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#shigadabi fanfiction

Nearly done with this fic. In the meantime, have a itty bitty slice of the beginning. This follows immediately after the fic “Peace Offering”. 

WARNINGS: This is going to be smut, so expect some language and NSFW content. 

Expectations, like lies, were best kept simple and few. Too many got someone tangled in their own snares. Blinded them to possibilities. As Dabi shut the door to his room behind him and leaned back against it, he took inventory of the assumptions that had been flushed out of hiding and culled during his little visit downstairs.

That his new employer would skulk off when faced with human interaction had been first to go down. An understandable belief, given how Shigaraki Tomura had almost murdered him and that crazy girl during introductions. Didn’t exactly leave a lasting impression of social finesse. Yet not only had the creep stuck around during their second meeting, he’d also shown a level of tolerance Dabi never would have guessed possible.

Picking at one of the staples piercing his cheek absently with his left hand, he rubbed the thumb of the right against its neighboring index and middle fingers. Still soft and slightly slick from his DIY salve. The fact Shigaraki had allowed himself to be touched, especially by another guy, had been the second eye-opener. Dabi had almost backed off at that point; he’d planned on having some fun at the asshole’s expense, not full-on flirting for real. Judging from the way he’d almost fallen off the stool, Shigaraki hadn’t picked up on the signals until the very end…but even then he hadn’t reacted with any violence or disgust. It made Dabi wonder.

Brushing aside that mop of corpse-pale hair had been another shocker. Who would have suspected that behind the horror prop hand Shigaraki Tomura, maniacal leader of the League of Villains, was…well, beautiful. In desperate need of moisturizer too, yeah, sure. Like an abandoned work of art in an old ruin, he just needed a little touch up. A little bit of care.

Speaking of which, the final surprise of the night called for the same thing. Taking a swig from the bottle he’d brought up with him, Dabi glanced down at the front of his pants. He sure as hell hadn’t expected to walk away from talking to his new boss with a hard-on All Might couldn’t have smashed.

Fuck.” His voice grated against his ears in the room’s quiet.

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As Pretty As A Portrait
by Bam Bam bi

“What’re ya doing?” Tomura asks, watching as Dabi scribbled away on a small black sketchbook. He took another drag of the blunt before scooting over next to the raven-haired man. As his eyes scanned the paper his roommate was drawing on, he recognized the features of the drawing as his own. “Is … that me?”

Touya stopped for a second, glancing away as he felt his face heat up. “Yeah … you didn’t look too bad at that angle, mophead,” He mumbled.

Words: 1903, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

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This is for endeavor you big fat white nasty smelling fat bitch
by Rat cult

Shoto is sick of his father pushing him to be a hero, he doesn’t wanna fight villains and he doesn’t wanna go to UA.

What happens when the brother he thought was dead shows up and offers to let him join the league of villains? Will he continue to follow in his fathers footsteps or join his brother and the league? How will the rest of class 1-A react to todorokis sudden disappearance?

Words: 1947, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

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This is for endeavor you big fat white nasty smelling fat bitch
by Rat cult

Shoto is sick of his father pushing him to be a hero, he doesn’t wanna fight villains and he doesn’t wanna go to UA.

What happens when the brother he thought was dead shows up and offers to let him join the league of villains? Will he continue to follow in his fathers footsteps or join his brother and the league? How will the rest of class 1-A react to todorokis sudden disappearance?

Words: 1947, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

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More Todoroki Stories
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What do I do with all these freedom
by FairyMadNess

Now with his father out of the picture and his brother back in his life, Shouto is faced with one question he thought he knew the answer to.

Who is he?

Luckily he has a family and friends that are willing to put up with him as he finally has the freedom to figure it out.


This was only going to be a series of one-shots of Class 1A meeting the LoV that would tie in with the next fic, but plot finds a way into it

Words: 3397, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Series: Part 3 of Shigaraki Tomura Youtuber

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Fully Submerged
by ScreamingLotus

A series of short drabbles with a fast and loose plot focusing on the new relationship between Tomura Shigaraki and his flame, Dabi. After finally admitting their feelings to each other following a series of misadventures, the two must now take on a new challenge: learning how to commit to a relationship so they may thrive together.

This work is a sequel to my previous series called Two Villains Chillin’ in a Hot Tub. However, it isn’t necessary to read that first if you would like to avoid the slow burn. Feel free to dive in!

Words: 1267, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

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Beyond repair
by boreddude

Over a night, Touya Todoroki was dead to the world. Touya was dead, and Dabi was born. A monster. His life had been incredibly lonely and purposeless for ten years. With hideous scars that covered most of his body, and black dyed hair, he wasn´t recognizable anymore. He was no more a Todoroki or the son of a seemingly incredible hero. He was nobody. Or, that was until he found a new family. New purpose. And he found it in the league of villains. His new home.
But apart from a new home, a few years later Dabi also has newfound feelings for Shigaraki. Something he´s unable to describe. This is a messed up story about Dabi´s messed up feelings. How will everything turn out in the end?

Or: a madman with his psycho-squad.

“Morning Patchwork.” A raspy voice, obviously belonging to Shigaraki, said. Dabi turned his head and looked at the man who leaned against the wall by the end of the hallway.
“Good morning Handyman.”
“Watch it.”

Enjoy the ride good folks.

Words: 993, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

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A Shigaraki & Toga fic! Because the League becoming friends is just about my favorite thing ever. Also, it’s running long, so I split it into two parts.

Rating: Teen and up

Relationships: Shigaraki Tomura & Toga Himiko, Dabi/Shigaraki Tomura (hints of)

Warnings: Swearing, anxiety attacks, disturbing thoughts, self-harm (in the form of Shigaraki’s scratching), mentions of blood

Even after shoving the door to the downstairs bathroom shut and locking it behind him, Tomura couldn’t convince his heart to stop slamming against his ribs like a caged animal.

How he’d let this happen—why he’d allowed it to—he couldn’t begin to piece together. He’d been so pissed when Dabi had intruded on his solitude at the bar. But then…then the bastard had started talking. Worse, he’d made sense. As if that hadn’t been enough, Dabi had given him a gift before leaning in close, so close, close enough to touch—touch!—his face, to tangle warm fingers in his hair, and shitshitfuckinghellwhatwashesupposedto

Gasping for the air that had suddenly abandoned the room, Tomura sagged against the sink. No. The walls were not closing in on him. He wasn’t about to suffocate. His brain was just convinced that was the case because it was busy drowning in swells of adrenaline and anxiety. One hand flew up to his neck. The sting of his nails ripping open new furrows across old scratches caused his flailing thoughts to freeze. Seizing the opportunity, he groped for another lifeline.

“W-white counter. Lavender soap. Blue…fuck.” He gouged his nails deeper, countering anxiety’s own claws in his guts. “Blue. The fucking goddamn towel is blue. Like his—”

The resulting jolt of shock at what had nearly escaped his mouth knocked panic’s grip right off of him.

Keep reading

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Follows immediately after “Peace Offering”. Shigaraki POV. WARNINGS for disturbing thoughts and anxiety. It’s Shigaraki, folks. Comes with the territory.

Door opened a crack, Tomura peeked out into the hallway. Not a soul. He cocked his head, listening. Not a whisper or peep. Mindful of every creaky floorboard, he crept out. Slunk upstairs like a thief in his own base of operations. Hardly dared to breathe until he’d shut and locked the door to his room behind him.

Nerves still crawling beneath his skin, Tomura glanced over at the laptop sitting on the small desk against one wall. To the TV mounted on the other, framed by shelves of games to various consoles. He would’ve liked nothing more than to have a glowing screen absorb his attention, but he knew his focus was too scattered to play anything. Scanning the online news feeds would yield nothing but chatter about Stain or All Might—his fingers latched back onto his neck just thinking about it. He couldn’t wear himself out with training since that meant going back downstairs to use the mats and equipment in the basement. No fucking way was he setting foot in the bar for the next few days. Maybe not for years.

He knew he shouldn’t have let anyone stay here. Now he was trapped, a prisoner in his own goddamned room, all because he’d let an overcooked piece of human yakitori put his soft, stapled hands on him, and—

The rising swells of panic dropped and went utterly still as Tomura’s eyes darted to his closet. Of course. Such an obvious answer. He should’ve known what to do from the beginning.

Aah, you poor thing. What are you so afraid of? All you have to do is follow your heart.

As always, Sensei had provided for him.

Sliding one side of the closet open, Tomura picked up a long wooden box from its resting place beneath his neatly hung clothing. He gently set it in the middle of the room before retrieving a cloth from his desk. Sitting on his heels in front of the box, he wiped a few stray specks of dust from its lacquered surface. Though his memory of receiving it (not to mention its contents) remained lost somewhere in the murky haze of his childhood, the familiar action alone reassured him. Sensei had instructed him to care for it and he had, polishing it every week without fail for fifteen years.

Sleeves over the heels of his palms to prevent smudges, Tomura carefully lifted the lid.

The stench of formaldehyde sprang out immediately. It reached straight down his throat and clenched his guts with corrosive fingers. Despite the urge to vomit everything in his body cavity up, a mantle of calm settled over Tomura’s shoulders. As wretched, as vile, as stomach-wringing as they were, the sensations were familiar. They’d woven themselves into his makeup as tightly as his DNA. The same could be said for what lay inside the box.

Paler even than him against their nest of black coffin velvet, fourteen human hands lay in two neat rows. Well, thirteen—one was merely a replica, a replacement. The metal caps on the wrists gleamed sallow gold under the room’s light. Poised on the razor’s edge between sickened and serene, Tomura reached for them in the usual order.

First, the smallest ones, curled around his wrists. A larger pair with aged, wrinkled skin and knobby knuckles clamped to his biceps next. A similar but slimmer version of those followed on his forearms. The hands with the longest, loveliest fingers encircled his neck in fourth place. Two sets of brutish, blocky ones latched onto his shoulders, then his sides just beneath his arms.

Naturally, the best he saved for last.

Tomura fixed the replica to the back of his head almost absently. His attention was reserved for its partner: a left, the largest hand, the father of its macabre little family. He lifted it with the same care a collector would a preserved butterfly. With a fingertip he mapped out the valleys and ridges of bones and strong sinew along the back. Turning it over, he traced the lifeline etched across its palm that had most definitely lied. The way the scar cleaving his lips tingled and burned had nothing to do with the savage grin that split Tomura’s face. He rubbed his chin to be sure the feeling of blood drooling down it was only a phantom from his buried past.

He didn’t need to know its origins to realize how special Father was.

Revulsion and exhilaration surged up from his center as he pressed the precious memento mori over his face like a mask. His roiling emotions alchemized into something he had yet to name, its crystallized shape strange but stable. At last, the feel of cold, waxen flesh molded to his cheeks, of stiff, dead fingers in his hair, chased away the fantasy of hot, living ones. At last, he could think.

With a relieved sigh, Tomura replaced the box’s lid and stood. After feeling trapped, he needed the reassurance of space. He went to his room’s narrow window, pushed aside the curtains, disarmed the little tripwire surprise he’d rigged, and pushed the bottom pane up so he could slither out onto the fire escape.

The night air reeked of the refuse piled in the alley below. This definitely wasn’t high on his list of favored spots, but it was better than nothing. At least the temperature was being kind to his skin, not too warm or humid, not to cool or dry. The rusty skeleton of the fire escape squeaked as he settled himself on the mesh bottom, hugging his knees. Staring up at the void of the sky, a few stars visible through Father’s embalmed fingers, wasn’t so bad either. Everything he could see was warped, discarded, halfway down the path to total ruin. It almost made him feel at home.

A home with dynamics that had changed overnight. But…like it or not he had two new roommates—with more to come, according to Giran. Tomura didn’t have the kind of power to reduce hero society to rubble and ash on his own. Not yet. In the meantime, he had to make do with the next best thing: strength in numbers. It was just…he got so anxious. The concept of living with anyone aside from Kurogiri was bizarre, the thought of having to interact daily with strangers unsettling.

Yet even someone as powerful, as feared and dreaded as Sensei didn’t work alone. If his mentor hadn’t turned his nose up to cooperating with select people, who was Tomura to? He grimaced behind Father, but he could already feel resolve seeping between the seams in his thoughts. One way or another, he’d learn to tolerate his houseguests and how best to use their skills for the greater goal.

Maybe it was his years martial arts training that picked up on some subtle shift in the air. Déjà vu prickled along the back of Tomura’s neck. His head snapped toward the perceived threat on his right.

He caught a flash of a blonde-haired head just before it ducked back inside the next window over.

I’m Toga! Toga Himiko! It’s hard to live!

“Wait,” came from Tomura’s mouth before his conscious mind registered the action. “I’m sorry. About how I acted earlier.” The surprise of those words, in that order, coming from him fell flat compared to the shock of realizing he wasn’t lying.

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