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hahagiggles3 · 12 days

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LIKE AN OLD CARDIGAN.

✰ starring: shigaraki tomura x fem!reader ✰ synopsis: you are the lamplight left on in the hallway when tomura comes home. ✰ content: soft shiggy loving hours. i miss him ✰ warnings: none. love. fluff as fluff can get ✰ word count: 2.1k ✰ author's note: hi it's hera. yeah i know. pretty lazy of me to just be posting old patreon content but it be how it be. i'm in my sad hours right now just thinking about coming home to my girlfriend and i thought about this fic. i don't know. hope u like it. goodnight

it’s late when he comes home.

to be fair, it always is. shigaraki has never had the luxury of choosing his work hours. it’s always dark, the moon hanging high in the navy night as he turns the lock of the meagre apartment he shares with you, the one he’d choose over his paranormal liberation front-mandated penthouse any day. the welcome mat is old and shoddy, but he remembers the day you picked it out together, looking through various designs online.

he doesn’t expect you to be awake when he comes home. it’s late, almost quarter past two, the light from the hallway lamp still on, illuminating the small home with a warm, homely orange. it buzzes and fuzzes at the edges, and he wonders if he needs to change the lightbulb. shigaraki drops his coat and his bags at the door and staggers his way through his home, your home.

exhaustion courses through his veins, turning his legs to lead. his footfalls are heavy, almost dragging along the hardwood floors, and he’s almost sure he’s trailing blood like a snail trail. his? some pro hero? he doesn’t know. genuinely, he doesn’t care. all he wants is a hot bath, and you.

you. you, you, you, who throws yourself into his arms every chance you get, never minding his deadly touch. you, who kisses his temple when he has a headache. you, who sing to him when he can’t sleep. shigaraki felt like a fool thinking you would love him the way he loved you, and still does believing that you’re telling the truth. but when your voice is sweet, thick and rich like honey, it’s hard to colour your words in anything other than candour.

when shigaraki reaches the door of your bedroom, he hesitates. he sees his hands, calloused and rough and pale. he hates the sight of them, the destruction they cause, the fact that he can’t hold you with all five fingers, skin against skin. the black nail polish he begrudgingly let you paint his nails with is chipping away, and he finds himself wanting to ask you to touch them up for him. he twists the doorknob to your bedroom, letting himself in.

shigaraki comes home to this sight almost every night, and yet he can never stop the way his breath gets caught in his throat, the way his heart aches to be next to yours. the dim light from the hallway creeps towards you slowly through the crack in the door, and it feels almost invasive the way it dares to trespass into your vicinity, onto your bed. warm orange fills the room with a soft glow, and there he spots pachinko and chico curled at the foot of your bed. he lets his eyes wander further and further up until he takes you in. soft and gentle and cuddled up to his side of the bed, your legs splayed just slightly.

“tomura?” he hears, your voice trimmed with sleep. that’s right. outside he’s shigaraki. he’s the embodiment of all for one, he’s a monster with the world in his hands. but in here, in this bedroom, he’s tomura.

tomura keeps looking at you as you turn around, barely roused from your sleep. “tomura, oh,” you murmur, covers rustling as you get up. “i must’ve fallen asleep, i…”

“i’m sorry i woke you up,” he mumbles. “you should sleep. ‘s late.”

the bed dips as you move, sitting where he stands, your legs folded under you. “no,” you shake your head, a small smile growing on your face. “wanted to see you home.”

tomura shakes. tomura trembles, his lip quivering as he lifts a bloodied hand, covered in soot and grime and someone else’s demise and places it on the side of your head. his thumb soothes the patch of skin under your ear, careful to leave his pinky up as he cradles your face. “i’m home.” his voice is gruff and tired, chock full of phlegm and the torrent of his day.

he used to be conscious about the dirt he tracked into the house, hardwood floors tainted by the wear of his days. but you never said anything, only mopped and swept the next day. “shower?” you ask, looking up at him, eyes wide with adoration, and he matches your smile.

“yeah,” he clears his throat, but makes no move to walk to the bathroom. “come with?”

you beam at him, a ray of sun in the twilight of his life. “always.”

he sheds his clothes, soiled and dirty and you push over the laundry hamper for his to throw it in. tomura hesitates for just a second, looking at your delicate panties, white jumpers, and then at the mess of black, brown and blue in his hands, roughed and tattered. “do you need me to stitch any of it up?” you ask, your back turned to him. you’re bent over the tub, testing the water to see if it’s too hot or too cold (tomura likes it warm. not lukewarm, not hot, warm.).

“maybe,” he murmurs. “i’ll look at it tomorrow.”

you hum in agreement. tomorrow’s your day together. tomura tried to spend as much time as he could at home with you and the cats, opting to schedule the league and the front’s happenings around what you wanted to do. grocery shopping day never clashed with a meeting. he was always home for movie night.

tomura turns, now naked and bare in front of you. there’s a smatter of blood, a smear of soot along his collarbone, and you reach forward with your hand wet to wipe it off. “long day, huh?” you ask, eyes flickering up to meet his for just a second.

“very.”

“saw it on the tv.” you pull him along to the tub, his arms long and lean and toned, hands warm. “looked devastating. not for you, though.”

he chuckles, lets you fuss over him. he steps into the bathtub, the water sloshing and splashing messily onto the floor. but your foresight is stronger, your bath rugs pulled towards the feet of the tub to catch the water. it’s the perfect temperature, always is when you run it for him, bubbly and soapy water clinging to his skin. you sit on the edge of the tub, watching him.

“come in,” his voice tugs on your heart, his hand breaking the water to reach for you. “shower with me.”

you smile. “was waiting for you to ask.” you stand, removing your sleep shorts and shirt, dipping your toes in slowly before letting yourself enter on the opposite side of the tub, your legs tangled together, facing each other. the water is pleasant, but it’s his warmth that comforts you. “bend down.”

he does. tomura only listens to one person, and that’s you. he dips his head, the long strands of soft hair soaked in water. you cup your hands to collect water, and lift it above his head to pour it on his scalp, soaking the rest of his head. it’s a quiet, methodical process, pouring water on his head before taking the shampoo from the side of the bathtub. you squirt a little bit into your hands, lathering it up before scrubbing his hair, making sure the suds clean the dirt off his scalp.

tomura’s hands bring death. yours bring life.

he sits there in silent contemplation, watching the water ripple with your actions. it distorts the image of himself, his reflection broken up into waves on the surface of the water. the big, bad villain melted away in your palms, now just a man being showered by his love. his girlfriend, who has stayed every day. who promises him better days.

there’s not enough in the world that he could give you in return. to compensate, to reward, to thank you. all he can do is sit quiet in this tiny bathtub in this tiny bathroom in this tiny apartment with you. all he can do is love you, and let you love him.

you wash him meticulously, not a word out of your mouth as you trace over scars, new and old, gashing or small. except for a small tut when your fingers reach his sternum, where a big, blue bruise is beginning to form. you recognised it; it must’ve been when he was compromised and cornered by mirko and some other pro-hero, before he gained the cohesion of mind to crumble the ground they stood on, knocking them off their stances just long enough to pick up the poor nameless hero by the collar. you’d turned away for a second when you watched that. you knew what happened to people who tomura got his hands on.

did you think the war was foolish? of course you did. it never escaped you the death toll, the property damage, the harm he caused. but you also understood that what he was setting his hands on was a government and a system that failed him, that failed every person who was deemed a villain. you knew that your life as a quirkless was much less valuable than someone with a quirk. you knew that those with quirks they couldn’t control, those with quirks that couldn’t serve, couldn’t save, they were thrown to the sidelines. who are they to deem who is good and who is bad?

once you’ve scrubbed his body with the loofah, you set it down on the side of the tub. “look up,” you direct him gently, your fingers tipping his chin upwards. “look at me.”

vermillion eyes flit up to meet yours, and your features soften just looking at him. you’ve looked at tomura plenty of times. it’s your favourite thing to do. but in the middle of the night, he just looks so… vulnerable. there’s a softness in his eyes you can’t explain.

you know that he tells you all his secrets, but you can’t help but feel like there are so many more buried behind his eyes.

a damp washcloth wipes along his jaw, his cheeks, his nose. you dip it in and out of the water, droplets melodical in your tiny space, tracing his sunken eyes and his scarred skin. the back of his neck where he scratches out of habit. his lips, chapped and flaking. you soak it all with your cloth and soapy water.

when you’re done, you can tell he isn’t. the bathwater’s long since gone cold, but he makes no move to get out. he’s still, the only telltale sign that he’s even alive the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. you let him steep in the water, let him take as much time as he needs to gather enough of himself to become a person again.

finally, he speaks. “do you love me?”

it’s a simple question. he’s asked it many time before; in the mornings, when the two of you spend the lazy hours together in bed. in the afternoons as you fuss over his clothes before he steps out the door. in the evenings, over the phone when he can’t make it home for dinner. in the nights that he spends buried inside you, your hands laced together, panting into your mouth. this is not an uncommon question for tomura.

but somehow, you feel like it is momentous today.

“i do,” you murmur, your hands still fit along his cheek. “i love you.”

he looks at you. “can you say it with my name?”

a beat passes. you find your tongue, and say, “i love you, tomura.”

a small frown etches in his forehead. you’re struck by a sudden fear you’ve said the wrong thing, your mouth opening to take it back. you would rather die than hurt tomura. you would rather burn through a thousand years in purgatory than do anything that upset him. you’re ready to ask what’s wrong when he shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. there’s a tightness in his face you want to smooth with the pad of your thumb, that reaches into you and wrenches your heart. squeezes it until it bursts.

“n-not tomura. not that name.”

oh. oh.

you understand that vulnerability now. in scarlet eyes, you watch a small boy huddle close to you, like you’re a hearth of warmth and comfort. you are. you are, to him. you burn for him.

“i love you, tenko.”

and he softens. he melts, like butter in your hot, hot hands, under your blazing fingers. tomura shigaraki, the king of the underworld, the biggest villain known to man sits in your home, in your bathtub as you wash him clean. but it’s tenko shimura that you hold close to you now.

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hahagiggles3 · 12 days

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I’ve had soft Shigaraki brainrot for days and this is my constant little daydream when I’m cozy in bed, so have it.

contains: gn!reader, cuddling, fluff.

“Nnmmh?” You let out a small hum as you’re stirred from sleep by blankets rustling, your eyes blinking open when the mattress beside you dips with a familiar weight. You twist a little, glancing blearily over your shoulder. The light streaming in through the window is faint and diffuse, just enough for you to make out pale locks of hair. “Tomura?” you murmur sleepily. “What time is it?”

He clicks his tongue softly as he slumps down against the pillows. “It’s still early.” His raspy voice barely rises above a whisper. "Go back to sleep.”

Exhaustion is clear in his tone and his eyes, bagged and heavy-lidded. Sleep-addled though your mind is, that’s enough to spark a dozen worries, ones that are almost ever-present. Tomura comes when he can and leaves when he has to, days and occasionally weeks passing between visits. Then one day he’s simply there, lounging in your apartment when you return from work or slipping into bed beside you in the early morning hours. During his absences you can’t help but fret, and that doesn’t stop even when he reappears. Especially not when he so often returns looking worse than when he left.

“Have you eaten?” You rub at your face, trying to force your vision into focus, and then let your gaze scan over his cheekbones, and the hint of clavicle his collar reveals—angles that have grown worrisomely gaunt in the time since heroes rendered him homeless. “I can make you something.”

You’re already shifting to rise despite his earlier instruction, the gnawing need to take care of him far more compelling than your desire to sleep in. You make little progress in that effort to tend to the needs he ignores, however. Tomura grunts with trace irritation and then his arm slings heavy over your waist to tug you back down against the sheets, the warmth of his chest pressing to your back as he pulls you tight against him.

“I said go back to sleep,” he grumbles, but there’s no bite to the words. You can already hear the edge leaving his tired voice, can feel him relaxing into your body slotted against his own. The heft of your comforter settles around you both and his fingers dip beneath your shirt to trace idly over your ribs, his face nuzzling into your hair. Another second passes and then his arm tightens around you to coax you closer, his breath warm against the nape of your neck as he adds with a murmur, “Just want this.”

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