Her Forgotten ~Tomura Shigaraki x OC AU~

Chapter 17: Tragic Poem

**(Possible) mature content ahead - reader discretion advised**

Illika

Warmth.

It rolls down my back before falling to the floor, then swirling down the drain in a sudsy dance. All the while it wraps me in this thin layer of comfort, and I ease into it. My muscles relax and release and I steady my breathing. I catch and collect the various pieces of me that had been darting in different directions, and then I glimpse over my shoulder.

Tomura stands behind me, gingerly scrubbing my back with a washcloth. Suds bubble, falling as he strokes back and forth, moving slowly. His touch is gentle, the pressure almost like a massage. But it is not his hands I stay focused on.

My eyes lift, drifting to his face. His expression is relaxed, his features smooth and even as his lips press in a flat line. Any trace of the anger and hate he had been spitting mere moments before is completely gone, wiped away with the soapy water. And much like his touch, his expression is soft.

Even his crimson eyes.

Under the cold illuminance of this sharp light, I thought they would still sport at least some of that bitterness, but to my surprise, they look just as soft as his touch feels. Warm and so soft.

He must feel my staring because he looks at me, meeting my eyes. Our eyes have met many, many times. We are not shy with our eye contact, but something about this time feels...different. It feels...I don't know. New. My breath hitches and my heart skips a beat, though I am unsure as to why, but I still swallow that all down.

He says not a word and only continues to scrub, then, still not uttering a syllable, he tosses the washcloth to the floor. He replaces it with my scrubby, lathering it with my body wash. He then returns to me. Still moving with gentle motions, he turns me and, to my surprise, starts to bathe me.

He lathers me with the loofah, washing my arms, my breasts, my abdomen, my legs - all over. All the while, he moves slowly and steadily, taking his time. It feels like it has been an eternity when he finally guides me under the water and rinses my skin, soaking my hair in the process, after which, he shifts gears.

He squirts a generous amount of shampoo into his gloved palm and starts to massage my scalp with it, working it into my hair. He moves thoroughly, practically kneading my roots.

I relax, closing my eyes as he does so, leaning my head back. It feels so good. To be close to someone. To be touched this way. To be felt this intimately, and it's not even sexual. I mean, sex started it, but now...

It just feels nice.

He finishes scrubbing my scalp and guides my back under the water, rinsing. His fingers weave intricately through my hair, helping to rinse any lingering shampoo away. Then, I listen as he collects some - what I assume to be - conditioner, helping it along the ends of my hair.

Then as that sits in my hair, he, to my surprise, leans in, resting his chin against my shoulder as his hands snake around my waist. He pulls me close, resting my back against his chest. Even like this, I can feel how his heart beats against his ribs. Steadily. Forcefully. With purpose and passion.

After a few moments, I hook my arms over his, gliding my fingers along his skin. My eyes are closed, but I know I can feel the scars. Scars that he has kept hidden. They run up his arms. Trails of a tormented past. A past that created him. A past I want to know more about.

Eventually, he pulls away, though I get the inkling he didn't want to. I could feel the hesitation in his muscles. I could sense how he fought himself, but in the end, he did, and now, he's rinsing the conditioner from my hair. Just as carefully as every other step during this process.