Work Text:
he could practically hear his own heartbeat, pattering frantically against his blemished chest. it always beat faster like this, much to his annoyance, around you. you were curled comfortably on his thighs, your head resting against his midsection. he could feel your torso rise and fall faintly; you were sleeping.
tomura shigaraki always got what he wanted. it was a simple, fair trade between him and his master, all for one. all he had to do was ask, to demand, and to sometimes throw a tantrum or two. he always understood what he desired and how to get it. so then why couldn’t he comprehend the fluttery, squirmy feeling that writhed in the pit of his stomach when you touched him? the tingly sensation of blood rushing to his cheeks from embarrassment whenever you sent a teasing comment his way?
“it’s love!” toga had sighed longingly to him after watching his face bloom to a brilliant shade of red once. he’d simply scowled, snapping at her to go bother twice or dabi. what could that blood-sucking freak know? his heart had been closed off to love or whatever the absurd feeling haunting him was—it’s been foreign to him ever since the day all for one picked him up from the streets.
and yet, when you hung out with him, laughing and joking despite his (farcical) grumbles of protest, a kind of warmth welled up within him. he forgot about his upbringing, his responsibilities, the horrid grief clinging onto his conscience. instead, he focused on you: the cute way your eyes furrowed when you smiled, the bubbly sound of your laughter that nowhere near suggested you were working with a gang of pitiful villains. and it dawned on him that maybe, just maybe, he was pining for you.
a shift in your movement snapped shigaraki back to the present. his hand was tangled in your hair, his pinky cautiously raised away from your scalp. you muttered something sleepily, words he couldn’t make out, before falling still again. your exhales tickled across his exposed midriff, letting him know you weren’t a dream. you were here. real. alive.
tomura shigaraki always got what he wanted. your support throughout his hardships, your mischievous giggles as you dragged him up to the bar’s roof at sunset. your lips against his cheek when the clouds parted for the moon, your delicate fingers tracing along his scars.
but want was never the right word. a sense of pining, longing, need never felt right, either.
he just really, really liked you.
and it dawned on shigaraki—on the bar’s worn red couch with you reposing on his lap, the night stars offering a bit of light through the windows—as toga’s words reverberated deep within his heart.
he was in love.