#ghuleh.writes

In spite of all that, you're uniquely regretful when you wake exactly where you'd ended the night before, sitting propped against your balcony rail with Tomura beside you. The fact that you're the only person responsible for the painful crick in your neck—and that your very comfortable bed is all of twenty feet away—probably has something to do with it.

"Fuck," you mumble, blinking disorientedly against the bright morning sun. Even realizing where you are, it's hard at first to remember why you're camped outside instead of tucked comfortably in your bed.

When you shift to sit up and feel lingering stickiness between your thighs, however, it all comes rushing back: Tomura dragging you out of bed in the middle of the night, and the frantic coupling that followed. Your ill-advised acknowledgment that, despite trying so hard to avoid this exact situation, you couldn't bring yourself not to care about him, or to end things. You'd done the opposite of end things, in fact, and while you regret that far less than your choice of sleeping arrangements, you still find yourself saying, again:

"Fuck."

There's a snort, and you feel shifting beside you. "You're finally up."

"Barely." You rub at your face, finally turning to look at Tomura. The dark circles under his eyes are more prominent than usual, but his gaze is alert. You wonder, briefly, if he got any sleep, but it's a trace thought that doesn't linger—you're too preoccupied with the intensity of his stare, and your sudden awareness of the mere inches between you. It has your stomach twisting and fluttering in tandem, the odd combination of relief and resignation you'd felt last night resurfacing in a way it hadn't before you were literally face-to-face with your questionable choices.

You smile in spite of yourself as you lean in to kiss him.

For a moment, those half-spun anxieties fade away, nothing in your awareness except his lips against your own. The kiss is soft and restrained—abnormally so, though you're late to register that. It's only when you pull away that you realize just how tight his expression is, his face pinched and pensive enough to dampen your own budding enthusiasm at waking up beside him. You hadn't expected him to be in a good mood, exactly—given his current circumstances that seems like far too much hope for—but it's still a stark departure from the satisfaction he'd displayed mere hours ago.

"You good?" you ask. Your first worry is that he's having regrets, and what a twist of irony that would be—him getting cold feet as soon as you decide there's no point avoiding commitment. Commitment, he'd been the one pushing for, even, though you're painfully aware that doesn't always make a difference. God knows he wouldn't be the first man who wanted to stake his claim only to feel immediately suffocated by it.

That doubt vanishes before Tomura can even answer you, however. The door to your balcony slides open to reveal Kurogiri, and the way Tomura immediately bristles at the sight of him suggests this isn't the first time the other villain has attempted to disturb the two of you.

"Shigaraki Tomura—" Kurogiri starts, but he doesn't get a chance to finish.

"I know," Tomura growls impatiently, and you have to fight back a laugh. You can see the League beyond Kurogiri, clearly in the process of collecting their things, and that's enough for you to piece together what has Tomura so irritated.

"Time to go already, huh?"

Tomura's glower deepens, but Kurogiri nods. "We should depart shortly. As I have already told Shigaraki Tomura"—there's an artful balance of delicacy and impatience in his voice—"our broker will be waiting."

There's clear subtext there—not just that they need to hurry, but also that despite Kurogiri's best efforts, Tomura was reluctant to disturb you while you were sleeping. Or, was reluctant to separate himself from you, at least. Last night made it abundantly clear that he's not above interrupting your rest for more self-serving reasons.

As much as you would also like to linger, the seven villains in your apartment are a fairly compelling reason to send Tomura on his way. And, more than that, you imagine that leaping into the newfound uncertainty of your relationship will be a lot easier if you simply get it over with, like ripping a bandage off.

You reach over and carefully interlace your fingers with Tomura's. "C'mon then," you say, tugging him along with you as you rise to your feet.

The inside of your apartment is a jarring contrast to the relative peace of your balcony. Jin shoves past almost the moment you've stepped inside—"About time a guy can go out for a smoke. I've been dying in here," he barks as he passes—and the others are a whirl of motion. Compress is in the middle of your living room, diligently ironing his vest, and in your bedroom beyond you can see Magne folding up the blankets she'd been using as a makeshift bedroll. Meanwhile, Toga and Spinner are piling everyone's things onto your coffee table; for a group that arrived with so few belongings, they'd managed to spread their possessions around rather impressively.

When you look back to Tomura, he's eyeing his own collection of notebooks and duffels, still strewn across your kitchen table.

"You need help packing up?" you ask.

He shakes his head. "I can handle it." He doesn't move, though, and he still hasn't let go of your hand.

You share that reluctance to separate, and you'd be tempted to indulge in a private moment with him if you thought you could manage it. Given the state of things, however, you're not optimistic on that front. Tomura must understand that well enough, too, because when you finally wrest your hand from his, he casts his own glowering look around and then skulks off to deal with his things. Less than ten minutes later, the League is crowded around a swirling warp gate, and your stomach is twisting as you watch Tomura carefully zip up the last of his bags—the duffel he'd dragged into your bedroom the other day, the one that contains his too-literal-for-comfort family.

He slings it over his shoulder and then casts an unenthused look around. The League is clearly waiting for him to go through the warp gate first, and though he doesn't protest, he does look less than thrilled about it as he steps towards you.

"I don't know when you'll see me again," he mumbles, making an obvious effort to keep his voice low.

"That's okay. Just come by when you can." You force a smile that you hope is more carefree than you feel—his imminent departure makes it hard to ignore that you have no idea where things will go from here, and that you can't even be fully confident you will see him again. You're not foolish enough to think that the League will be any safer at their new hideout than they were at your apartment.

He nods, and casts an agitated look around, obviously still unhappy about the audience. A second later, though, he leans in to cover your mouth with his own, albeit far more perfunctorily than you suspect he'd prefer.

Chaste though the kiss is, it's apparently not chaste enough; Toga lets out a giggle, and from the corner of your eye, you see her and Jin elbowing each other like excited middle schoolers. Beside them, Spinner is rubbing at the back of his neck and awkwardly averting his gaze.

Tomura doesn't comment on any of that when he finally straightens up; he only fixes them with an unimpressed scowl and then, hitching his bag more firmly over his shoulder, marches through the warp gate without another word.

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There's a shrug in Tomura's voice, the words spoken as a simple matter of course. It's followed by footsteps reverberating across the hardwood, and even without turning around you can picture the scene perfectly in your mind: him pacing behind you, head cocked and hands shoved lazily in his pockets as he surveys your fourth apartment in fifteen months.

"Why'd you move?" His question is followed by the telltale creak of a cabinet opening. "I thought you liked your last place."

"I did, but they raised the rent."

The cabinet, empty, thuds shut. There's a weight to the brief silence that follows, and when it's broken it's by the drag of fingernails raking over papery skin. Then, "You know you don't have to worry about that."

It's true, and it isn't. You could afford any place you wanted with the money Tomura insists on putting in your name—money that you refuse to touch. On principle, you tell yourself, though you often wonder the difference between that and spite.

You don't argue, though. Only deflect. "It wasn't worth what they were asking. And I like this place, too."

You're not lying. The unit is smaller, admittedly, and further from the city center, or what passes for one these days when so much is still in ruin. But it's also quiet. Quaint. There's a picture window that looks out over the shared courtyard, and rows of built-ins lining the walls. More built-ins than you could possibly need, really, for the meager possessions you've accumulated over the last year and some, but you tell yourself that's a good thing. That you'll grow into the space in a way you never managed at your last apartments.

Not that this is a promising start.

You wipe your dusty hands on your jeans and finally stand, sighing as you turn to face Tomura. "You said you were going to stop coming by like this."

He looks as you'd expected, on first glance—loose black clothes and slouched posture, carmine eyes watchful behind the spill of white hair that hangs longer every time you see him. But you also catch the subtle shift your words bring—the brief press of his mouth into a tight line, the quick drop of his gaze.

There's a long silence as you stare at him and he stares at the floor.

When he starts pacing again, the echo of his footsteps hangs heavier this time.

"It's hard," he says, chewing at his cheek. "Everyone else has moved on. Toga has her girlfriend, Dabi's with his family. Spinner's turned the Liberation Front into some heteromorph rights movement, if you can believe it." He lets out an incredulous laugh, as though he can't. "Even Kurogiri is busy. Figuring out his old friends, his old life."

"Kurogiri left?" You try to force aside the unwanted tightness that revelation spurs in your chest. "I thought he'd stay with you."

"He offered. Would have if I'd asked, but it's not like I need him. I'm just..."

"Lonely?"

"No." And then, with mirthless huff, "Maybe."

That admission hangs in the air longer than you intend to let it—long enough for your memory to take you back to places you'd rather not be. To waking, years ago, in a strange bedroom in a strange apartment. To long night after long night with Tomura curled against your side and your own mind refusing sleep, preoccupied as it was with the question of why.

The answer, it turned out, was deceptively simple.

There's a pile of takeout menus on your coffee table—ones that were waiting in your mailbox when you moved in. You sigh as you reach for them, already knowing he'll stay for dinner if you offer.

And already knowing you'll offer.

"Well," you say, not missing how Tomura's eyes darken guiltily at the trace bitterness you can't quite keep from your voice, "it's not like it would be the first time."

"You go out now."

Tomura's words have you pausing with a piece of katsu lifted halfway to your mouth. The two of you have been silent the last ten minutes; were mostly silent before that, too, as you waited out the vast-seeming span of time between the placing of your takeout order and the reprieve of the delivery person's arrival. But now he's looking at you from behind his hair as he scoops up threads of soba.

You finish taking your bite. Swallow. "What?"

"I came by your old place a few days ago and you weren't there." He says it reluctantly, like he's ashamed despite the current circumstance. "Last month, too. That never used to happen."

Of course it didn't: you barely left your old apartments in the weeks and months after Tomura let you go, though you've been trying to remedy that as of late. Two years sequestered from normal life left you overwhelmed in public, oddly claustrophobic any time you found yourself in a crowd. And even once that tendency towards panic abated, there was hardly anywhere to go outside of earning your meager living. No family to miss you, and certainly no friends to reconnect with. Much like Tomura now, everyone you knew seemed to have moved on.

Not that you hadn't, because whoever you were before Tomura, it's not who you were after. And you know the same is true of him—that he's not the person he was when he took you. An incontrovertible truth, if only because you're sitting here. Free.

More or less, anyway.

You take another bite of katsu. Chew carefully before saying, "I was on a date, actually."

The way Tomura stiffens slightly at your answer sparks a vindictive stab of satisfaction in you. It only grows when he asks, with forced casualness, "What kind of date?"

"A first date."

A good date, too, by objective standards. One where your suitor did all the right things, and where that effort seemed genuine. They didn't even try to come up at the end of the night—only kissed you on the cheek and said they would call.

"Is there—" Tomura wavers, for a moment. Lifts one hand towards his neck only to drop it just as quickly, and then slurps down a hasty spoonful of broth instead. When he swallows, it's harder than seems necessary. "Is there going to be a second one?"

You think again about the end of that latest attempt at romantic connection. About the blank indifference you felt as your date stood there smiling, and about the memory of crimson eyes that haunted you in that moment, the same way it had in the few attempts before. About the voicemail your suitor left the next day. The one that still sits on your phone, unplayed.

Whatever petty satisfaction you felt a moment ago slips away.

"No," you say flatly before lapsing back into silence.

There never is.

"Do you ever regret it?"

It's a question that again comes after lengthy quiet, though this time you're the one to speak first. Dinner is long over, takeout containers and disposable chopsticks left in a pile on your scuffed kitchen table, and you've spent the last couple hours in silence on your sofa. You're in one corner and Tomura's in the other, his foot propped up on a couple moving boxes as a sitcom neither of you are really watching plays out on screen. He frowns at the abrupt inquiry.

"The war?"

It's telling, you think, that that's the first place his mind goes. To that final confrontation with the heroes, and a battle he'd more or less won. But it's not what you meant.

"Letting me go." After a moment's consideration, you add, "Or taking me in the first place."

That question has festered in the back of your mind since the day Tomura chose power over the dwindling comfort of your presence, and you couldn't say why you ask it now. Couldn't say, either, why it was left unspoken for so long, save that some discomfort always stopped you. A fear, you suppose, that whatever response he gave would reveal as much about you as him. That you'd realize too late there was some specific answer you wanted.

Even now, your eyes stay fixed uneasily on the television as you await a response that takes several long moments to come. In the interim the quiet is filled with nothing but grating laugh tracks and the telltale rustle of nails scraping over Tomura's throat. You wonder when he resumed that anxious tick. Wonder, too, how bad it's gotten. If you brushed back those tangled locks, would you find mere reddened skin, or deep scores?

You distract yourself with that wondering, and eventually Tomura gives his answer.

"Sometimes," he admits.

"Sometimes for which one?"

The subsequent silence is longer this time. Then the sound of scratching abates, and from the corner of your eye you see his hand drop.

He leans forward for the television remote. Turns the volume up a couple notches.

"Both."

"Are you asleep?"

"No."

Tomura's answer is the one you expected. You've spent the last who-knows-how-long doing nothing more than staring at the dim black of the ceiling above your bed and somehow, despite the dark and the polite distance left between you, you knew he was doing the exact same thing.

He doesn't stay over, usually. Doesn't come by that often at all, truth be told, though every time he does it feels like an inevitability. Like there could never be any world where the two of you part for good.

On your good days, you know why that is. Understand the technicalities of trauma bonding or Stockholm syndrome or whatever one wants to call it. You know, too, that you're lucky in some ways. That this thin attachment you can't shake could be far stronger after two years of forced proximity.

On your bad days, though? On days like today, when his presence reminds you that there was something almost comfortable about this, once?

On those days, you can't help thinking that sense of inevitability might mean something.

You shift. Roll onto your side to look at him, and preoccupy yourself studying the outline of his silhouette, so different now from when he first stole you into his bed. He looked so young, then, with his owlishly wide eyes and that shaggy mop of dirty white hanging chaotically over his features. Now, his stark hair falls heavy back from his face, and his cheeks have lost some of their surprising roundness. Those more chiseled angles match the cut of meaty shoulders, and the swell of a chest that wasn't always so broad.

Several long moments pass, and then Tomura turns to face you.

"Why?" he asks. His brow is knit slightly, the rest of his face placid. It's a look you used to find strange—too dispassionate and untroubled for someone whose blood so often ran hot. But even in the earliest days he rarely turned those mercurial moods towards you.

No, with you he was always calm, or calm enough anyway—no demands or expectations beyond your stolen company and the tug of your head to his chest so his face could bury into your hair. It's that weight of expectation that makes it so different with everyone else, you think. Every job you take, every date you make, comes with the realization that something is wanted of you. Then, and always.

It had seemed intolerable when you were living it, but those long years with Tomura were still the only time in your life you were allowed to simply be.

And whether you want to or not, sometimes...

Sometimes you miss it.

You scoot closer to him. Ignore the way he stiffens in surprise and lean in, pressing your mouth to his.

It's not love. It never was, you're certain of that—not for you and not for him, either, even if it took so much time and growth for him to realize it. But it is familiar in a way that nothing else is, and tonight you don't much mind that when he feels like home it's in the exact wrong ways, like a place to which you would never want to return for good but that you might sometimes long to visit, if only because nothing else will ever be yours in quite the same way.

And because you'll never belong to anything else in quite the same way, either.

Tomura's arm extends to settle around your waist, tugging you closer. The gesture is far more practiced than the clumsy movements of his lips, but it's no surprise to you that he's more well-versed in the mundane affections. They were a constant in the hundreds of nights you once spent close against him, his hands in careful fists and his body curled into your side, each passing minute proving that he wasn't lying when he whispered what you thought were reassuring falsehoods. That he just wanted to be close to you.

It was hard to believe at first that he held little interest in carnal endeavors, at least beyond what they might represent when given willingly. But in the end you were convinced of it.

And in the end, when some combination of conscience and necessity finally led to your parting, you gave it willingly.

Now here you are. Again.

You deepen the kiss. Let your tongue trace over Tomura's scarred lower lip and sigh when his arms tighten around you. There's not passion in it, not exactly, but he's steady against you. Warm. Easy. And whether it's him you want or merely a familiar body touching you, that's enough to have a faint spark of heat stirring between your thighs.

Tomura doesn't protest when you pull back to tug him atop you, your hands already pressing at his shoulders to guide him where you want him, settled between your thighs. In the dim light you can just make out the stigmata-like scars that mar his palms as he shoves your shirt up, and you find yourself contemplating those pale, shiny marks. They're two among many, those hints of old wounds serving as counterparts to all the strength and muscle that lingered even after All for One left him.

It must be unsettling, you think, to inhabit a body so different from the one he started with—to wear the evidence of his ascent to godhood even after all that power was stripped away, sacrificed in the name of something as basic as self-preservation.

You think, too, that in the wake of all that it's no wonder he's lonely.

And then Tomura plants an open-mouthed kiss against your clothed mound, and you can't think of much except the desire blooming in you. His fingertips hook under the band of your underwear, tugging them down over your hips so his thumb can tease at your exposed sex, and the delicate touch has a faint gasp slipping past your lips. Tomura's cheek comes to rest against your bare thigh, his hot breath tickling flushed skin.

For a long moment he simply stares up at you from that prone position, gaze intent and eyes heavy-lidded with a want that seems deeper than mere lust. When your hips buck impatiently, however, he's quick to answer; a shuddering exhale slips past his lips and he drags his tongue over the length of your cunt.

His mouth is warm, the velvety pressure enough to have you lifting a hand to tangle in his hair. He groans in response, tipping his head to nuzzle briefly into that touch before he resumes his work, one finger tracing again over your entrance. It tests your wetness and then slips inside you, pressing and curling experimentally until it earns the delicate whimper he was seeking.

He repeats the motion, his tongue continuing to lap at your sensitive apex all the while, and you whine again, throaty and frustrated this time as the heat that's been building levels off. As good as it feels, it's not enough, the soft strokes of his tongue too gentle to approximate what you're accustomed to—the buzz of toys or the firm press of your own fingers, but never someone else's touch. Your grip on his hair tightens as you grind yourself against him.

"More," you gasp. He's quick to respond, another finger slipping inside you and the flat of his tongue dragging more firmly over your clit. Your back arches in response, your eyes fluttering closed. "Mmhmm," you gasp. "Like that."

Even with your own eyes closed, you can feel Tomura's unfaltering gaze, can sense him watching raptly as you respond to every persistent touch. Your head is starting to go fuzzy, everything beyond the friction between your thighs receding into a haze. When Tomura's lips latch around you, sucking lightly, your free hand clutches at the blankets as your legs start to tremble.

Tomura stops his efforts just as quickly, planting a kiss against your inner thigh as you let out another choked noise of dismay.

"Say my name," he pants. Those words are accompanied by the faint rustle of the sheets beneath him, and when your eyes blink open you can just make out his hips rutting against the mattress, some reflexive bid for friction. His voice is thick as he repeats his request. "Say it, when you—"

You're already nodding, clutching at him again as you guide him back to where you want him. Where you need him. There's a pleasant ache at your center, throbbing as you hover on the edge of release, and you whimper when Tomura's lips close obediently around you.

"Fuck," you swear as the flat of his tongue starts to work in tandem with that suction, the sensation heightened by each rhythmic stroke of his fingers. "Fuck, 'm close."

He speeds up his movements, tongue working more eagerly against you, and you can feel yourself beginning to tense, your hands and your hips conspiring to shove Tomura's face more firmly against your cunt. It's a heady sensation, to be touched at all and especially to be touched like this after so long without. When those waves of pleasure finally crest it's almost overwhelming, some strange melancholy swelling in your chest even as your whole body goes taut and a cry rises in your throat. It nearly sticks, lodged behind the unwanted lump that's formed there; in the wash of your tumultuous orgasm you barely manage to give him the one thing he asked for in exchange for that peak.

The words come out a hoarse, broken whisper. "C-coming, Tomura."

He groans gratefully, coaxing you through your release and not stopping until you force him away, overstimulated. Even then he only turns his head to mouth at your thigh, his hips continuing to grind against your mattress as his breathing grows more ragged. His lips work fervently over you as he does, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses punctuated by strained exhales. Then he's stuttering and shuddering, letting out one last desperate gasp against your skin as he comes.

He claws his way back up beside you almost immediately, cheeks flushed and eyes wide, uncertain in a way that contrasts sharply with his usual demeanor these days. It has you reminded once again of early on in all of this, when he was so different. When you both were.

That uncanny nostalgia only intensifies when he asks, hesitantly, "Can I...?"

You nod. You know what he's asking for—the only thing he's ever really wanted when crawling into bed beside you. The moment you acknowledge his plea, he's pressing himself into your side, arms wrapping tightly around you and his face burying in the crook of your neck.

Tomura doesn't move after that. Only relaxes into you slowly as you stare again the ceiling, willing yourself to feel some shame or guilt for inviting him into your bed. Not because of what it might mean to him, after all this time, but because of what it might mean to you. What it might mean for you.

In the end, though, you fail to summon that remorse. Another part of the inevitability, perhaps, because what is there to be ashamed of when it feels like things could never have been any different?

So, you only lay there listening as Tomura's breathing evens into the telltale rhythm of sleep, and sometime in the hours after you doze away too.

Tomura wakes to the warmth of your skin against his, and for a moment it's as if all the months since your parting have been erased. He blinks his eyes open expecting to find himself in his room at the bar, and to rise and make you tea under Kurogiri's watchful eye the same way he did so many times before. It isn't until he's met with the sight of bare walls and morning light streaming through the window that he orients himself.

Muscle memory still carries him to your kitchen after he slips from beneath your sheets; it's only when he finds coffee instead of tea among your sparse pantry items that he pauses. Remembers that he's well past such persistent efforts to win you over. All he's doing now is acting out a script for a performance that's long since ended.

He leaves the stove unlit. Puts your kettle, half-filled, back where he found it, and stands uncertainly in your kitchen, surveying the stacks of half-emptied moving boxes that surround him.

It doesn't mean anything, he knows. That you asked him to touch you, or that you asked him to stay at all, those casual invitations thrown out not with reluctance, exactly, but with resignation: Why don't you stay for dinner? And then, when you'd retreated to bed, the simplest, Are you coming? And even if it did mean something, it would be nothing more than what it always means when you fail to turn him away. That the consequences of his early thievery extend far beyond what his younger self could have imagined. That what he's done he can never take back or undo, no matter what paltry efforts he makes to set things right.

There is no right, here. Not for the two of you.

Tomura's halfway through slipping on his shoes when your voice interrupts him.

"You're leaving."

He turns to find you standing in your bedroom doorway, your face still bleary with sleep and your expression otherwise indifferent. The skin at his throat prickles, the way it seems to do so often lately.

He was. Leaving. Had been intent on slipping out the door before you rose, and before he had to wonder if you would ask him to stay.

You don't ask him to stay.

"It's funny," you say instead, and with no real amusement, "I woke up at some point last night, and for a second I thought..."

That sentence hangs in the air, half-finished, but Tomura knows what you thought. He thought it himself, after all, when he first stirred to the rise and fall of your chest under his cheek and was transported back to a time when things felt far simpler. A time when after was a problem for others to contend with, so abstract and disconnected from his goals that it seemed the future couldn't touch him.

Tomura finishes tying his shoes. Straightens up to look you in the eye—a feat that seems to grow harder every time he sees you. Fingertips lift to rub at his neck as clears his throat.

"I won't bother you again," he says.

He means it, but then he always does. Always tells himself this time is the last time, and believes the lie until the moment that unshakable pull has him slipping through whatever unlocked door or window he can find.

You spare him the indignity of skepticism, though. Only nod and move to open the front door, watching silently as he accepts that unambiguous disinvitation. He takes two steps out into the hall before pausing, a question he doesn't want to ask hovering on the tip of his tongue.

He asks it anyway.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You asked me if I regret it," he says. He keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the carpet in front of him. "Do you?"

The question is met with silence at first. When Tomura finally turns to face you, you're staring at him with your brow slightly knit, your mouth twisted into something a little too wry to be called a smile.

After another moment, you sigh. Your gaze drops, briefly, and then rises again to meet his stare.

"Goodbye, Tomura," you say, almost gently.

You shut the door.

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You fidget a little. "Or, I was hoping we could at least talk about it."

Tomura doesn't say anything, but you see the way the rise and fall of his chest grows more rapid, and his hands curl into tight fists. Then his chair is scraping against the hardwood as he pushes back from the table and rises abruptly.

"Fuck," he mutters, and that reaction isn't wholly unexpected, but the sudden grip of four calloused fingers wrapping around your wrist is. You're jerked to your feet before you can think about it, caught so off-guard and thrown so off-balance by the way he's suddenly dragging you down the hall that you barely notice where he's leading you. When he shoulders the bedroom door open and shoves you inside, that confusion only worsens.

"Tomura, what are you—" His mouth covers yours before you can finish the question, his tongue already lapping out to taste your own and his hands tearing at your shirt to peel it over your head as he drives you backwards. The back of your knees hit the mattress and then he’s pinning you against the blankets, his hot mouth working over your jaw, teeth nipping at your earlobe.

"What's it look like I’m doing?" His free hand is already sliding beneath the waistband of your pants, slipping between your thighs to probe roughly at the growing wetness there. "You want me to fuck a baby into you, I'll fuck a baby into you."

A second later one of those long digits is plunging past your folds, and you're hands are gripping tightly at his shirt, your back arching into that touch even as your brow furrows.

"You don't want"—you're briefly interrupted when he shoves another finger inside you—"you don't want to talk about it? Really?"

"Really," he hisses, irritation clear in his voice and an embarrassed flush on his cheeks even as his face stays tight. The mismatch between his tone and what he's saying and doing sends your brow furrowing, even as you gasp when he curls his fingers just right inside you. "Been driving myself insane thinking about this for months, barely manage to make myself pull out every time we fuck, and now here you are asking me to knock you up. So hell no, I don't want to talk about it."

He punctuates that statement with the bite of his teeth against your throat, his fingers pumping faster in and out of your cunt. A minute later he's withdrawing, wrapping them tight around the waistband of your pants and sending them to dust. He fumbles with the button his own jeans and then shoves them down under the jut of his hips, swollen cock springing free. He strokes himself a couple times, and then positions himself between your thighs.

"Fuck," he swears again, staring down at your sex as he ruts his length against your slit. "I know they're a pain in the ass but I can't stop picturing it—you with your tits all swollen, your belly huge with my kid. And then holding some tiny brat we made. 'S fucking infuriating." Tomura's tip nudges at your entrance, and then he seems to change his mind, pulling back and hooking one hand behind your thigh so he can shove your knee to your chest. He hooks his arm under your hips, angling them slightly and pulling you closer, grunting in satisfaction once he has you positioned just how he wants you.

He cock once again pushes at your opening, teasing you. Crimson eyes lock onto yours as he says, in a tone that sounds unmistakably like an order, "A girl this time."

"Tomura, I don't think it works like—" That, you were going to say, but he drives himself into you abruptly and the sudden sparks of heat at your center have the air rushing from your lungs, a lewd moan slipping past your lips. Tomura's intent expression barely budges, but you see the corner of his mouth curve up into the faintest of smirks.

"Want it that bad too, huh?" he mocks. When you nod, he rolls his hips harder, leaning down to kiss you hard.

Your only response is a whine and the wrapping of your arms around his neck. “Fuck, 's so good," you whimper against his lips, and Tomura groans, kissing his way down to where your shoulder meets your throat.

"Real good." His teeth nip at the juncture where your neck and shoulder meet, his breath hot against your skin. "Tell me," he pants, that faint edge entering his voice again. "Tell me what you—ngh—what you made me want."

"Want a baby," you manage, though it's getting harder to speak with every one of this thrusts, and with his arm wrapping tighter under your hips as though he can't get you close enough. "Your baby. Wanna keep a part of you in—a-ah—inside me long as I can."

Tomura swears at that, hips moving faster and thrusts managing to reach deeper, his pelvis grinding against your clit every time he bottoms out. The combination is dizzying, each stroke and rhythmic bit of pressure sending your walls tightening. It's almost too much, this abrupt rutting and the strange swell of emotions that comes with it. You'd agonized for months over this proposition, steeling yourself for rejection, and even though his ambivalence and begrudging tolerance of his own desire is a far cry from raw acceptance, it's better than you ever thought you'd get. Has you unexpectedly heated.

"Tomu, 'm close already." Your body rocks to meet his movements, sharp whines rising from deep in your throat. 

"Good," he growls, his pace increasing as he moves to let his forehead rest against yours, his eyes bright as he watches you with a rapt expression. "Gonna—hng—gonna come with you. Make sure you suck up every fucking drop."

The moan that promise draws from you is embarrassingly loud, one hand slapping reflexively over your mouth, but Tomura's quick to intervene, gathering both your wrists in one large palm and pinning them above your head as he slots his body every closer to yours. His movements are feverish now, a flush of exertion creeping down below his collar, but all those efforts are paying off, tension mounting in your core.

A few more well-placed thrusts and that tension is swelling, snapping, your walls clenching tight around Tomura as you come. He lets out a sharp hiss of breath, and a second later his own hips are stuttering.

"Ngh, that's a good girl," he groans, and then he's driving himself as deep as he can. "Gonna make you even more mine." He shudders, grinding himself against you, and you can feel his cock twitch as he hisses, "Take it all, fuck."

You do your best to obey—didn't even need the order when your greedy hips are angling already, instinctively working to capture every bit of cum as he spills over. With your walls still fluttering, you're hyperaware of that warmth flooding your insides, of the pleasant slickness pooling deep inside. The thought of it there, taking hold, sends a shiver up your spine, one last exquisite bit of tension before you go limp beneath him.

When Tomura finally withdraws, he's gentler than usual. Slips a pillow under your hips too before he settles himself between your thighs, eyes fixed on the sight of your puffy slit. His finger traces your folds, collecting what little bit of cum he'd let escape from your spent cunt.

His eyes flick to yours. "How long will it take to know?"

"Hmm?" You start to sit up, then think better of it and tug your knees tighter to your chest instead. "A few weeks, maybe?"

Tomura frowns, clearly displeased with that information as he flops down beside you on the mattress. His palm comes to rest on your lower belly, fingers tracing over that soft skin.  A moment later he’s rolling onto his side to look at you.

"That’s okay," he says, once again wearing that intent expression. Then he’s pinning you back against the mattress. "Until then we can just keep trying."

One date turns into two, then three. By then Spinner is capable of conversation and minimal closeness; he only fumbles slightly when you work up the nerve to lace your fingers through his clawed ones as you drag him around the rundown arcade he'd suggested. He grins too, rather than issuing those shy, uncertain smiles, even if he still obviously tries to suppress his enthusiasm as he rattles off trivia about various game franchises.

It's cute. He's cute, with the way he keeps brushing strands of lilac hair out of his face, and how he still looks away every time you let your adoring gaze linger. And though that night is the first time you think seriously about how much you'd like to get him alone—really alone—you also know things will keep moving slowly. You don't even consider inviting him in when he walks you home at the end of the night.

You do notice, though, how he hesitates outside your door before saying goodbye. How he reverts back to stuttering, all of it nothing but forced small talk—a flimsy excuse to hang around.

It's clear what he wants to do, and you spare him the struggle of working up the courage.

"Shuichi," you say gently, lifting one hand to cup his face. When he goes silent and still, you lean in and press your mouth to his. It's short. Sweet. Wonderful.

And when it's over you both smile at each other, and you go inside alone.

For your sixth date you finally give in to that urge to get Spinner alone, and invite him over for a movie. It's not meant to pressure him, exactly; you think of it more as providing an opportunity. Your goodnight kisses have started to linger a little longer after all, and there's a whole world between chaste kisses on your doorstep and actually taking him to bed. It's a world you're eager to explore.

At first, you think he's eager too. There's a shyness in the glances he keeps sending your way, but there's also a new anticipation there, one you can't help but notice as you curl up on the couch together. So, you let your head fall to rest on his muscular shoulder, and when there's a lull in the film you turn your head to look at him and shift a little closer, peering up at him from behind your lashes.

Spinner swallows hard. His nerves are obvious in his wide eyes and the rapid beating of his heart, but he doesn't hesitate when you slot your mouth against his. He leans in, moving uncertainly as the kiss deepens, and gasps in surprise when your tongue traces lightly over what passes for his lower lip. His own thin tongue flicks out; he tastes faintly sweet-tart like the energy drinks you see him indulge in on occasion. A faint thrill sparks in your belly and a pleased moan slips past your lips as you instinctively try to deepen that kiss, craving more.

And then Spinner is pulling back abruptly. He refuses to look at you as he retreats to the other side of the couch, shifting uncomfortably.

"I hear this part is really good," he mumbles, nodding to the movie. "We should watch."

You spend the rest of the evening fidgeting with embarrassment, wondering what you did wrong, and Spinner beats a hasty retreat the moment the credits start to roll.

"Did I—did I do something wrong the other night?"

It's taken you an hour to work up to the question, and even then you only ask because you apparently have to. Spinner's clearly not going to bring up the way he practically fled your apartment the last time you saw each other.

You'd thought after he left that maybe he just needed time—thought maybe that was why he'd texted you the next day and invited you to the hideout, but then he never brought it up. And you haven't been able to stop worrying that you'd offended him, or turned him off somehow.

But he only shakes his head quickly at the question. "Of course not." The scales on his cheeks redden as he adds, more quietly, "You know I really like hanging out with you."

"Good," you say, "because I really like hanging out with you, too. I—" You pause. Deliberate, and then lean in to kiss him. It's soft and short, and he doesn't give any indication that he doesn't like it. "I really like you."

"Me too," Spinner says, practically tripping over his words in his rush to get them out. "That's what I should have said, that's what I meant."

You grin. He grins.

But when the two of you are done with the game you're playing and you shift a little closer to him, he still jumps to his feet, mumbling about seeing what the others are up to as he drags you out the door.

"I just wish he'd tell me if he's not interested in me like that," you complain to Toga two dates later. Both times it ended the same—anything more than a lingering goodnight kiss, and Spinner started stuttering excuses for why he couldn't stay. When you asked what was wrong, he only denied acting strange.

Toga's emphatic in her response. "Of course he's interested! I've seen the way he looks at you, all blushy and stuff?" Her yellow eyes take on a far-away glaze, her face flushing the way it does at the mere thought of romance. "And you should have seen him when he was trying to work up the courage to ask you out."

You want to believe her, but you're not sure you do. You stir the melting ice in your drink, suddenly glad that Shigaraki is the only other person here. His face is hidden behind a curtain of hair, attention firmly fixed on the game he's playing on his handheld.

Your gaze focuses back on Toga. "If he likes me so much, why is he scared to be alone with me? I knew he'd want to take things slow, but anything more than holding hands or a goodnight kiss, and he practically flees."

"Maybe he's embarrassed. Maybe that's all it takes to get him"—Toga covers her mouth and giggles—"you know."

You get the gist. Think she might even be right, because it wasn't until after the movie at your place—until after that more heated kiss—that he'd started working so hard not to be alone with you.

But that doesn't make you feel any better.

"We've been on eight dates. And he knows I'm not inexperienced like him. Why would I care if he gets turned on just by making out." You chew at your lip. Let out a sigh. "And he won't even talk to me about it. Just pretends like he has no idea what I'm talking about."

Toga hums sympathetically. Is quiet for a moment, and then perks up again. "Maybe he's asexual?"

You consider it. You could work with that, probably—it's the constant rejections that are getting to you more than the absence of an escalating physical relationship. But before you can ponder the possibility much, there's a snort from across the bar.

"You're both idiots." Shigaraki hadn't given any indication that he was listening, and he doesn't even bother to look up from his game as he says it. Even so, his tone holds no small amount of derision.

"That's not very nice, Tomura-kun," Toga pouts.

"So? It's true." His red eyes finally flick up from the screen, brow knitting into an unimpressed stare. "Spinner's room is right next to mine, I can hear what he does after those dates. He's definitely not asexual." Cracked lips curve into an unsettled frown, and then Shigaraki's face smooths just as quickly, one hand raising to point accusingly. "Besides, if either of you had any brains, you'd realize what has him acting so weird."

You roll your eyes, but you take the bait. "Care to fill us in, then?"

Whatever answer you were expecting, it's not what Shigaraki gives. "He has two dicks."

You blink. He has to be fucking with you, but you also know he's not the type. Sarcastic or downright sour, sure, but not much for pranks or outright lies. You and Toga exchange a brief glance. "Did he tell you that?"

"No, but he has a gecko Quirk, right? Geckos have two dicks." There's an edge of impatience in Shigaraki's voice, like this should all be common knowledge. "He's probably just worried he'll scare you off if he pops a boner." Shigaraki smirks, then outright snickers. "Or boners."

You ignore that last part; you're already pulling out your phone to check what he's telling you. A second later your eyes are widening at the images on-screen.

Maybe Shigaraki is on to something.

"This is stupid," you mutter to yourself as you hover outside Spinner's door two days later. Reluctant though you'd been to take dating advice from Shigaraki—a man whose experience is, you're certain, limited to the eroges not-so-discreetly tucked away on the top shelf in his bedroom—desperate times do call for desperate measures. And when your date last night had ended with a languid kiss and Spinner running off red-faced and stammering, it really had started to feel like desperate times.

You force yourself to lift your hand and knock.

There's a faint shuffling before Spinner opens the door. When he does he's shirtless, a faint sheen of sweat covering the toned span of his chest and that's enough to render you momentarily mute. You knew he trained—had listened to him talk impatiently about wanting to be stronger for the sake of the League—but you hadn't considered you might be interrupting by showing up unannounced. He apparently hadn't considered it might be you knocking, either, because his eyes go wide and his face starts to redden almost at once.

He rubs at the back of his neck. "What are you—"

You cut him off before he can start, pushing past him into his room. "Don't talk. Just listen."

He fidgets nervously but he nods, and you shake your head in an effort to focus. Seeing him half-undressed is distracting, and apparently not just for you, either. He keeps glancing from where you're standing to where his shirt is slung over the back of a chair, but he clearly doesn't know if he should reach for it after you'd so emphatically told him to simply hear you out.

You drop your gaze to avoid looking at the swell of his pecs or the defined lines that bisect his abdomen. If this conversation goes the way you're hoping it will, then maybe you can finally take the time to appreciate just how fit your almost-boyfriend is.

"I've been thinking," you slowly start, "about why you don't want to be alone with me." Spinner opens his mouth like he's about to deny it; before he can, you take a few steps forward, until there's only a few inches of space between you. You lift one hand to cup his cheek. "It's okay. I knew there must be a reason, especially because I feel like I've been pretty clear that I want to be alone with you." You lean in, pressing your lips gently to Spinner's. When you pull away there's a clear internal conflict on his face—his brow furrowed and his breath shaky. You give him a soft smile. "It's your Quirk, right?"

Spinner shifts uncomfortably. His hands lift, and at first you're worried he's going to push you away from where you're still standing so close to him. Instead, he averts his eyes, swallowing hard before he mumbles, "I'm not... I'm not like most guys. Down there."

Your heart twists a little at how self-conscious he looks, but you still can't help laughing a little. "I sort of figured that out already. I might have, uh, googled some things."

"And you're not—I mean, you'd still want to...?"

There's an edge of hope in Spinner's voice now, earnest even if he sounds like he can't quite believe it. The smile you've been wearing widens, and you finally let your gaze drop to look him over. Your hand trails from his cheek down along his shoulder, then down along his arm, your fingers brushing over the swell of his biceps and further still. You lace your fingers through his own, and tug him towards his bed, nodding for him to sit. He hesitates, then does as you ask. Before he can protest, you're sliding into his lap, knees settling alongside his hips.

His eyes widen, his breath catching, and you stroke soothingly at his hair. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to," you murmur, leaning in for a brief kiss, "but I really do mean it, Shu. I want you."

Spinner's tense beneath you, every muscle in his body seemingly rigid with nerves, but his hands settle tentatively at your hips. That's all the encouragement you need to lean in and kiss him again. And, though you've tried to be gentle on all the occasions before this, you don't hold back now; the moment his mouth starts to press back against yours, you're parting your lips to deepen the kiss, licking at his tongue and savoring the small noise that rises up from the back of his throat.

He pulls away when that sound escapes him, but it's not in the same way as before; he's making no move to rise, is only casting his eyes down in embarrassment.

"Sorry," he mumbles, as though he has to apologize for finally giving you a real reaction. You only shake your head and dive back in, letting your tongue tangle with his more vigorously this time. His fingers grip tighter at your hips, pulling you closer until his bare chest is pressing solidly against you and he's whimpering without any more apologies, his hips bucking just the slightest. He lets out another whiny, surprised sound when you grind yourself back against him a little, and it's then you realize you can feel him—twin bulges pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thighs.

Your hips rock against him, your lips moving from his mouth to his jaw. You hadn't wanted to rush or pressure him, but the feel of him beneath you now is making it hard to remember that: all you want to do is explore him.

You drag your palms over his chest. Wrap your arms around him to grip at the taut muscles of his defined back. "Shu," you whine, your stomach fluttering and your heat pressing harder against him in the hopes he gets the hint. When he goes still beneath you, you prepare for disappointment, but a second later you're pleasantly surprised.

"I—" Spinner starts, and then pauses. He takes a deep breath and tries again, tripping over his own tongue. "You're so—you're so beautiful, and I wanted..." He hides his face in your neck, seemingly unable to finish. He can only murmur against your skin, "But I never thought..."

You can see his scales turning red, and you lift one hand to stroke at his hair, coaxing him gently back so you can look at him. "I know. But I want you, Shu." Want him so badly it hurts. To try and show him just how much you mean it, you let your fingers trail over the soft skin of stomach, down towards his straining arousals. You brush lightly over those pronounced bulges. "All of you."

Spinner's mouth drops open, a shuddering exhale escaping him even as his whole being softens into the touch.

"R-really?" he asks, and you nod, staring into his eyes. For a moment the two of you are silent, simply gazing at each other. Then, just as you're beginning to wonder if you need to be more assertive, he seems to steel himself; a second later he's reversing your positions, pinning you beneath him and pressing his mouth hungrily to yours, grinding himself against you even as shaky hands work to tug off your shirt.

"Is—is this okay?" he pauses to ask as the fabric bunches under your chest, but you only nod eagerly and reach up to help him slip the shirt over your head, feeling a familiar rush of excitement as you realize this is really, finally happening. You feel another thrill when you realize just how new this familiar act will feel, too. Because it's Spinner, and no matter what else you've done, you haven't been with anyone like him—not with anyone you liked as much, and certainly not with anyone sharing his unique anatomy.

The heat pooling in your gut only intensifies when you consider the possibilities, when you think about how thoroughly he could wreck you. You want that. Need it.

"'S more than okay," you breathe. Your hands drop to fumble with his pants, shoving them down over his hips, and though Spinner's own fingers are shaky he manages to start working off your own.

He helps you pull off your shirt next, and once you're both in your underwear he doesn't hesitate as much as before. He only pauses to kiss you passionately, the velvety smoothness of his scales intoxicating against your skin.

He grinds his cocks against you with a whimper. "How should—how should we—"

The words cut off with a cute moan when you cant your hips to grind harder against him, all the more eager and impatient now that this is really happening. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to mind—his own hips are working back against yours with fervor, his breathing ragged.

"I... I wanted to try..." It's hard to speak now, hard to focus on anything except the ache in your center that's been waiting too long to be quelled. How lucky, then, that Spinner's uniquely equipped to satisfy you. "Both," you manage to pant. "Both at once."

You can't help but giggle at the way Spinner's eyes widen, his scales during a deep crimson as he averts his eyes. "Okay," he says, hooking clawed fingers around the band of his boxers, shifting just enough to slip them off, the bashful expression never leaving his face.

When his cocks finally spring free, you gasp—not at the fact there are two, but at the size, both of them bigger than you'd expected. All your research had pointed to a variety of possible shapes and sizes, but to your delight they're thick, flushed red and almost human but with smoother heads, cascading pearly beads for you.

Spinner tries to pull away to reposition himself, and you stop him. "Where are you going? I want to touch."

Spinner pants as you caress his throbbing lengths, slicking them up with the copious pre leaking from his tips. His clawed fingertips dig into your sides as he braces himself, obviously struggling to temper his responses, not that he needs to on your account. It's cute how worked up he is, has you desperate to see how he reacts to finally being inside you.

That thought is enough to put an end to your patience. You shimmy out of your panties as fast as you can, and then stretch your grip wide to take both his cocks in one hand, pressing them together and leaning back to guide him towards your puffy lips, teasing at your drooling entrance with what's effectively now one massive cock.

"N-now?" he stutters, looking almost panicked.

You grin mischievously. "You want to touch me, too, don't you?"

Spinner nods. "B-but shouldn't we"—he whines as you guide his tips over your soaked slit—"shouldn't we prep you more?" He's clearly nervous, his hands shaking as he grips at your side.

You only giggle. "You're slick enough."

With that, you arch up into him. He groans immediately, pressing down on your hot body and holding you close as the substantial girth of his combined cocks breaches your wet hole. You whine at the stretch, and the sting of that invasion, and Spinner starts to pull away almost at once. You wrap your legs around his waist to keep him close, clinging to his back in wordless encouragement to continue, too breathless to actually speak.

You don't know what you were expecting, exactly, but what you get is mindblowing. The sweet fullness of him slowly slipping inside you, and the coolness of his smooth scales against your flushed body has you practically quaking beneath him already as he kisses along your neck.

"You're so—a-ah—so warm, 'n tight," he slurs against your lips, repeating those words over and over as he inches his way deeper. He only stops to look anxiously at your face when you let out one especially throaty whimper. "I'm not hurting you, am I?"

Your only response is to kiss him deeply and press your hips harder against him, coaxing him deeper. Your cunt feels stretched impossibly wide already, the splitting of your walls bordering on uncomfortable, but somehow it still isn't enough. Spinner whimpers at the tight grip and then, holding you by the shoulders, finally drives himself fully inside you, bottoming out.

For a moment he pauses, no noise but a choked sound escaping him. Then, as if he can't contain himself any longer, he starts bucking his hips, melting into a moaning mess as he humps into you, shallow, erratic thrusts massaging your inner walls.

Even with no proper rhythm, you're overwhelmed by the sensation. You've never felt so full, so good—like his cocks are fighting for space inside you , stroking every possible part of your insides as you do so. His hands match that thoroughness as his thrusts grow more demanding, his clawed fingers caressing your flushed skin, exploring everywhere they can reach.

All you can do is hold on. Grip him tight and feel his defined muscles flexing under your fingers with every one of your movements. He's so deep, is making you feel so complete, and you can't even think—can only lay back as Spinner edges your body towards the boundaries of euphoria.

It's not long before you're tipped over the rim. The heads of his cocks reach somewhere deep inside you're not sure you'd realized existed, the thick swell of him pressing snuggly against that perfect, sensitive spot on your front walls, and then you're coming undone, constricting around him.

That crushing squeeze has Spinner crying out his happiness, his lavender hair tickling your cheek as his eyes drink your ecstasy, making it clear it's not just his own pleasure that has him so full of bliss—he looks half-drunk on your response to him, on how good he's making you feel.

Spinner's hips snap harder, one arm sliding around to grip tight at your waist as he leaves the last of his restraint behind, his movements so feral that, as he works his way deeper than you thought possible, you can see a slight bulge in your abdomen moving back and forth with each thrust.

You're screaming as he keeps going. Drooling and babbling how much you love it, eager to make it clear just how good he's making you feel—better than anyone ever has. Eventually, as the pulsing thrums of your orgasm stretch out into what feels like impossibly long bliss, you go entirely dumb, incapable of anything except laying slumped against the sheets, grateful but nonsensical sounds clawing up from your throat.

His hips start to stutter before long, and you pant as warmth spreads through your cunt and the sense of fullness increases, Spinner seeming to grow even thicker, harder in the moments before he cums. Then he's convulsing and trembling, his cocks twitching deep inside you as he floods your insides with copious rushes of warmth.

When it's over he flops next to you, gasping. His cheeks are red, his eyes glazed over with bliss, and you roll slightly, kissing him hard and then running your fingers through his hair. He looks spent, but now that you've finally, finally gotten what you wanted, you fear you're going to be addicted.

You lean in close. Kiss at his ear and then whisper, "Round two, but this time on my hands and knees."

Spinner's eyes widen, but he's already shifting, nodding vigorously yes with the biggest grin you've ever seen.

When you gave Kurogiri cash to clear the League out of your apartment, you knew better than to hope telling him to get everyone out of there fast would translate to getting them out of there immediately. Even so, you can't help feeling the slightest bit put upon when, later that same afternoon, you're climbing the stairs back up to your apartment after spending yet more money on your unwanted guests. Three thousand yen for soba noodles and cigarettes is a drop in the bucket compared to what you'd forked over only hours earlier, but it does somehow feel like a less worthwhile investment.

Perhaps that's why, despite not expecting any real updates, you can't help asking Kurogiri if there's any news as you hand off your grocery bag so he can start dinner. It's both a surprise and a relief when he nods.

"I still need to discuss it with Shigaraki Tomura, but Giran believes he has found an option for us." There's a slight hesitation before he adds, "He is unable to meet with us until morning, however."

"I'll take it," you sigh. You should have known better than to get your hopes up anyway. Even if you had, for half a second, let yourself daydream about sleeping blissfully alone tonight.

You're not going to complain about the delay, though—not when it sounds like the end is finally in sight. So, you just turn your attention elsewhere, digging into your pocket for the couple packs of American Spirits you'd begrudgingly bought Jin. He hadn't actually asked for them, but he's currently on your couch, fingers tapping anxiously against his thigh and eyes flicking restlessly towards your balcony, all of which supports your concerns about nicotine withdrawals.

Sure enough, he jumps to his feet almost immediately when you toss the packs his way. "Hey, thanks!" It's followed by, "I didn't ask you for nothing!"

You wince at the unnecessary volume with which he shouts both those statements but don't otherwise respond, because Jin's cigarettes weren't the only thing burning a hole in your pocket. Playing the lottery this close to home is generally something you avoid, but you hadn't been able to talk yourself out of it today—not after sacrificing half your life's savings to the very necessary cause of getting Japan's most wanted villains out of your apartment. You hadn't won big, exactly, but you do feel a little better knowing you're a tenth of the way to recouping that cash.

The plan is to slip into your room and deposit that tidy sum into the shoebox in your closet, too, but you barely manage to ease the door open before freezing. Because as it turns out, Tomura is no longer passed out on your bed but is, in fact, awake.

Awake, and half-naked.

"Oh." You blink at the sight of him, bare-chested with his fingers hovering at the waistband of his jeans as he looks at you. It's a scene so uncannily familiar that it's almost disorienting: how many times had you fallen a few steps behind him after getting back to your place, only to enter your bedroom and find him impatiently undressing?

Between the distraction of the League and your focus on the substantive parts of your relationship, you've barely thought about those more carnal foundations over the last several days. Now, though, your stomach is fluttering, your body ready to fall into that familiar script even as you grasp for an alternate explanation for what you've walked in on.

After another second your brain catches up, your eyes finally taking in all the signs that he wasn't actually waiting for you. His hair is damp, rivulets of water threading over his collarbone as he watches you from behind mussed clumps of pale hair, expression uncertain. You've clearly caught him fresh out of the shower.

"Sorry," you mutter, hesitating before stepping inside and closing the door. "No one told me you were up."

This shouldn't feel so awkward—you've seen each other naked dozens of times, let alone merely shirtless—but at this point it would probably be easier to count the things that don't feel awkward. That's especially true after yesterday; you haven't forgotten how close you'd come to kissing him.

You must not be the only one feeling the weight of that, either. Tomura grunts in response and looks away, quickly finishing doing up his jeans and digging a v-neck from a duffel bag at the foot of your bed. You grimace when he tugs it hastily over his head; the movement reveals dark bruises along his exposed ribs that you can only assume are the aftermath of his fight with the heroes.

He quickly pulls down the hem of his shirt when he catches you eyeing those injuries.

"Where'd you go?" he asks, looking you over with a guarded expression. Then he frowns. "And what happened to your hand?"

"Hmm?" You follow his gaze to your bandaged palm. You'd almost forgotten about it in your surprise, but now that you're not distracted by the unexpected cut of Tomura's form, you can once again feel that souvenir from Dabi throbbing.

You're hesitant to explain what actually happened. Tomura might not be as tightly wound as he was when the League first arrived, but you haven't forgotten how badly he took it when Dabi did nothing but insult you. The last thing you need is more in-fighting; between your ceiling and your front door, your place already has enough new scorch marks. You'd really like to get everyone out of here without any more hassle.

So, you just move to stash the cash you'd won. "Don't worry about it. And I went to the store—Kurogiri needed some things for dinner, and Jin needed cigarettes."

Tomura scoffs at that last part. "You didn't have to do that."

"I definitely did," you scoff right back. "You haven't been out there with them all day—they're all already restless. The last thing I need is one more reason for anyone to be on edge."

"Right." You don't miss the way his gaze drops back to your hand as he says it. "Add it to what we owe you, then—we'll have to find a way to bring in some cash soon anyway. Won't get very far towards our goals without it." He pauses. Rubs at his neck and grumbles, "We just need to figure out a safe house first."

"Kurogiri wanted to talk to you about that, actually."

It's almost impressive how quickly his demeanor shifts—his fingers go still at his throat and his eyes narrow, expression flattening into something decidedly more business-like. That intent look sparks a twist in your stomach as he moves to shoulder past you, because you find it all too easy to picture how the rest of the evening will go now—Tomura learning about the safe house and turning his attention back to planning whatever comes next, spending the next many hours hunched over his laptop the way he has every other night. That singular focus hasn't been particularly noteworthy until now, but you're all too aware of what it means in this case: that this might actually be the last time the two of you are alone together before he leaves.

"Tomura, wait," you start, reaching to grab his arm, but you're a half-second too late. He's already ducking back out into into the main room of your apartment

After letting out a resigned sigh, you follow.

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But grappling with your thrashing form would mean sacrificing other forms of touch, ones he needs, and thrash you do. You might not wake until it's too late, but he has to admire the way you try to fight the moment you blink back sleep and see him standing over your bed. You kick and writhe, eyes so wide and full of terror that it has his cock twitching, and then you try to run despite your bound hands. Scramble to your feet and dart towards the door, and Tomura allows that pitiful attempt for a moment, just long enough to relish the adorable stab of hope that crosses your face when you slip past him.

It's a false hope. His reflexes are sharp—far sharper than yours—and his arm darts out at the last second to snatch you by the hair. He watches with satisfaction as your head snaps back and your feet lose purchase, a sharp cry spilling from your lips as his grip on your roots becomes the only thing keeping you from falling completely.

You cry out again when he throws you back on the bed, and you follow it up with a pitiful, pathetic whimper—one so delectable that for a moment he's light-headed, a sharp stab of heat pulsing in his gut and faint spasms wracking his hips, and it isn't until he notices the sticky damp against his pelvis that he even realizes he came, untouched.

Oh well. He planned for this—planned and planned for weeks, despite Kurogiri's reservations and his Sensei's mocking amusement—so who can blame him for being excited? For feeling the unparalleled thrill of seeing it all come together just how he envisioned it? And this is how he envisioned it—you look just as good as he knew you would, with your feet struggling to find purchase against the sheets, and tears tracking down your cheeks.

You try to scream when he takes a step closer, and he's on you immediately, slapping one hand over your mouth with his pinkie carefully extended, forcing the whole of his weight into you to pin you down, and you stop struggling then. Freeze entirely like a deer in the headlights, like prey that has only just realized they're in the presence of a predator. It's cute, if he's being honest, has his cock stirring in his pants again already.

He can feel you panicked breathes—sharp rapid huffs in and out through your nose as he starts to let his free hand wander, groping at your breasts through the thin fabric of your shirt, and pinching lightly at your inner thighs just to savor the way you jolt and let out a muffled squeal. It's tempting to take you right here—to tear away the thin fabric of your panties and bury himself inside you, and for a second he almost does just that. His hand reaches to cup roughly between your thighs, fingers exploring the contours of your clothed folds, and then you're going taut, shuddering oddly as his palm is being coated in a flood of wet warmth.

It takes him a moment, in the dim light and the haze of adrenaline, to understand what's happened. Isn't until he feels your lips quivering and sees your eyes wide with embarrassment instead of fear that it clicks: you've pissed yourself.

A throaty giggle bubbles up at that realization. "That scared of me, huh?" he rasps, not quite able to help the throaty giggle that bubbles up from his throat at the thought, and he punctuates the question by prodding at the soaked seat of your underwear. Then he's clambering off of you, four fingers grabbing you roughly by the arm as he jerks you towards the waiting warp gate. "You should be."

He'd had grand ideas, before, about what he might do once he had you where he wanted you, alone in his room with all the time in the world to avail himself of all you have to offer, but Tomura's impatient by the time he's shoving you down on his dirty sheets. He only yanks your still-bound wrists above your head and climbs to straddle you, once again relishing the way you whimper and your eyes widen with fear.

That look only intensifies when he shoves down the waistband of his sweats so that his cock can spring free, and again when he grabs a fistful of your flimsy shirt and sends it disintegrating. Then he's groping at your breasts, cupping that plush flesh and shoving it together.

"I thought your tits would be bigger," he mocks, rutting forward to rut against your sternum, and then giving up almost as quickly, interested in far more tantalizing things. He nudges his tip against your quivering lips, and when all you do is whine he lets two fingers find the joints of your jaw, squeezing hard until your mouth opens.

"Stick out your tongue," he orders and, obedient thing that you are, you do as he asks despite your obvious revulsion. He taps his spongy tip against your tongue as he issues a warning. "If you bite me, I'll hurt you."

He doesn't wait for acknowledgment after that. Just plunges himself deep in a single thrust, groaning at the heat of your mouth. Your tongue tries to fight the invasion, pushing against his cock in a way that has him shivering, and though part of him wants to savor it he doesn't have the patience—can't do anything except hump into your face erratically, relishing the way you choke around him. There's something cute again about the way you struggle for air and try not to retch as he slams himself against the back of your throat, your eyes watering as you sputter.

He can't say how long he lasts—is too lost in the haze of how good it feels and how perfect you look gagging beneath him—but he knows it's not long. A minute, maybe two, and then he's fisting one hand in your hair.

"A-ah, fuck!" he grits out as he comes down your throat, watching you struggle to swallow all of that slick, bitter offering, not that he gives you a choice. His cock softens too, but only slightly, and only for a second, and he wastes no time repositioning himself between your thighs, one calloused hand reaching down to stroke himself hard again. It borders on too much, but he knows his limits, knows that he's not even close to them, and the way you whimper only helps his efforts.

His free hand moves down to grip at your piss-soaked panties, sending the last of your clothing to ruins, and then he's teasing at your entrance, so slick and warm he can barely hold back.

"You know what I'm gonna do to you?" he asks, and when you only turn your head to avoid his gaze, his fingers find your chin again, forcing you to look at him. "C'mon," he pants, "say it."

"F-fuck me," you whine, and Tomura giggles. You're not wrong, but the way you're even struggling to speak is too perfect, too easy to mock. He leans in—lets his forehead rest against yours. "Yeah, but that's not what it's called when you don't want it, right? So what else am I gonna to do to you?"

Your eyes widen, your brows knitting in a way that's comical, as though that question, of all things, it's what's finally offended you. For a moment you seem like you won't answer, too, but when he wraps one hand around your throat for encouragement, pinkie carefully lifted, he feels you swallow hard. Then you're telling him what he wants to hear.

"R-rape me."

The meek way you squeak out the words has sharp heat sparking in his gut, and Tomura drags his tongue over your cheek, lapping at the salting tears spilling over there. "That's right."

He punctuates the statement by driving his hips forward, hard enough that you cry out, not that the sound deters him because fuck, it's even better than he expected—has all the breath rushing from his lungs as he's suddenly enveloped in that snug heat, and he can't help but laugh. "A-ah, shit, least your tight."

You struggle against the invasion at first, hips bucking, elbows bending as you try to shove him away with your tied hands, and he lets you at first—enjoys the extra friction of you squirming beneath him, enjoys the way he has to chase your hips to keep himself firmly inside you—but after a few minutes he can feels his balls tightening, pressure building, and then he's pinning your arms above your head again easily, his other hand tightening around your throat. You fight harder for a moment, but then your pallor is changing as you struggle to breathe and you're going still in submission, your instincts for self-preservation obviously outweighing your desire to fight him.

Tomura's lips split into another grin as he lets out a dry chuckle, and his hips work faster. "Guess you're not—ngh—not as stupid as you look."

He ruts into you harshly. Keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the way you grimace and let out tiny, pained sobs every time he bottoms out inside you. Still, you don't struggle anymore, not even when he's going taut and his hips are starting to move erratically, not even when he's driving himself roughly as deep as he can and his cock is twitching, flooding your abused cunt with his cum. You only squeeze your eyes shut tight, tears still tracking down your cheeks, and then whimper when he rolls off you.

He ignores that. Ignores the way the mess he's left between your thighs dribbles down to stain his sheets, too. He's already slumping down, catching his breath, thinking about all the things he'll do with you next. 

It's followed by a murmured swear, his hips bucking even as he tries (and fails, spectacularly) to get a grip, to find some semblance of control. It seems impossible like this, when he can barely think of anything except your supple fingers gripping him, and the warmth of your chest slotted against his.

He can't hardly remember how he wound up here, either, alone in your room. Dabi's fault, maybe, or Toga's. Or both, because it was the two of them discussing the subject of his inexperience last night, wasn't it? Dabi insulting him for it, Toga starry-eyed and insisting that everyone needs a little romance, as though Tomura would ever be interested in such a thing.

But here he is and here you are, your body pressed tightly against his after you dragged him to your room under some vague pretense he's already forgotten. Now his head is spinning and his heart is racing and his mouth is bone-dry, his tongue too thick to tell you to slow down, or to stop.

Except he doesn't want that anyway, not entirely. Not enough to make it happen even if he could speak. It's head versus... Well, not heart in this situation, that's for sure, but it's certainly not his rational mind that's winning. It falls even further behind in the battle of wills when you unbutton his pants, tugging them down just enough to spare yourself the struggle of stroking him off awkwardly beneath his jeans.

"Fuck, you have a nice cock," he hears you breathe a second later, and his cheeks heat up as another embarrassing whimper spills out, at the words and at the brush of your thumb along his tip. That mix of mortification and heady lust only worsens when you sink to your knees and lick a stripe along the underside of his shaft.

That wet muscle is hotter than he expected, better than he expected, and his hand clutches reflexively at the back of your head, middle finger hovering as he braces himself. For what he's not sure—more of this, more of too much, more of what he already knows is going to send him over the edge in a disgraceful amount of time if you don't fucking stop.

And then you're swallowing him down, his entire cock bathed in that warmth. He's wracked by a full-body shudder as his balls start to tighten, a sensation that's only encouraged when your free hand cups between his thighs, fingers massaging his sack as you start to suck in earnest. All he can manage is a choked sound as he goes rigid, trying his best to stave off the inevitable, but a second later you're releasing him with a lewd pop, returning to stroking his spit-soaked length as you eye him with a grin.

"You don't have to fight it," you say. Those words are emphasized by the flick of your tongue against his frenulum, a small jolt racing up his spine as he tries to force himself to relax. Your tongue circles his sensitive head. "Be a good boy and just let me make you feel good."

There's no time for him to agree, or to protest. The words leave your lips and then his tip is nudging the back of your throat, your nose burying into the mess of white fluff framing his base, and the moment you swallow around him again it's all over. That familiar feeling swells in his gut and snaps just as quickly, and his seed spills down your throat. A groan sticks in his esophagus, comes out as nothing more than a loud, shuddering exhale that turns quickly into a strained effort to suck down more air as you continue to lick and suck, swallowing every drop of cum like you're grateful for it and then still not letting up, not until he's whining, trying to push you away from his still throbbing cock.

"Too much," Tomura manages to hiss, but even he can hear how wrecked his voice sounds, how undignified the pitch of his words is.

You listen, though, at least for a moment. Drag your tongue over his length one last time and then pull back to wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, staring up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and an intent look he can't quite interpret until you speak.

"But we haven't even gotten to the best part."

You're rising already, pressing yourself against him again and kissing him this time, seemingly unbothered by the fact that he can't do anything but pant into your open mouth as your tongue circles his own. He can taste the remnants of himself, bitter and salty and certainly not at all what he imagined his first kiss would be like back when he still used to imagine such things, back before he'd realized he had far more important concerns than satisfying those carnal urges his own fist takes care of well enough. But he doesn't complain even though he still can't decide whether he wants to lean into you or wrap his hands around your throat and watch you crumble, and he doesn't stop you when you start tugging him towards your bed.

He grunts when you shove him down against the sheets. Watches as you strip off your own clothes, his cock twitching at the sight of your naked form. He's still hard, achingly hard, tip leaking, staining the shirt he should probably take off, but he was barely thinking straight before and the sight of your own exposed sex is enough to eliminate any thought from his mind that doesn't have to do with burying himself inside you. He only watches as you climb to straddle him, your fingers moving immediately to toy with the slick pre he's dripping.

"So excited," you coo. "'S cute."

Then you're shoving his shirt over his head, dragging your smooth palms down his chest in a way that has his back arching into the warmth of your touch. His stomach knots with anticipation, with shame at how badly he suddenly needs this, and for a second he thinks he hates you, really hates you, but that feeling only lasts for as long as it takes you to grind your damp slit against his straining arousal and then there's nothing but want.

His hands settle at your hips, his fingers squeezing roughly into your flesh and his pinkies barely managing to stay lifted, all while you stare down at him with a knowing smirk. He grits his teeth when you lean in to nibble at his earlobe.

"You look really good like this, you know that?" You punctuate those murmured words with scrape of your nails over his pecs. "Such a pretty boy."

"Shut up," he pants, but even he can hear the lack of bite in his words, and you don't seem bothered by them either. You're already taking him in hand and brushing his tip against your entrance, teasing him with that wet heat.

His hips buck as he strives to sink himself into that warmth, an embarrassing, uncontrollable reflex he can't fight back, and he hears the way you chuckle softly at that, knows that laughter is entirely at his expense even if there's no real malice in it, but he doesn't care. Can't care, not about anything except breaching that last bit of resistance and seating himself snugly inside you.

And then you're sliding down his cock, your slick walls enveloping him, and Tomura's letting out a strangled groan, his eyes clenching shut as he savors every bit of that sensation, near-overwhelmed and yet nowhere near satisfied. He starts to rut up into you, another involuntary, necessary reflex, but you don't seem to mind. You're gasping, your nails digging into his shoulders as you grind against his thrusts, your lips still pressed to his ear where he can hear everyone of the little sounds you're making.

"That's it," you breathe, grinding back against him. "That's a good boy, gonna—a-ah—gonna make me—"

Tomura's barely paying attention to what you're saying, is only vaguely aware of the way your hand is snaking between your bodies to rub at your clit, at least at first. A minute later, though, he can feel the effects of your self-stimulation, can't ignore the way your walls start to squeeze around him, gripping him impossibly tight as you start to rock back against him harder.

"Fuck, 's so good," you pant, your lips working up his jaw until your mouths finds his own, and this time he manages to kiss you back. It's sloppy and clumsy, probably, but Tomura doesn't worry about that, isn't thinking about anything except swallowing every sound you're making, or the strange gratification clenching in his chest with every whine that slips past your lips.

"So good, so pretty," you slur against his lips, your own eyes taking on a glazed look. One of your hands tangles in his hair, tugging pleasantly at his scalp, and if he was having trouble lasting before, that extra firm touch only has him edging closer to the finish. But it doesn't matter, you're close too, are spurring him on in a way he's all too glad to obey. "Gonna—fuck—gonna be good boy and come with me?"

Tomura nods, because he will, knows he will. He's barely holding back, won't be able to at all if you take much longer, but he needs it if he can—needs to feel you reaching the same fever pitch you’ve driven him to, needs to see you convulsing on his cock even if he hates that he needs it. 

He slides one hand up your back. Pulls you closer and fucks up into you harder, every muscle in his abdomen tense as he tries to keep that knot in his gut from snapping. 

And then you’re there, obviously there—your cunt is constricting around him more tightly than he thought was possible, spasming and gushing, your hand fisting more roughly into his hair, and with one last thrust he's driving himself as deep as he can, groaning against your lips as his cock twitches and spills over. Then he’s slumping against you, only half-cognizant of the way you're still panting those slips of praise.

"Good boy, so pretty when you come for me."