I’m done with you.”
Fingers on Geto’s precious rump trail up to hold his subtle slimmed waist, you feeling his hard abs clench underneath your fingertips. The grip on his silken hair was tightened again, moving your hips to start plapping against his ass, fucking the nine inches of humiliation inside of Geto’s velvet walls. Glitter rubbery tip slamming into his sweet spot as he loudly moans, muffled with panties down his throat. “Guh—mnghh—hnngh!”
“Uh huh. Take that shit. Take it all knowing you’re getting raw dogged in front of this disgusting ass cult you’ve got.” you grunt under your breath, smacking your veiny girth faster inside his creamy hole, watching the lubricant stringing on your slick connected figures. Geto’s teeth bite down against your lace underwear, his tongue sliding all over the material, pretending it was your cunt shoved into his mouth instead, still getting pounded good from behind. Panting and licking.
Oh…shit.
He could still taste you.
Geto could still taste the dried up nectar on the pantie’s center that managed to rub right on his tongue. His purpled eyes go half lidded while he smiled around your panties, sensitive balls clenching, with his own hips moving back to meet your mean thrusts that were dominating his ass. Geto’s dick slapped up into his abs with his arched back curving more—his ‘X’ scarred chest almost hitting the floor—but it couldn’t. Not with his head lifted up by your fingers curling into his midnight mane.
Geto could already feel himself about to nut.
In front of everyone.
Your face goes tense for a brief moment, fucking Geto harder at the memory of the dispute you had earlier. “Hah…telling me you’re my God like the rest of your followers. Pfft—just who the fuck do you think you are, baby?” you laughed, using both of your hands to ruffle into his scalp, making two lazy pigtails. Yanking on them with a heavier roll of your hips—Geto letting out more hushed moans that gurgled from his vocal cords, his callous hands trying to escape the fuzzy wrapped metal cuffs.
He could feel the embarrassment start to hit as he cried, eyes looking away when he briefly glanced to his left. All his adult devotees—staring—with loyal lust shown inside their pupils.
The shame of being fucked in public was making Geto sick.
Even if it was his idea in the first place.
All of that shame was washed away when you pumped your clearish dick into his ass at a hungrier pace, grunting softly under your breath—making him pulse profusely.
“Cummingggggg.” Geto slurred into your lace, dizzy, the length of his cock starting to shoot clouded ropes onto the stage from his tip, all hued with white flowing out. The hot cumshot he shot was so far—it reached the edge of the stage, right by the near open doors, revealing Mother Nature’s trees. Cloudy, gooey, and sticky, more of it pouring onto the wood. “Shit, Suguru…” you whisper in awe, still thrusting deeply.
Clenching around nothing with slick dripping out your cunt.
At how delectable your man was.
You start slowing down your thrusts, drops of sweat covering your forehead and your breasts that heaved a bit. Geto’s eyes are closed shut, seeing stars inside his sockets, as every inch of his body was wavering with an orgasm that felt like relief. The sound of muffling came from the front, and you tiredly lean over Geto. Skin touching skin, laying down on his inked dragon back, covered in sweat and a messy undone hairstyle.
A hand appears in front of Geto’s face, his tired indigo’s staring through darkened lashes, still damp with fucked out tears. Dick half hard with a bead of sperm sliding down the tip.
You take the panties out from between his wet lips. They were completely soaked in saliva, letting gruff breathing fill the dim room with light occasional moans. Geto’s body began to limp, slumping forward, as his cock kept twitching against his load of cum. “I…I’ve guh learned…m-my lesson…” he panted, raspy.
You smiled against Geto’s broad shoulder, kissing it soft.
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