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rosekeu · 1 day ago

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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.

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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

taglist: @rax-writes , @radlightfire , @pastelygrape @enyaaa2222 , @moonchild323232 , @ykyouluvme , @choubidoutriso , @ale-t13 , @stardollwrites , @tomurasnextwife , @tamishadawn , @memo-the-fishy , @saltypuffin1040 , @atspiss , @ilovefictionalmensomuch , @babzzwrld , @babzz6 , @hadesorion , @thatoneawkwardfeeling , @nina-from-317 , @poppyflower-22 , @touyaslapdog

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