#shiggy

He’s surprised when you immediately turn and glare at him, snapping like he’s the source of all your problems as you clap back. “Nothing. Shut up and do your work.”

Tomura is take aback. Not hurt, of course, because he’s had much worse than that. But not from you.

Leaning back against the headboard of his bed, he eyes you flatly. You’re laying more towards the foot of the bed, homework forgotten to the side while you glare at your phone, thumbs tapping rapidly against the screen as you type up what must be multiple paragraphs to whoever’s on the receiving end of your wrath. He’s never seen that look on your face before either- twisted with anger and…hurt? Sadness, maybe? Honestly, the most annoying thing about this is that you still look fucking pretty even all worked up like this-

“What?” Your sudden snap at him makes, Tomura blink out of his light daze.

You’re glaring at him now, obviously annoyed with his silent staring. Shrugging a little, he glances to the side and grumbles lowly. “…Just wondering why you’re in such a bad mood.”

Sitting up abruptly, you huff in frustration and turn your phone off to unleash your anger on him instead. “I’m not in a bad mood.”

Annoyingly, Tomura grins a little at your insistence…and obvious lie. He looks at you again, still leisurely leaning against the headboard. “You obviously are.”

Bristling at his stupid little smirk, you grit your teeth and start getting off his bed. “I’m not. You’re just fucking annoying me, as per usual.”

This time, he rolls his eyes. You’re such a fucking brat, seriously. “I didn’t even do anything. You’ve been pissed since you got here.”

“Well maybe it’s because I have to spend hours in your dirty ass bedroom.” You shoot back, already starting to pack up your things to leave.

Frowning a little now, Tomura glances around his dorm. Wrappers, cups, laundry…you might have a point, but that can’t be the only reason. “…It’s always like this. Obviously something’s wrong besides that.”

Groaning in frustration, you snap the zipper of your backpack shut, glaring at him again. “Why do you even care? You’re always all pissy with me, why can’t I do the same?”

“I don’t care.” He grumbles back, crossing his arms and meeting your gaze flatly. “I just want to know what’s so important you can’t focus on our project.”

You frown, but it’s frustrated and…tight, somehow, like you’re holding back from saying something.

He rolls his eyes again. “What is it? Something not go your way? A party was canceled? Your boyfriend bailed on a date?”

His mocking grates on your already-frayed nerves, making your hands clench by your sides. God, if Tomura Shigaraki is good for one thing on this planet, it’s pissing you off.

So, without really meaning to, you blurt out your problem angrily. “I don’t have a boyfriend because he fucking cheated on me last night!”

At least he has the decency to blink in surprise. And he is surprised that a girl like you would get cheated on…but he’s also surprised that you genuinely trusted a meat head like your now ex-boyfriend. Tomura watches your eyes widen a little in realization at what you shouted before they lower and start watering.

Oh, god.

People crying isn’t really his forte. Especially girls- especially pretty girls- especially pretty girls who happen to be you.

After a good moment or two of silence, he speaks up again, not mocking anymore but still flat. “…That sucks.”

Now it’s your turn to roll your eyes even as you blink back tears. Shaking your head a little, you pull on your backpack and turn to leave. “…Thanks.”

It’s not like you were expecting much sympathy from him anyways…

“I could’ve told you he’d do that.”

You freeze barely two steps away from his bed. Then, slowly, you turn back around to face him.

“…Excuse me?”

Tomura blinks at you like he sees nothing wrong with what he just said. And maybe there is nothing wrong- but that’s not something you say to someone who’s obviously upset.

“The guy was an asshole. Of course he would cheat.”

You sputter a bit at his blunt statement, still jumping to your exes defense out of pure habit. “Wha- you- you don’t even know him- you never even met-.”

“I didn’t have to.” He cuts in bluntly, almost sneering a little now at the way you defend a guy who clearly hurt you. “Girls like you always go out with guys like him, then act shocked when they turn out to be pieces of shit.”

Wide eyed, you stare at him in slight shock. And, naturally, that shock turns to even more anger once his words sink in. ‘Girls like you’? What does that even mean?

“Girls like me? Guys like him?” You demand, taking a step closer and glaring daggers at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Finally, Tomura sits up a bit now, doubling down on his blunt assumptions. “It means every guy like him is an asshole, and every girl like you is too blinded by his looks to see it.”

“Really?” You shoot back, bristling with so much pent up hurt and anger that it just comes spilling out. “So, what, I should be with a guy like you instead? You want me to sit around in your disgusting room, watching you play your fucking video games all day and listening to you complain about the world?! You think I should spend my time with some- some mean, creepy, lowlife, virgin, loser?!”

There’s silence again. Heavier this time, with the weight of your argument. Tomura’s not hurt- again, he’s been called much worse. But still, he wasn’t quite expecting that from you. He stares at you, eyes flat and expression unexpressive. And somehow, it only makes you feel…bad.

“I-…” You start, looking away and lowering your voice again. “…Sorry, I…I’m just-.”

“Upset. I know.” He cuts in again, but this time you don’t get annoyed. Instead, you’re actually surprised he seems to understand you. “Yell at me if you want. Whatever makes you feel better.”

Sighing, you lift your eyes with a light glare. Since when is he so…genuine? He’s not even saying that to mock or belittle you- he’s actually just stating a fact.

“I don’t want to yell.” You tell him, your shoulders slumping a little as if you’re deflating. “I didn’t mean what I said, but-.”

“No, you definitely meant it.” He insists, grinning just slightly as he cocks his head to the side a bit. “That came out way too easily to be off the top of your head.”

You huff a little, crossing your arms now. “I did not mean it. I’m not rude like you are.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

Your jaw clenches a little as his “gotcha” moment, your eyes narrowing further. “Because I was angry, and you were being mean?”

“I was being honest.” Tomura states like it’s fact. “What, did you want me to comfort you?”

“A little sympathy would be nice.”

“You’re not giving me any.”

Now you just stare at him. Setting aside the fact he’s the one who started this argument (debatable, really), did you not just apologize to him?

“Why should I?”

“You just called me a lowlife, virgin, creep.”

“I apologized!” You’re exasperated at this point, standing by the edge of his bed even though you don’t remember getting closer. “You basically called me stupid while I’m already having a bad day!”

“I never said that.”

“You implied it!”

“…So we’re both feeling bad.” Tomura grins again. God, he’s having fun with this, isn’t he? “But we can fix it…”

—

God, this is disgusting. Or…it should be.

Honestly, you did mean everything you said earlier. Maybe not the ‘lowlife’ part, but everything else? Yeah, pretty much.

He knows it.

You know it.

But Tomura also knows now that he probably was a bit out of line earlier. You’re hurting and he made it worse by trying to give unsolicited advice, he can understand that. You weren’t looking for solutions, you were just looking for someone to vent to, and he was there.

You know it.

He knows it.

But right now, none of that seems to matter, because you’re both too caught up in each other to even remember what you were arguing about.

Tomura’s got you pinned down on his bed, your ankles by his ears, his hands leaving bruises on your hips, whimpers in your ear, drool on your shoulder, and all damn near 7 inches pounding into your sopping pussy.

This should be disgusting…but it’s not.

Your moans ring out high and shaky under him, your hands clinging to his body, nails scratching red lines into his skin, thighs trembling with the force of his thrusts, on the brink of your second orgasm, and struggling to comprehend just how the hell a guy like Tomura Shigaraki is giving you the best dick of your life.

“Shit- ah!- T-Tomura-!” You squeal out, eyes clamping shut as he grinds against your clit seemingly completely on accident.

“Heh- ngh!- You l-like- like th-that?” God, he can barely speak through the way he’s whimpering and groaning through the overwhelming pleasure, and yet he’s still fucking smirking like that.

Nearly pouting, you whimper high and pull him closer, not even wanting to open your eyes to see the way you know he’s looking at you.

You were right about him being a virgin, for the record. But honestly…you would have no damn idea by now. He’s got this shit locked down, like he’s some machine you feed commands to and watch do perfectly. It’s actually stupid how good he is- astronomically better than your fuck ass ex boyfriend ever was.

“Y-yeah?- Mm!- B-better than h-him- ngh!- huh?”

Fuck, as if he needed another boost to his fucking ego.

You clap a hand over your babbling mouth, muffling your whines as your face burns with embarrassment. But there’s no use anymore- not with the way his tip rams into all those little sweet spots inside you, or the way he’s already got you all full and sticky of the cum he stuffed into you when he pushed in the first time.

A rough hand grabs your hand and pulls it off your mouth, but your eyes open in shock when he laces his fingers with yours and pins your hand to the bed. Tomura’s staring down at you, face red, lips glossy from his own drool, and yet he’s couldn’t look smugger about the fact he’s fucking you right now.

Or about the fact that you cum while making eye contact with him.

It hits you hard, making your back arch and your hand grasp at his hard enough to make him grimace a little. But damn, your face is just so pretty when you look up at him and cry and beg for more. Tomura grunts as you clamp down on him, adding to the sticky white ring already on the base of his cock from your combined releases.

“F-fuck- hah!- Gonna c-cum ‘nside a-again-.” He muses roughly, watching your eyes get all big and dewey as he fucks you right through your orgasm and into his.

“Y’want it? H-huh?” Tomura grunts, unable to stop himself from babbling now. “Didja e-ever let your- ngh!- s-stupid boyfriend- mm!- do t-that?…Ever let h-him- ah!- f-fill you u-up?”

You shake your head quickly, your free hand reaching to claw at his shoulder as he rams into you erratically. It’s true, too. Sex with your ex was so boring you never really wanted him to cum inside- also just the fact that it’s fucking stupid to let a guy do it. But with Tomura…it’s like you need it.

Damn near giggling now, Tomura leans down and sinks his teeth into the side of your neck, his hips stuttering as he plows you with jerky little thrusts. You’re driving him fucking insane, seriously. With your pretty face, and your wet little pussy, and the way your hand clings to him, and the way you’re moaning and crying out for him- his name.

God knows how fucking hard Tomura tried not to think about this before literally right now. He was in denial about liking you, and he knows it would be creepy to think about fucking you- let alone the fact you were in a relationship until today. No, he wanted to be respectful of you, even if you were on his mind 24/7 anyways. But now…now he actually has a chance, right? Not just for sex, but-

The thought makes a whimper catch in his throat, his hips stuttering one more time before he rams all the way in. A high, broken groan leaves his mouth muffled against your shoulder as he pumps a healthy load of cum deep inside you, pushing it in deeper with little grinds of his hips.

You eat it up, too. Mewling and arching, you drag him as close as possible and suck in as much as possible. Your shaky whimpers and pants echo in Tomura’s ear beside your mouth, making his brain and fuzzy with bliss and his eyes roll back.

“F-fuck…Fuck, Tomura…” You’re all breathless now, the disbelief hitting quickly as soon as he’s done cumming.

“…Hm?” He grunts out, heaving as he pulls back a little to look down at you, dazed with pleasure but focused on you. “…R-Regret it now?”

Your eyes fall shut as you pant and relax under him. He can feel the way you still flutter lightly around him, your thighs twitching a bit even as your expression softens.

Then, blessedly, you shake your head a little. “Was, like…t-too good…”

A relieved sigh leaves his lips before he can help himself, his shoulders relaxing as he holds himself off you. But of course, he’s still too damn cocky about it. “…Forgot a-about your ex?”

Face flushing a deeper shade of red, you tuck it down a bit more as if you can hide. But then your eyes open, all big with satisfaction and a touch of vulnerability, and he just about dies.

Shaking your head, you murmur softly. “No…B-but I feel better…”

It’s a damn miracle Tomura doesn’t get hard all over again just from the way you look at him. Instead he grins a little and leans in closer.

“…Me too…”

But the way you're acting now—seems more concerning.

“Yeah,” is all he warrants as an answer. Though, he was curious as to yours as he begs the same question, “What about me?”

A smile graces your face then—there’s a comfort to it, a mild and affectionate one, unexaggerated, honest, as you smoothly swing your leg over his lap.

A look like that has no place on your face, especially when regarding him, and yet he finds himself hoping for more. He lays his book aside as you lean forward and doesn't stop you when you cup his face in both your palms.

“As far as I'm concerned, you’re not just the prettiest boy in the world—you're the only boy in the world.” You say it with a kiss, lips just as soft as the words leaving them. It shocks him, though he accepts and gives it back.

You close your eyes, laying your chest against his—he keeps his open to look at you. Observing and assessing.

You’ve truly become a whole other person altogether. A far cry from the tough hero you once were—the one who’d beat him within an inch of his life and leave him to choke on the blood.

“Will you stay with me today?” you ask against his lips—playing with his hair, looping the curly tresses around your fingers.

There’s a neediness to your voice, a certain desperation, a sadness—something lonely and something that reminds him all too much of himself. He feels both a strong urge to reject and soothe it all at the same time.

“No, I gotta go,” he says despite it. He had business.

You hide your face in his neck and continue with your tracing, now on the scrapes striping his throat where he’s raked his nails time and time again. “When will you come back?” Your tone comes out even sweeter, only a murmur mushed against his skin.

It nearly makes his heart twist. “It’s better I don’t answer that.”

It’s funny. Though the thought had struck him, he didn’t gauge any ill intentions. You could be asking, acting, plotting some escape based on the hours of his absence—yet somehow, with the way you nuzzle into him like that, as though you’re pouring your all-too-candid grief into him, he can't sense any other ulterior motive.

“Last time you left at this hour, you came back all beaten and bruised,” you mutter, now with a hint of bitterness—as if you’re cursing whoever hurt him under your breath.

It’s ironic. He sneers lazily, almost fondly, at the old memory. “You’re the one who used to beat and bruise me, remember?”

He’s truly curious if you do. Or if something’s spirited your past life away and left you like this—no longer an aspiring young hero, but something whose only value is warming his bed at night.

You arise, an appalled look of affront upon your face.

“No, that can’t be right,” you very nearly cry, as if the very thought was killing you. “I would never hurt you—I love you too much.”

Apparently, you don’t remember who you were at all.

“Love me?” he all but croaks. It’s a laughable prospect, and yet he doesn’t even smile. There’s something awful in his gut that prevents him. “Don't be stupid. You can't love me.”

Your face doesn’t drop its grimace, only further tears with forlorn outrage. “Of course, I love you!" you insist. "You’re my whole reason for living...”

You look so despaired—wrecked from his dismissal. The tears well quickly then slip down your face just as fast—and yet it isn’t the same crying as you used to. This time, it’s quiet—in wait or in dread as you beg the question, 

“Don't you love me?”

It’s an unexpected one, and it quickly proves to be an existential one—even more so than your unnerving confession. Despite not wanting to, it leaves him to dig through the muck in his head he’d long ignored, down in the dark where he’d tried burying the truth he'd felt oncoming. He'd wanted to deny it, reject it, amend it, simply because it confused him too much to acknowledge—complicated things—changed things he didn’t want or need changing.

He wonders if it’s somehow proof of fate—even though he despises such a concept. That, no matter how much you practice free will, no matter how many knots you make upon the red string, the world will pull and straighten it out, and you’re left to realize you’d brought it all on yourself.

First, he took your quirk, then he took your body—your mind shortly followed—and now it seems he’s managed to take your heart, too. 

There’s nothing left of you that isn’t his. 

There was a time he’d frolic at the thought of having reduced you to such a pathetic ghost in a shell—back then, he’d do anything to destroy you—he’d surely shatter you into a million little scattered pieces if presented with the chance, make sure you were broken for good. 

But that was the old him. Or rather, that was his dream for the old you—the hero he loathed down to his rotten core.

But the pretty misty-eyed thing looking down at him now, aching for his answer, wasn’t that person anymore.

And the truth is, the person you are now scares him more than that hero ever did. 

You were… well, you were the person who warms his bed at night, the person who traces his scars and plays with his hair—the person who wraps themselves around him and keeps him from falling apart when he stumbles through the door into the tiny little room he keeps you a prisoner in. You're his.

This time, his heart does twist. He’s never before spoken the words that dance on his tongue, or if he has, they’ve been long forgotten and come out as dust balls as he affirms them now, 

“Yes. I love you.”

There’s a flash of hope in your eyes, though it just as quickly diminishes—as if you don’t believe him.

Your lip warbles as you confirm it, “No, you don’t.”

More tears run silently down the tracks on your cheeks, gathering at the tip of your chin before dripping upon his chest—each one like a gunshot through something hollow.

“If you did, you wouldn’t go. You wouldn’t leave me here in this room, all alone.” Your nails curl into your palms where they rest atop him. You bow your head as though you can’t bear to look at him, as if it hurts. The next words come out beneath your breath, “How am I supposed to compete with the whole world?”

You’re making him feel like dying. The continuous twists of his heart feel as if you’re about to tear it right out of his chest.

He sits up and lifts your face. It’s strange, even with his two-finger gloves on. He doesn’t think he’s ever held you like this. Though, suppose it’s been a night of many firsts already. And here comes another,

“As far as I’m concerned, you are my world.”

There you are, the one thing he doesn’t wish to destroy.

Your sore eyes become round, then swell with different tears. There’s a hitch in your breath as you sigh through a shuddering sob, throwing your arms around his neck and clinging to him tightly—your body jostling while you rub your wet face into his neck, holding him close for comfort as if you're scared to ever let go.

He returns the gesture, though somewhat hesitantly, wrapping his arms around you and laying his head to rest against your shoulder.

And then, as he holds you—for the first time ever, fear of actually losing the fight ahead strikes him.

He hadn’t much cared about the outcome before. Either he’d destroy or be destroyed.

This wasn’t as simple. As said earlier, this complicated things.

But then again, it was even more of a reason to go.

“But I still have to leave.” 

You part from him—the betrayal in your tone demanding his justification, “Why?”

Suppose, in some ways, this actually made things simpler—as that was a question he had no problem answering.

“‘Cause there are monsters outside…” He rests his forehead upon yours, gazing back into those terribly glassy eyes looking back at him as he speaks to you about your dear old colleagues. “Monsters who want nothing but to take you away from me.”

If only they could see you now, they’d know… you no longer want to leave him.

“So I have to go out there and make sure they have no chance,” he explains, almost like a vow, “You’re mine, and I’ll destroy anyone who says otherwise to keep you that way.”

The way your eyes melt makes him feel all fuzzy. It’s a special type of glee, a victory before the battle even begins—to see you root for him—so deep in love with him that you’ve forgotten you’re celebrating the onset of death to all of your former friends.

They probably wouldn’t be able to take you away from him even if they somehow managed to invade this very room. You’d sooner die than betray him.

And that makes him feel all the more ready for the war ahead.

“So kiss me good luck, and I’ll come right back to you soon.”