#tomura shigaraki r18 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hawnks · 3 years ago

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Eggshells and Dynamite pt. ii

shigaraki tomura x reader

r18

word count: 8,090

[soulmate AU, soft yandere, shigaraki-centric, obsessive shigaraki, food as a love language, mentions of panic attacks, explicit content, intimacy kink, mild foot kink don't look at me]

Everything hurts. Some things get better, sometimes.

His self control wanes, after the incident with your panties. Incident, he thinks of it, like an inevitable. Like he’s not just some kind of horrible pervert.

He’s accepted it, the moniker. Pervert. He would probably let himself be anything, no matter how disgusting, so long as he could get some relief.

It must be biological, soulmate related. He can’t imagine this is normal, the way he wants you. Like he’s starved, like a single touch would make him bust on the spot. He’s had to schedule alone time every night just to keep himself from going off the deep end. He’s still half-hard most of the time.

Most nights he wakes in the small hours, throbbing and drenched in sweat. He rushes to the bathroom to rub one out, praying, fearing, meeting you on the way. The sight of you so precious and terrible, it makes him want to fall to his knees and beat the ground.

He thinks he’s starting to believe in karma; you’re a divine punishment.

And god — are you divine.

Everything about you is a constant tease. The curve of your thighs and the hip-sway of your gait. The space where your ear curls into your throat. The sound of your voice. The pat of your footsteps.

You’re going to kill him.

Maybe he wouldn’t care, if you did. Anything, he’ll take anything from you, and lick the bowl clean.

Just fucking — look at him.

Even that has become pearl-rare. You avert your gaze so quickly he's afraid you might get whiplash some days. And, yes, he thinks vindictively. He’s not much to look at, but he’s yours. Your own punishment, the whole of your relationship sick and balanced.

You deserve each other. Maybe. Somehow.

He doesn’t know.

Doesn’t know how this is supposed to work. How you could have done anything to deserve this, him. Whatever strange and unfortunate life he can give you. Whatever strange and unfortunate life he’s desperate to give you.

He’s started wearing gloves, all the time. Just in case. For what, he doesn’t know, but the idea that he could —

He’s changed his schedule. Wants to be around more when you’re awake. Wants to make sure you’re sleeping well, at the right times. That you don’t go hungry.

He shadows you constantly, aware that you’re aware of him. Unable to stop himself.

And one night he does catch you. In the hallway, on your way back from the kitchen.

He’s sticky all over, from sweat and his own slick, his lust not even spent yet but so incredibly messy. You look so small compared to him, in that moment. And he knows he could have you, he could back you up against the wall, breathe you in, listen to your murmured denials, rut against the soft fat of your stomach until he finally cums. He’s so much bigger, stronger than you. He could simply take.

That’s what sensei would have told him to do. That’s what’s in his nature. Villain.

But he doesn’t. Instead he’s swamped with the urge to keep you safe, make you happy. More than anything, he wants you to want it, too.

He looks at you, looking at him, the both of you caught up in the spiderweb tension of this. He looks at you, looking at the damp curl of his hair, the clinging fabric of his shirt, the tent in his pants.

Your fault, he doesn’t say. All you.

Your lips are parted slightly, the surprise of it all making it hard to mask your feelings.

You’ve just eaten something — isn’t it too late for dinner? won’t you make yourself sick? — and the smell is all mixed together. Oil and the musky fragrance of your skin. The soap you wash your hands with, a different soap for your face. And him, layered over everything, the inescapable scent of unspent sex smothering it all.

He passes you without a word, breathing deeply as you go by, trying to keep you in his lungs until he can get a hand around his cock. Ease his suffering, just a little.

…

To your surprise, after your first week, there were no more episodes. No more crawling into yourself, afraid of being ripped apart by your own pounding heart. You’re almost— calm, in this place. At peace in a strange, noxious way.

Is this a beacon of healthy adult living? Of course not. But none of the self help books you’ve read have ever brought you even close to this level of stability. At least you’re not having breakdowns in the storeroom every other day. At least you don’t have to worry about your life slipping through your fingers at the slightest provocation.

Shigaraki seems to know this. Instinctively, maybe. Or maybe because he’s always watching you. And you know he is. Like a bird of prey, circling, a distinct sharpness to his gaze that makes you doubt his every action.

What does he want?

What do you want?

Some deep dark part of you —

Likes this. The situation, the push and pull of it, everything natural, instinctive. The power of it. You understand it in a way you couldn’t understand your old life, seem to know all the rules here, all the stakes.

Which is why you know you can mouth off to one of the most dangerous men in the world without repercussion.

The food he brings gets progressively harder to eat. Not that it’s overly complicated or intricate, just that it’s so healthy and tasteless you can’t stomach it.

The night he brings you a cut of unseasoned tofu you glance at it once before shoving it back at him. “No thanks.”

“You’re gonna starve to death,” he snaps, staring down at the plate. He’s hovering over you as you sit on the cot, the plate gripped between both hands. He’s scowling.

You just shrug, in response, which seems to ignite something in him. His gaze goes steely and hot, fingers flexing.

“This is why,” he murmurs.

“Huh?”

“This is why you need me.” He gestures to you, your sunken eyes and cheeks. You look fragile. Like your bones are hollow as a birds. “You’ll starve yourself.”

You resist the urge to hiss back at him. There’s something pulled taut in him today, like he’s a moment from snapping.

And besides, you wouldn’t starve. Kurogiri looks out for you, keeps the kitchen stocked with snack food for grazing. You don’t eat meals, but you’re not constantly empty. It’s enough.

Enough to have you turning your nose up at the plate Shigaraki has begun to inch toward you again.

“No thanks,” you say again. The same cadence as fuck off.

His upper lip twitches, like he’s about to bite you. You just sit there, waiting for his retaliation. Waiting for him to hurt you.

You see it in his eyes, the tension around his hands. His biceps bulge with restraint. Right where his soulmark would be.

He wants to come to you, to pounce on you. Smother you with his whole body weight. Bury his face against your throat. The image is so clear in your mind you can feel it.

When was the last time you were touched without the intent to harm? When was the last time you were touched at all? The thought makes you want to dig your claws into your own skin, to take any sensation you can. You want to stop feeling anything at all, or maybe to drown it out with overwhelming sensation. You want him to stop looking at you.

You want — control.

“I used to feed myself, if you can remember,” you say. “I wasn’t always your pet.”

The word ‘pet’ seems to take him by surprise, sap him of some of his ire. You watch raptly as a blush darkens his cheeks. “It’s good for you,” he mutters.

Clearly he hasn’t been thinking of you as a kept creature, but then what are you in his mind? You say, “It doesn’t taste good.”

“It will make you stronger,” he returns, then quickly amends, “It will keep you healthy.”

You shake your head. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Shigaraki clicks his tongue. His expression has gone neutral, darkly inquisitive.

You say, “What’s the point of just living?”

He leaves the plate on the floor by your feet.

…

The next night he enters your room like he’s storming it. He doesn’t have something freshly cooked for you, but a convenience store bag, the yellow smiley staring at you vacantly.

“I’m tired of watching you starve yourself,” he says.

Your patience is a dry well. You stand, intending to cow him, back him right out the door. Or maybe you just want to argue, want some release from this constant tension eating at you. “Would you fucking stop with this?” you snap. “Belittling me, condescending to me. I’m so sick of it—“

“I care about you.” It’s no less startling for how softly it’s spoken. He seems to know it will have that effect on you, because he says, “I care about you and I’m asking you to sit down,” and you comply instantly.

He’s still hovering

”I want things to be easier for you,” he says finally. It’s spoken with the soft assurity of a leader. Someone who’s heard without raising his voice. “That’s it.”

He’s holding onto the bag. A part of you wants to tell him to hand it over so you can throw it back in his face. Get this over with. Get him away.

But doesn’t let go of the handles, the plastic dimpling in his iron grip. He’s looking at where his fingers curl, pinky left safely out, despite the gloves. Must be hard to break a habit when the consequence is so dire.

“There’s something out of the ordinary in you. Maybe you were born with it. Maybe it got dropped at your feet like a dead bird. But it’s inside you and there’s no getting rid of it.”

The words echo through you, barely touching down.

You wonder, absently, what he’s brought you. It was probably hard to pick out something tasteless and wholesome from the pre-made meal selection. You think about the wall of sandwiches in your old place of work. You think about the owner, arriving back to his store in ruins.

“Life seems to fold around you, doesn’t it?” he says. “Like everyone else is pointed in some direction, at some thing, but you’ll never be able to reach it. You’ve always known that.”

You’re hungry. You haven’t let yourself think about it, too swept up in righteous indignation. But you’re hungry.

You wish he’d stop talking.

“And you’ve always known that you’re not that different from everyone else. So why? Why did you get the short stick? Why is everything so hard for you?” he says. “You’re angry, but you won’t admit it. Not at me. Not at yourself. At the world. The people who outpaced you just because you’re not the same.”

You wish you could just eat.

“It’s okay to be mad. Furious, even,” he tells you. “It’s okay to not be grateful for scraps.”

He’s looking at you now, waiting for something.

You don’t know what he wants from you, how you’re supposed to respond. You guess his words aren’t really sinking in, floating at the edge of your consciousness. Were you even listening?

All you can think about is how hungry you are. Starving. You’d probably take anything he gave you, at this point.

You point at the bag he’s clutching. “What did you bring me?”

He blinks at you for a moment. Then he opens it, shakes it out onto the bed before you. The items fall with a plastic crinkle. It’s all junk food. Chips and sweet bread. An oily entree. It was the kind of meal you would have bought yourself as a child, indulgent and bad for you.

You pull a bag of konpeito sugar candy from the stack. They’re shaped like tiny stars, assorted pastel pinks and yellows.

“I used to eat these all the time when I was little,” you say. You tear open the bag, a few of the candies tumbling out and onto the bed, between your knees. “I used to hold them in my mouth and wait for them to dissolve.”

You crook a finger at him, beckoning him closer. He’s slow to comply, the look in his eyes almost dreamlike as he leans down. You tap a finger to his lip, he opens, obediently. Gently, you place one of the candies on his tongue, sakura pink, the color of his blush.

His mouth hangs open for a moment even after you pull away. His eyes don’t leave yours when he finally closes it, tonguing at the morsel like he’s imagining something else.

“Good boy,” you whisper to him.

He stands abruptly, scowling, flushed. He leaves.

…

You make pancakes for breakfast. The rest of the LOV members are out on a mission this morning, so it’s just you and Dabi at the table.

He grills you about Shigaraki as you cook. “How big is it,” is the first question on his roster, before you threaten to dump the batter on his head.

“Whoa, easy there,” he returns, grinning, “Curiosity ain’t a crime.”

You go back to your mixing, muttering about how you wouldn’t know anyway, which he catches, to your horror and his delight.

Dabi thinks the whole situation is hilarious, of course. That Shigaraki was actually interested in someone at all was somewhat of a shock to the league members, let alone that he seems to be whipped right out the gate.

“He seems like an incel, right?” Dabi notes, taking the steaming plate you offer him. “But he never cared about that shit. Getting laid, or whatever. If it wasn’t for the world class hentai collection I would have thought he was a monk.”

He pours a generous helping of syrup over his stack, then reaches across the table and does the same for yours. “But he’s got other things to focus on, I guess. No time for mud fights and body shots when there’s a society to change.”

“Do monks always plot world domination?” you ask.

Dabi gives you a precursory glance. “If he hasn’t laid hands on you yet, there must be something wrong with him.”

You should be skeeved out by the comment, but it just makes you laugh. This place must be getting to you. “Didn’t your boss almost kill you the last time you tried something.”

He shrugs. “No problem with looking.”

“I think some people would disagree.”

“Yeah,” Dabi says, his tone strangely placid, almost pleasant. “He might really kill me next time.”

“I’d stop him,” you say, thinking of the day Shigaraki tackled on him, threatening murder.

He smirks. “I’m not sure even you could at this point, babe.”

The table grows quiet after that, the both of you focused on eating. Dabi snags your plate when you’re finished, dumping it in the sink.

“I don’t think he knows what to do with you,” he says, on the way out the door. “I don’t think you know what to do with each other.”

Despite your better judgment, curiosity wins out. You sneak into Shigaraki’s room after that. You don’t find the hentai, or anything of the sort.

His room is less bachelor pad and more mad scientist, papers scattered everywhere, sticky notes on all the walls. His desk is cluttered with cups (all the ones you use, you notice) and a PC set up. Tucked into the corner of his monitor is a picture.

A candid of you, one that Toga took a while ago. No filter, but little sloppily drawn hearts adorn all the edges. It’s soft to the touch, like it’s been held and held.

You wonder where he got it, if he had to ask, or if someone just knew he would want it.

You wonder why he cares.

You wonder how long that will last.

…

You’re watching the news on Shigaraki’s PC, barely paying attention to the stories that roll by. You’re thinking about your nails, how you might finally be able to paint them. You’ve almost nixed your habit of tearing at them, and they’re longer now than they’ve probably ever been. Absently, you wonder what color Shigaraki would like you in, if he’d have any preference at all.

And then— a still frame crosses the screen. The empty lot where your workplace used to be. No one had bothered to clean the mess, it was too expensive and no contractor would want to build there anyway. What’s left is all dust. The remnants of your old life.

In an instant your throat is cinched tight, your chest can’t expand to take in any air. You can’t peel your eyes off the screen.

That used to be your life— and now there’s nothing to go back to. It’s all gone. You’re gone.

And now you’re dying, too. Your heartbeat like gunshots in your chest, under oxygenated, over excited. Maybe you really will bite it this time. Maybe this is how you go, unrecognized, life lost in all ways.

You don’t have the mental space to think about why or how Shigaraki is here. Coincidence? Maybe he just felt your distress, soulmate bond or whatever.

But he’s there at your side staring at you as you gasp, hesitating, wincing. He makes a move to grab you several times, but keeps coming up short. He doesn’t know what to do.

He asks questions you’re not able to answer, too occupied with the crushing sensation beneath your ribs, the sight of everything you used to be turned to ash on the screen.

Finally he reaches around you, shuts off the monitor with a small sound of displeasure. He doesn’t back off, after, stays curved around your back, over the chair. He wraps an arm around your chest, his wrist against the bare skin at the base of your throat.

You feel him, then. In increments, surrounding you. The heat and the pressure. The whisper of his breath. The soft pulse of his own heartbeat, pushing up against yours. Fighting it down. Smoothing it out.

He holds onto you for what feels like an eternity. Time is always strange when you come down, your exhaustion warping everything.

“You should go to bed,” Shigaraki says finally, like he can read your thoughts. Still, he doesn’t move.

You reach a hand up to cup his wrist. Your fingers find the prominent vein there, feel the blood moving through him. You’re gripping too tight, but he says nothing. Just lets you dig into him.

The position is slightly awkward. The high back of the chair is still between you, and he has to snake around it to maintain his hold. But he’s so warm. And you’re so tired.

You’re almost woozy now, barely conscious. You sigh, as close to content as you could be, all bundled up and held tight.

“Who even am I, anymore?” you say.

He pauses, for the briefest second. “Whoever you want to be,” he rasps, his arm tightening infinitesimally against your chest.

But you can feel it as surely as if he’d said it. Mine.

…

You wake in his bed, the lights all dimmed, his monitor unplugged completely. He’s left you a note. He’d probably left it on the pillow next to you, but you’d turned in your sleep and it’s stuck to your arm now, slightly crumpled.

Anything, it says, a reminder, the scrawl identical to the words running across your chest.

…

The day is average. You chat with Kurogiri, ignore Dabi’s slightly off-colored jokes.

Shigaraki gets back late. So late it’s not anymore, and you’re sitting at the kitchen table watching the door as he slumps through it.

His eyes catch you immediately. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

You almost laugh. “Shouldn’t you?”

The truth is, you’re not sure why you’ve waited up. Part of you wants to explain it away, you’re just not tired, you’re bored, antsy being cooped up in here all the time.

But the truth is you’re curious. About him. About the both of you.

He grunts. He glances at the stairs, where his room is, just around the bend.

“Where is everyone else?” you ask.

He glances at you, wary. Like you’re about to pull some nasty trick. “Someplace safe, at their discretion. They’re staying out of trouble for a few days.”

You peer at him in the dark. He’s covered in grime, streaks of something— blood?— matting his clothes, his hair. He looks exhausted. “You did something bad today, didn’t you,” you say.

“That’s objective.”

He edged closer. Just a step. He looks at your hands where they’re folded on the table, at your face, masked by the dark. “Are you going to bed soon?” he asks. For once it doesn’t sound like an admonishment. Softer, less imperious.

“Shigaraki,” you murmur. Have you ever said his name before? At the sound of it he grows restless, antsy. “Let’s go upstairs.”

He follows you obediently, and you direct him to the shower, “You’re all…gross.” Retreat to your own room. Lay on the bed and look at the ceiling. Lose track of time.

You wonder if he’s hurt. That must be a byproduct of fighting constantly. There’s no way to walk away unscathed every time, even if he’s the biggest, baddest villain on this side of the equator.

Who heals him? Kurogiri must have some part in it; he’d bandaged your own wounds a few times since you came to the hideout. You're sure Shigaraki would do that for you too, if you asked. But — would you want him to? Could you let yourself be hurt in his presence? Would it destroy you?

You think you’d like to be the one to clean Shigaraki’s wounds from now on. You think you can make it hurt less.

The door opens with the quietest click. He’s standing before you in an instance, at your bedside, peering at you in the half-light of encroaching dawn.

“You look like a drowned cat,” you whisper.

He says nothing. Just stares down at you, hair still wet, damp patches on his loose shirt where he didn’t pay dry well enough. He smells, disconcertingly, of lavender. It's your own shampoo, the scent you requested Toga grab for you. The thought of him standing wearily under the spray, using your things to get clean— makes your throat sting.

“What do you want?” you ask, quietly. Too quietly.

The air goes stagnant for a minute. There’s a grim look to him right now, like maybe you’ve found the line, how far you can push him before he becomes to you who he is to everyone else. Before he’s the villain here, too.

But then, finally, he says, “Just let me touch you.”

The answering pounding in your chest is hot, wild. You feel high with it, the quiet shudder of his voice, the way he’s looking up at you through his bangs so petulantly.

Your mind is swamped with thoughts of him, and your lavender shampoo. Of wanting so desperately, even the sight of the other person feels like salvation, feels like a buoy in an endless sea.

“You want it?” you ask. He nods. You say, “You really want it?”

Another nod. His hands twitch at his sides, like he’s imagining it, like he’s barely holding himself back.

And isn’t this what you’ve been craving? You see him wanting to the point of despair and it fills something in you, dark, decadent. Awful.

You say, “Then beg.”

He looks at you then, something like hurt flashing across his features before his expression goes blank, closed off. He’d do it, for you. He’d do anything.

“Please—“

The word barely makes it into the room before you’re throwing yourself against him, slapping a hand over his mouth, cutting him off.

“No,” you say, filled with a sudden bevy of horror. Almost— guilt. “Dont.”

Part of you teeters on an apology, but what would that do? Because another part of you still wants to hurt him, still wants him on his knees. Craves the power of that.

He looks at you, fish-eyed. He lets out a long, humid breath against fingers. You think he might lick them, can see the thought churning in his head. But he doesn’t.

He pulls away, and you let him. His chest is rising in big, heavy inhales, exhales.

“Can I see it?” His voice is quiet. You can barely hear it.

He’s all hunched in on himself, shoulders slumped, chin tucked. He hardly looks like a villain at all, right now. More like a man waiting to be rejected.

You know what he wants, he doesn’t have to elaborate. Your soulmark seems to throb under your shirt, like it’s calling out for him, like it wants the same thing.

Your hands hover between you like little birds, ready to push or pull at a moments notice. You say, “Sit down.”

You stand as he does so, reversing your positions. You tap your knee against his, opening up his legs, biting down a mean grin when you see him tense, shocked and unsure.

Your fingers pluck at the hem of your shirt — one you’d stolen from him — hesitating for just a moment. Then you’re stripping out of it, letting it flutter silently to the floor.

You stand there in your bra and sweatpants, arms loose at your sides. Strangely, you don’t feel any shame, any self-loathing. Maybe it’s because you can sense how thirsty he is for the sight, any blemishes or imperfections falling by the wayside with how much he wants you.

He’s so still as he stares at you, like he’s made of glass, like one wrong move would shatter him completely.

“I always knew it would be a bad guy,” you say, after a moment of stillness. “I never had any delusions about my future.”

You look at the mark yourself. It’s stark, prominent. Growing up the words had been wine colored, but they had darkened into a coal black in the last few years. The deepest shade you’ve ever seen a soulmark, save for Shigaraki’s. Most considered the meaning of coloration superstition. None of it had been confirmed, of course, but the going myth is that the darker your mark the more intense the bond.

If you believed it, yours might be heavy enough to sink you both.

You trail your fingertips across the scratchy scrawl of it. It’s not pretty, but interesting to look at. Art, almost, in the way it spiders across your skin.

You glance at him; he’s waiting, shaking.

Slowly, you reach a hand out, barely grazing his forearm. He flinches like your touch burned him.

You take his wrist anyway, drawing it in, closer. You turn his hand so his middle knuckle brushes against your skin, right at the out end of your mark. His hands are chapped and the touch of them raises gooseflesh all over your body, the delicate rasp heady and strange.

He’d taken his gloves off to shower, forgot to put them back on. His flesh is bare against yours.

Shigaraki is panting now, open mouth, chest rising in big, desperate gulps. Muscle jumps beneath your grip, like he can’t decide whether to pull away or not. But he lets you move him, lets you trace over the breadth of your soulmark, back and forth, like he’s rubbing it in.

His hand is fisted, white knuckled. Some of the drier skin begins to crack under the tension, the slightest bit of blood welling there. You want to lick it off, shocking yourself with the thought.

He’s moving by himself now, testing the weight and pressure of his touch against your skin, what makes you gasp, or shudder. What ways he can affect you.

You’re so sensitive in that spot, it must be rubbed raw. But you don’t stop him, and he doesn’t offer, tracing over and over the letters. All the while his gaze doesn’t stray, not even to the cleavage just a few centimeters lower. His attention is caught by those words, obsession and cat-like interest in his eyes.

“I didn’t believe you existed,” he says.

And you feel the afterthought in your gut. I thought I was alone.

You step away from him, breaking the contact. Reality floods you both. Like the moment is suspended in a flash of lightning.

You slink out of the room without looking back, bare skin growing frigid as you rush into the bathroom. You take a shower so hot it burns.

You think about how you’ll look at him the next time you see him, if everything or nothing has changed with this one instance.

It doesn’t matter, in the end.

…

“Where did he go?”

You finally rack up the nerve to ask Kurogiri on the fourth day of Shigaraki’s absence. He’s shining a cup at the counter, his ghostly face gazing back at you.

Shigaraki comes and goes, just like everyone else. Sometimes he’s gone for long periods, but this is the longest yet.

“Did he not tell you?” Kurogiri asks. At the shake of your head, he turns away. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

You want to reach out for him, pull him back, so you can look at him head on. “Is he—“

Okay?

It gets caught in your throat. Are you allowed to ask? Are you allowed to care?

“I’m sure he’ll be back shortly,” Kurogiri says. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t look at you again until you’re halfway out the door, heading back to your room.

…

Shigaraki is gone for four weeks.

The fucker.

…

Your curiosity turns to rage in short order.

How dare he. How dare he leave you. How dare he make you care. He dragged you here, turned your world inside out, and —

Abandoned.

The word rests in the back of your throat, always, as heavy as an iron nail.

It’s been a companion to you as long as you can remember, navigating the world distinctly alone, as only the truly fucked up can.

Like he said — there’s something out of the ordinary in you. Broken, he meant.

Wasn’t he the one who’s supposed to fix it?

But that never seemed to be his end goal, watching over you, not like a god, but a supplicant. Taking everything, everything, as it is.

The notion makes you seethe.

You’ve snooped through all of his belongings, save for what’s locked away. You find pieces of your life hidden throughout. Articles of your clothing, doodles you’ve made on napkins, books you’ve read. All of it integrated so seamlessly into the mess, like they’re his own, like they’ve always belonged to him.

You’ve taken to sleeping in his room. Curling up under the covers, piling more on so they weigh you down. The sheets have stopped smelling like him and started smelling like you. You think that makes you angrier than anything.

You smother yourself with his pillows, douse yourself with the few hoodies he’s left behind. It doesn’t make up for the ache.

You hate him.

You miss him.

…

There’s only so much seething you can do. Eventually, you grow bored. So you leave.

You tuck your hair into a cap, don a full outfit of Shigaraki’s clothes that sags on your body, obscures your shape.

You can’t remember the last time you actually left the hideout. Sometimes you loitered just outside, talking to whoever was having a smoke. But mostly, you were an indoor soulmate.

You’re still not quite sure where you are – no one ever bothered to tell you. But the further you go, the more you recognize, until finally you’re back where this all started. The convenience store. What remains of it, anyway.

You waddle through the mess, thinking about the last time you’d seen it, how it had set you off. Now you just feel a vague longing, and not even for the right thing.

Very little is left. Shigaraki’s quirk had decimated almost everything, and the rubble had been picked clean in the following days. You see bits of the counter, the shelves. Wrappers from food the shop didn’t even sell. A crimped wire that must have belonged to the old radio that hung in the corner.

It was mostly useless. It was off most days, so you and your cohorts could ‘focus on what’s important’ (your manager’s words). When it was on, it was auto-locked on a public-access channel. Through the day it would shuffle through smooth jazz hours to concise news soundbites to features about anything and everything.

There’s one you remember, distinctly. A piece about a planet. It was discovered years and years ago. That day was the anniversary, though, and the segment was talking about its discovery, the fuss it kicked up in the science community.

You don’t remember the name of it, but you remember the year it was discovered. You remembering caring a lot about it, at the time.

It’s all you can do, to head straight for the library, begin your investigation.

The planet’s name is Kepler-16b, and it’s a frigid giant made from half-rock, half-gas. Roughly the size of Saturn. The first of its class. A circumbinary planet, one that orbits two stars, which orbit each other.

The thought soothes something in you. The mere existence of this thing some kind of balm. You imagine a place with dual sunsets, the sky twice as bright. Strange and beautiful.

You learn that because of their position, there’s a particular and fantastic phenomenon circumbinary planets experience. One sun, eclipsing the other. A constant cycle of light overtaking light, burning bright enough to smother its twin.

You fall down the rabbit hole. For hours, you read about stars. Their life cycles and their anatomy. Their weight and presence. You read about planets too, bizarre and far-off. Impossible and wonderful.

It consumes you until the lights go out, and the librarian kicks you out, promising that you can return tomorrow, everything would be waiting for you still.

So you come back the next. And you keep coming back.

Anything, you think, must be this.

…

You feel it, when he returns, finally. You rise up from your nest in his bed, waiting until he appears in the doorway, his body a shadow, lit from the back.

He looks —tired.

You want to bundle him in close, brush the hair from his eyes. You want to – god help you – feed him something good for him, tell him to go to bed as soon as he’s done.

But you can’t.

Because you’re still furious.

“Where did you go?” you demand.

He doesn’t answer, watching you, gaze wolfish, strange. “I missed you.”

“You left me,” you hiss, edging toward him, expecting him to yield, like always. But he doesn’t. He lets you pull in close, chest brushing, breaths hot and mingled.

“I missed you so goddamn much,” he whispers.

“Are you an idiot?” you snap, nearly hysterical. “What if you died? What if you’d gotten killed?”

His expression hasn’t changed. Still doggedly intent. Still trained on only you. “I wouldn’t.”

“But what if you did?” You’re not making sense. Desperate with no outlet, no safe harbor. You feel the panic welling, dread shortening your breath, making your chest vice-tight. “What if you’d left me alone?”

He comes toward you, settles beside you on the bed. His expression is tender, fierce. It nearly chokes you.

You ask, “What if you didn’t come back?”

There’s a moment of nothing. Just you, together, in silence. You think he might just not reply at all, but then—

“What if I didn’t?” he says. Breathes the word like he has no voice left to say it.

Tears well before you even know what’s happening. They stream down your face, fat and ugly. You’re not a pretty crier, and this is worse than usual, your breaths turning to gasps immediately.

He opens his arms to you and you go, crawl into his embrace like a wounded animal, bury your face against the worn material of his shirt. He doesn’t smell like lavender, today.

The balls of his fists rest against your upper back and your waist. Your knees are slightly bent where they lay— you weren’t thinking about comfort when you came to him. But the thought of letting an inch of space between you to adjust fills you with dread.

You can feel the satisfaction rolling off him in waves. Clutching you like this. Like he’s always wanted. If you cared to pull back and look, you think he might be grinning.

And, maybe, in some ways you have conceded something.

But you don’t feel like you’ve been tricked, and nothing about the way he’s rocking you so gently could be devious.

The hideout is silent, save for the two of you. Your sobs tapering as he continues to soothe you. He’s murmuring something against your scalp, but it’s too low for you to hear.

You never realized just how big, how strong he is. His body is firm under your own, well muscled and powerful. You feel— safe.

He makes you feel safe. Somehow. Somehow.

“I would be alone,” you whisper, against his throat.

His arms tighten around you. “I instructed Kurogiri to watch over you, while I was gone.”

You shake your head. “Not the same.”

And it’s not, of course. You can’t think of anyone else on Earth who could drag you this low, break you down this completely. You can’t think of anyone else you’d want wrapped around you like this, the steady throb of his heartbeat, the deep, rasping breaths threaded through your hair.

“It was always meant to be different,” he says. “The two of us.”

His voice is hazy, far away. You’re starting to drift off in his arms, exhausted from crying.

“I never wanted to be different,” you tell him.

“I know,” he returns. Distantly, through the first layer of sleep, you feel the brush of his lips against your temple. It’s open-mouthed, just a little too soft. Like he doesn’t know how to kiss someone, like he’s never done it before. Like he’s never had a reason to. “I know.”

…

You wake and he’s wrapped around you. You’re half-sprawled on his chest, one arm cinched in a death-grip around your waist, the other raised to tangle a hand in your hair. He’s wearing the gloves you realize, two fingers, the kind artists use. You wonder if he had the foresight to know this was coming, or if he was thinking about you, too, while he was away.

He’s awake when you peek up at him. “Good morning,” he whispers, softly, almost cautiously.

Something about the morning light softens him. All the deep rivulets of his skin, more mosaic than painful. His eyes are pink-ish against the blanket of sunlight.

“I read, when you were gone,” you say, just as soft.

He hums, a leading sound.

“About stars, and planets. Everything.” You raise one hand, brush your fingers through his hair. It’s full of knots, and you’re patient as you ply through them, detangling. “The universe is mostly empty space, you know. Existence is an anomaly. Every single thing in the world is miraculous – isn’t that nice?”

He’s closing his eyes now, basking in your touch, the sound of your voice.

You say, “I think that’s what I want to do. Just learn things. As much as possible.”

“You can,” he rumbles. You feel it in your own chest. “I’ll help you.”

You lean up to brush your nose against his. He cracks his eyes open to watch you. He’s not quite smiling, but his face has lost the tension it usually holds. Peaceful. He says, “I really did miss you.”

And suddenly nothing matters. Not him leaving. Not what came before it. Just you, and him. This. This this this.

You kiss him, then, clumsily, feeling like a soulmate for the first time in your life. He opens his mouth to you instantly, turns things wet and slick, drags his tongue against yours, against the back of your teeth, your gums, the inside of your cheek.

He pulls you tighter, closer. Further up his body, tugging your full weight on top of him, groaning when you finally relinquish it and settle against him.

You pull away, evading as he tries to follow you, tries to kiss you again. You squirm in your shirt, tugging at his simultaneously until he finally reaches up and rids you both of them.

Then you’re half naked in his lap, staring at him as he’s staring at you. He’s looking at the space below your clavicle, where his words sit heavy as a stone. He’s leaning in, as close as he can, his tangled hair brushing against your skin, his nose pressing against the thin skin of your throat.

You can feel his shuddering breath, leeching across your shoulder as he crowds you. Then you feel – his tongue. Tracing the ink-dark spot. Dragging so slowly over your skin.

He falls into you. Hands grabbing, teeth clashing. It’s messy, and all at once. You have trouble keeping up with him, only know that he’s surprisingly dexterous in the onslaught. He’s good at getting you to writhe.

“Mine,” he says, teeth pressing against your throat. Not quite biting, just letting you feel the pressure of them there, the promise. “You’re mine.”

He fists a hand in your hair, tilts your head back until he’s cradling it. He tongues at the place where your ear meets your jaw, gnaws gently on the fat of your cheek.

“Say it,” he murmurs, wet and hot. His eyes so close and boring into yours.

You could. You are. To your marrow. In your blood.

But a part —the part he’s cultivated, maybe—wants to push.

You catch his lips, the faintest pressure against them. “Make me,” you whisper into his mouth.

You expect him to grab you, push you down or drag you against him. You’re braced for it, your legs stiff, arms poised to grab back.

But he climbs off you. Sinks to his knees. Yanks you by your hips to the edge of the bed.

You can’t help your gasp as he drags down your shorts and panties in one motion, or the next one, as he buries his face directly in your cunt. Isn’t there supposed to be some kind of build up, you think, some rise? But you're wet already and he knows it, taking long, deep breaths, filling his lungs with you. He lingers for a moment before nuzzling his face down your thigh, leaving drooling, open mouth kisses along the way.

He meaders down your legs, pausing to nibble, or lick. He holds you so tightly the flesh dimples in his grip. His lips are dry, the skin severely cracked. They catch on the stubble of your legs every so often, and you can’t imagine the prickliness could feel good to him. But he keeps going, brow lowered over steely eyes, rapt, drunk.

He reaches your ankle, bent all the way over, chest against the floor just to keep his mouth on you. Indelicately, he takes your heel in his hand, and the sudden disrupt of balance sends you tumbling back into the sheets.

He licks you there, too, from the rounded edge of your foot to your toes, pausing to tease his teeth over the tips, to suck each one into his mouth, lathe them dripping and hot. He does the same with the other, humming around your toes, making you feel strangely giddy.

You look at him, on his knees, at your feet.

You want to eat him alive.

Eventually he makes his way back up, and up, and up. Back to your cunt, tacky with slick, glistening at he thumbs it open. He’s panting on it, as he closes in, mouth open to take in as much of you as possible, tonguing your hole, shallowly, first, then deep, deep.

He gives your clit a firm lick and you jolt. He wraps his lips around it, nursing it in a way that makes it hard to pin down the sensation, to parse out what you’re feeling. It’s all so much, too much.

And your heart is racing in a way you’re familiar with, that scares you.

You push at his head, twisting away. “Slower, slower.”

He complies without pause, moving down from your folds to mouth at your thighs, nibbling, leaving a long string of hickies on both sides. He raises a hand to pet your belly in gentle circles, holding you down, soothing you.

Your heart settles as you trace his temple, his cheek where his jaw is moving beneath the skin. You hitch your legs wider, wanting, and he seems to understand instinctively, gravitating back to your pussy.

The feeling kindles in you again, heart racing, blood rushing in your ears. But you’re ready for it. You understand it now. It feels good. This is good.

He’s messy as he eats you out. You feel something dripping down you, onto the bed. Your slick or his spit, maybe both. It’s surprisingly loud, the sound of him tonguing you and his groans, the combination making your skin heat, making you buck.

Your peak is a full bodied thing, startling, electric. You curl up and around him, grinding against his face, fists in his hair probably painful, but he just moans into you, licking you still, guiding you through it until you’re pulling at him.

You drag him back up your body. He comes easily, readily, stopping to kiss you again wherever you give him slack, dark eyes continually drawn to yours.

His hips are aligned with the cradle of yours before he even thinks to take off his underwear, tossing it negligibly behind him, drawn back to you, as close as possible, as if being apart physically pains him.

He kisses you, and the taste is musky, yours. “Wanna be inside you,” he slurs into your mouth.

Spit pools in your mouth, a bead of it rolling down your chin, leisurely as honey, as you say back, “Want you inside me, too.”

The pressure of him entering you feels immense, like you’re discovering a whole new part of yourself that only opens for him. He goes slow, stroking your belly again, humming to you, a gentle praising sound. When he’s finally bottomed out he pauses, curls over you to bury his face against your chest, against your soulmark.

His cheeks are damp, sticky against your skin. From sweat, tears, you're not sure. You kiss him everywhere you can reach, infirm, fluttering brushes of your lips. Gentle as you can be.

“Gotcha,” you say. “I’ve gotcha.”

Then he’s moving, still nosing at the words on your skin, breathing hard against you with every roll of his hips. He reaches a hand up, meeting your eye as he presses two gloved fingers in your mouth, stroking your tongue for a moment before dropping them to your clit.

You’re still sensitive from earlier, and the touch makes you clench around him, squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until he’s coming undone inside you, warmth spreading through you like dawning light. He doesn’t stop stroking you, his orgasm making his fingers twitch intermittently, against you, makes him wince with the overwhelming pleasure, but still determined to get you off. And you do, rocking up into the cradle of him as he kisses you, as warmth climbs through you again, staticky, bright, and he finally has to pull out as you tighten around him again, so good and soft and sweet it’s become painful.

He doesn’t go far, collapsing beside you, taking you with him.

“Mine,” he says again, holding onto you like nothing could ever hurt you, here in his arms.

“Mine,” he says. Like a promise.

The afterglow blankets you both. A come-down that isn’t really a come-down, more elation than tapering off. You didn’t know you could feel this way with another person, or at all. You didn’t know you’d been craving this kind of all-consuming warmth your whole life. This, too, feels miraculous. Every kiss like you’re inventing it, like it’s the first and last that will ever exist. Anomalous stars, dotting an infinite void.

He traces your features, a single pinky mapping out your eyes, your nose, your warm, swollen lips. And you know him. Maybe you always have.

“I forgive you, you know,” you tell him.

He kisses away your dreamy smile, like he can’t help himself. “For what?”

“I don’t know,” you say, honestly, but knowing, somehow, it needs to be said. Knowing that he needs to hear it, maybe since always. “Everything. Anything.”

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x y/n #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki smut #bnha x reader #BOY HOWDY here she is #4am time to post another fic #this fic is dedicated to strei for letting me out of the isolation jar thank u strei

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