kiraske

[kiraske]

TOMURA SHIGARAKI MY ASSHOLE GAPES 4 U 🩵

[kiraske]

So, I also ended up making my own Shigaraki body pillow. I felt the one I had didn't really look like him. I wanted something sweet as well, not overly sexual. I also wanted more of a manga-style Shiggy. So here's a sweet Shiggy pillow to lay next to <3 <3

It's available in my etsy shop

[kiraske]

shigaraki who falls in love with a cute cashier at the 24/7 konbini he frequents. they're a foreigner and seem to not know much japanese, especially the conversational style, only using formal words with him when he says it's not necessary. he sees them every night, after all. he tries his best to flirt, and they're always quite nice to him. maybe it's because they're really that nice, or maybe it's because they have no idea what he's saying. either way, he's got butterflies in his stomach when they look at him.

little does he know, this foreigner is an avid true crime fan that recognized him the very first moment they saw him. they know what he's saying. they know he's flirting. they also know that denying his advances or going to the police will put a target on their back, so they've been nodding along and smiling for 3 weeks now, praying it doesn't escalate. it does, though, when shigaraki asks them for their number.

[kiraske]

HOST.

pairing: leon kennedy x infected!gn!reader

summary: You’re rotting from the inside out, and Leon realizes the inevitable—there’s no saving you.

words: 2.6k

warnings: body horror, a lot of blood, vomiting, gore, extreme angst, NO happy ending, death :))

notes: yall remember this ask?? yeah i had to write something for it bc it was so fuvkin good. this is a ‘what if’ continuation of my enough series. a side fic of sorts, but can be read standalone. leon pov here.

I. INCUBATION

You haven’t slept in four days and you’re going fucking crazy. Your headache won’t leave. The anger is unmanageable. Shadows follow you from the corner of every room. Mixing NyQuil and alcohol didn't even phase you. 

You haven’t slept in four days, and Leon wears his concern like battle scars. You didn’t act this way before he left, and both of you know it.

You chalk it up to stress. His stupid fucking job. Leaving you alone for weeks at a time. The worry that might have literally feasted on your brain.

Things were… bad before. You promised him you could cope with it, but sharing a man with his work, a continuous nail-in-the-coffin that he loves it more than you—there’s no compromise. There used to be, but as the months passed, he grew tired of your demands.

I’m too busy to do everything you need me to. That’s what he told you.

Shortly after, all of this started. The strife. The headaches.

You will love him, always, endlessly, even after your last breath. But you’re so angry. He is, too. Feeds off your energy, feeds into it. Hell on the job, hell at home. 

You can’t do it anymore.

The night’s been wasted with you curled up beside the toilet. Trying to salvage whatever scraps of your relationship still linger—a home-cooked dinner date. You’ve thrown up for hours, nothing in your stomach but water and red wine. The fancy brand that tastes like shit but you drink anyway. Special occasions. A failing relationship.

He’s kind enough to sit next to you, back resting against the bathtub, a cup of water in hand to coat your stomach with something lest it be eaten by acid.

“We’re fighting like teenagers,” he says, wrung dry by bone-deep exhaustion. Rests a hand on your knee, sore from the hard tile.

“I know,” you croak, throat sliced with razor wire, a burning pain that prevents you from swallowing.

Another gag racks your body, sends you heaving against the toilet, and a hand soothes down your spine, back and forth between each shoulder blade. Even now, despite everything, his touch brings you comfort. He’s still here.

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better.”

You turn your head, enough to spot him from the corner of your eye. “I don’t need you to try, Leon. That’s not good enough anymore.”

“Then I will. I’ll do better.”

You take a deep breath. The pain in your chest burns like hot coals. A branding iron. “Swear to me.”

He looks at you, with your blood-shot eyes and spit-slick chin and sweaty face, and he refuses to shy away. Still loves you despite everything. “I swear.”

II. PRODROME

The headaches escalate to migraines. Jackhammer pain, brain-spewing pressure. The light burns. Your short-term memory is shot.

You might be dying—a potentiality that you welcome.

He frets over you like a mother hen. Worry turns to fear—something about the possibility of malignancy, letting it go too long, no need to suffer. But you suffered with migraines as a child, and you know that this will pass. 

For the first time since you’ve known him, he declines work calls. Every day for two weeks. Trying, he said. Doing better. 

“Leon, they’ll fire you.”

He joins you in bed, massages a hand over the expanse of your back. “Trust me, they won’t.” A soft smile, like the Leon you remember. Yours. “I’m too valuable.”

“I’m well aware.”

He sighs. “Listen, I’m sorry. I’ve been shitty lately, I know. But—“

“When is it gonna be me?”

“I’m choosing you now.”

“It never lasts.”

His jaw tightens beneath the skin, an effort to bite back irritation. “You knew what it would be long before we got together. It’s never bothered you this bad.”

You know. You don’t understand it either, this thought loop you’ve taken to. Can’t help that it eats away at you, latches on like a diseased tick. All you can think about is the regret, and how unloved you feel, and then the anger sets in. The headaches shorten an already-short fuse. The nausea. It’s not fair to him—some part of your brain can still ration, see reason, understand that you’re being an asshole.

Still. Still, the thoughts refuse to leave you. 

III. ILLNESS

You need to leave. Go somewhere. Somewhere impossibly dark. The darkness might help. The light burns. Hurts. Blinds you.

Curtains are tugged to a close, midnight bathes every room of the house. Better. No more thumping in your brain. 

A few days later, the itching starts. Itching at your ears, nose, eyes. Allergies. The seasons change. That’s what they do. They change and people get sick and then those people get better.

Except you aren’t getting better. Worse, in fact. Every morning when you wake up, worse and worse and worse, and you think you’re dying. Rotting from the inside. 

Leon calls. After the fourth ring, you smash the fucking phone to bits. He wants to see you, wants to talk to you, he can come home. God, home. Home. This isn’t your home. Never was. You should’ve known. Should’ve known. 

He never wanted you—wanted someone dumb enough to warm his bed, to keep his loneliness at bay. Loyalty, unwavering reverence. Who else would it have been?

He never loved you, and his precious sheets are stained red, and the nosebleeds are the worst part of this. You’re too sick to wash them every morning, and you wake to buckets of blood. An obscene amount. You should’ve been dead two weeks ago.

He comes home one day. Not sure which one, nor what month it is anymore. But he comes home, and the sight of you leaves him slamming the front door shut. Fear consumes him, pales his face, widens his eyes. You know why. All your sleep shirts have been stained, and you appear to have just lost a knife fight. No knife, though. Just the blood. Always blood. That’s all your life consists of now. Blood and pain.

“Nosebleeds,” you say. A simple answer for an unspoken question.

He breaks apart before you. Stumbles over to the couch to brace himself when his knees threaten to buckle. “A fucking nosebleed. Have you looked at yourself?”

“I’m fine, Leon.”

“You’re not fucking fine!”

Something snaps within you. Something bitter and acrid-tasting. Something wretched and vile and animalistic.

You shove away from the dining table, knock it half a foot across the room until it thumps hard against the wall. A sweltering rage. You witness your body, the things you say, the movements you make, but this. No, god no, no—no, this isn’t you. Nausea brews heady inside your gut, makes you stumble on your path over to him. 

“You have no right to walk in here after weeks of being gone—you knew, you knew I was sick, and you left anyway! And you wanna raise your voice at me? Go fuck yourself!”

You want to hurt him, snap his neck, kill him dead. But you would never. You swear, you would never. The thought of it—god, you’re gonna be sick. Never him, your love, your Leon. You suffered so long for him, to be what he needed, and you have what you want, what you’ve needed, and you wish to throw it all away. To commit the unthinkable.

He rises from the couch, stone-faced and tense. Adjusts his stance, the line of his shoulders, a recall of muscle memory, and you fucking despise yourself. He prepares a defense against you. You. You would never ever hurt him. 

The nausea boils over, and you vomit at his feet, thick black sludge that congeals and bubbles and grows undulating spikes and it’s. It’s not vomit at all. Alive. Once inside you, now not.

You right yourself with a sputtering breath. Choke on a cough. “I feel better now,” you say, words slurring, every ounce of your being drained of energy. Drained of life. It seeps from your pores, evaporates somewhere between your body and his, and he catches you with a muscled arm. Has always been here as a comfort, a kept promise—except when he isn’t.

You aren’t angry anymore. He hugs you, cradles you tight against him, and you aren’t angry anymore.

You pretend not to hear the chest-wracking cries or feel tears wet your shirt.

You feel better now.

IV. INCLINE

Leon puts you in prison. A prison with headache-inducing walls, pristine and white and reflective of the fluorescents overhead. It burns. Eyes, skin, stomach. A hunger festers. Hunger for violence, for viscera, for the rip of meat between your teeth. You need a steak still dripping with blood. Something to cut your canines on.

They’ve run tests all day, maybe two. Bloodwork, full-body scans, x-rays, endoscopies, biopsies. They cleaned you up, put you in a hospital gown and loose pants. Keep you quarantined, locked away when they aren’t guinea-pigging you. Sedated every two hours. 

On the other side of the glass, Leon stands, talking to a dark-haired woman you don’t recognize. He looks good enough to eat but still cries, silent tears that he sneaks to wipe away because he thinks you don’t notice. But you do. You just don’t get it.

He moves toward the door holding you captive, and the woman reaches out a hand. Says something loud, frantic, muffled through the glass. The door slides open and he steps inside. 

You love him. And because you love him, you need to consume him. A deep craving that twists your stomach into blood-drained knots.

He’s sullen when he comes to you. Reminds you of the late nights at your shitty apartment, when you still hid your affections, when you thought that your love would never be enough.

Turns out it wasn’t.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve known—“ he clears his throat when his voice breaks, curls shaking fingers over his own knuckles. “I should’ve known something was wrong.”

“Why am I here, Leon?”

“I have a friend of a friend. Rebecca.” He nods to the woman on the other side of the glass, face twisted up in concern. Worry. “She’s trying to help you get better.”

“Then why does it sound like you’re preparing a funeral?”

He looks at you a long moment, lips curled deep into a frown. “I gotta tell you something, and I need you to be quiet until I’m finished. Okay?”

He doesn’t touch you. Crouches a foot away, body half-turned toward the door. He’s—god, he’s afraid of you. That hurts more than the month of grave-ready illness. More than the years of craving the reciprocation of his love. More than anything ever in your entire life.

He’s afraid of you. 

“Okay,” you say, empty in the chest. Hollow-boned, wrought by exhaustion and pain and stomach-wrenching famine.

“My job. Why I’m gone all the time. I help the government fight things that shouldn’t exist.” He sucks in a breath. A preparation. “There’s a corporation that turns people into monsters—“ you cough out an incredulous laugh, and he shakes his head. “I know how this sounds, but I need you to listen.”

“Are you sure you shouldn’t be in here with me?”

He raises his voice, fights a desperation that seeks to consume him. “Raccoon City. I told you that the government destroyed it, and that was the reason. The whole city was overrun by people who wouldn’t stay dead.”

You gape at him. Blink through the confusion. “I’m fucking hallucinating. Or you’re playing a shitty prank on me.”

“I wouldn’t lie about this. You know me.”

You heave a shrug. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

He rises then, waves to Rebecca through the glass, and she walks through the door a moment later holding a thick file. 

“We’ve run a dozen tests, and none of them match the viruses in our system, despite the similarity in symptoms. But,” she hands Leon the file who hands it to you, and you open it to find paperwork and test results that register as nonsensical markings on a page, “it’s clear that something is wreaking havoc on your body. I suspect that whatever this is started in your stomach given the extent of the damage. It would explain the vomiting.”

“Could it be a parasite?” Leon asks.

Your eyes scan the papers as you flip through them, unseeing, faraway, empty-minded.

Doesn’t make sense. Any of it. Can’t be. Monsters? People who won’t die?

“That’s a plausible hypothesis, given the slow nature of symptoms, but viruses can have long incubation periods, too.” She says your name and you look up to her, the outline of her form haloed by bright light. An angel. An angel trying to save your life. “Have you eaten anything unusual recently? Maybe a stranger gave you food? Something dropped on the floor? Anything you can think of.”

You rewind back to the last few months. Anything unusual. Abnormal. Weird.

Huh. The visitor.

“Someone brought a bottle of wine while Leon was gone. Two months back. Said he was a friend, that I should drink it so it doesn’t go to waste.”

“Did it smell or taste funny?”

You shake your head. Look up at her. Stare a moment. “I’m rotting. Dying. I’m dying, aren’t I?”

Her and Leon share a look, and you know. She doesn’t have to say anything. Neither does he.

He blames himself. It’s written clear on his face. The almost-decade of rending grief that hollows out his eyes. He won’t look at you. Maybe he can’t.

“Will I be like the people from Raccoon City?”

She inhales a deep breath, resigned. “It’s a likely possibility.”

“Rebecca.”

“I’m telling the truth, Leon. Lying will do more harm than good right now.”

You don’t care about their conversation. Too busy dissecting the state of your hands. A thumbnail peeling away, the skin of your knuckles grated off. Spoiling much like an apple, or a banana. It doesn’t hurt anymore—Rebecca and her team have pumped you full of pain medication. A small mercy.

Which is why you begin to work on your nails. Manage to discard three of them before Leon snaps your name and orders you to stop. But you need to destroy something, see the blood—better you than anybody else.

V. DEATH

So hungry, starving, need to eat—to mend flesh from bone. The meat tastes so good, tender and chewy between your teeth.

Someone screams. Maybe it’s the nurse you feast on. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s someone else.

It doesn’t matter. The steak drips wet, fresh, still warm as you rip a chunk free from tendon and bone and nerve.

The tang of iron coats your palette, sleuces from your mouth, down your chin, onto the hospital gown. So good. So, so good.

You swallow and pull away, sated. For now. Tug the body on its side when people approach the glass. Mine. You plan on saving him for later. 

Leon pushes through the crowd, witnesses you changed. Blood-soaked, starving, brutish. The rot of your flesh, dissolved halfway to bone. 

You can’t stop it. Can’t look away from him, and what dredges of humanity you still possess cry out to him: I’m so scared. Please help me. I miss you. Things weren’t supposed to be this way. Don’t look at me. 

Don’t look at me. 

Don't look at me!

The soldiers force him away from the window, and you wail for him, and he fights against their hold. Can’t end things like this. Have to see him again. It hurts. It hurts. So hungry, starving, need to feast—

Your teeth sink into the cooling corpse, rip and tear, and silence consumes your thoughts. Nothing but hunger, satiation. Need to feed, crave to gorge yourself on whatever lay before you until your stomach bursts, and then you’ll eat some more. 

The door to your prison opens. Footsteps thud into the room. Things are said, but you don’t hear them. You can’t. So hungry. So hungry. 

Then blackhole nothingness.

[kiraske]

Complicated (Tomura Shigaraki x Reader)

𝗔/𝗡: 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘀𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝘆𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗲, 𝘀𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗻𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗮𝗹 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗴𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗸𝗶'𝘀 𝘄𝗲𝗶𝗿𝗱 𝗮𝘀𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗼𝗿 𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀. 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗺𝗲, 𝘁𝗼 𝘆'𝗮𝗹𝗹 <𝟯

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?

It’s complicated. 

You don’t like using that word. You think it’s cliche. Overused. Stupid even. But when you pull off the rose-tinted glasses and take off the headphones, you truly get to witness things for they truly are. The messy room that you’ve learned to call your home is attached to a bar. Yet it doesn’t smell like cheap booze or expensive liquor. It’s not filled with warm, pub lights or neon club signs. Only the light from an old TV displaying a game you just barely enjoy fills your view. The only thing at the end of the tunnel. The only sun in your world. The only star in your sky.

It’s complicated not because this is how you live. It’s complicated because this is how you choose to live. Contently.

Choose is a strong word for this scenario, but you’ve learned not to be afraid to use words that might hurt your feelings. Because there are people in this unfair world that exist that are more important than your feelings. More dangerous than them too. And the truth of the matter is that he is one of them. Another truth is that he gets what he wants. By power. By influence. By force. An outstretched hand. A barked order. Whatever, whenever. He can throw a hissy fit. He can formulate a plan. It can happen immediately. It can be long and slow. It can be anything. 

But the truth of the matter is that he gets what he wants. Almost, almost always. But that’s not important- because that almost applies to others things. Other people. Things that are more dangerous. Things that are more powerful. Than you.

And another truth is that what he wanted- what he still wants- is you. For what reasons, you’re still not entirely sure. You were never told the full story. Through what methods, you don’t entirely know. You were never told the full truth. But you do know one thing. One little thing that no one can ever take from you. It’s that even if you’re not here entirely by choice…

“Great job on that last part. You’re getting a lot better at this.”

…you don’t know if you could ever leave by choice. Not now.

“Thanks, Tomu.”

And maybe not even ever.

You take a quick second to turn your head and flick your gaze back to the man sitting behind you. Sometimes, you can’t even believe it’s real. Sometimes, you can’t even believe it’s true. Like if you turn to see him this time- he won’t be here. You’ll be alone in your own room. In your own place. Far, far away from this. 

But sure enough, your eyes meet a pair of red eyes for just a nanosecond. Then all too soon, he’s turning his gaze back onto the screen- ready to give you more directions if need be. Hidden behind a messy of pale hair once more. You try not to show your slight disappointment. The words should have been enough for you. Those rare, rare words of praise should have been more than enough. But it wasn’t. You’ve grown careless. Sloppy even. Things have only been and will always be complicated. Yet it’s in your best interest not to start another mess. One that might eventually be too big for you to clean up. 

However, things don’t always work out the way you hoped they would. You know that lesson but heart, but it still comes as a surprise whenever you have a chance to relive and relearn them all again. For a split second, he catches your expression. Not the only that instantly looks at him for approval. But the one that looks sad when you find that you didn’t receive all that you wanted. And for you, that’s a dangerous game. And for him? That’s a powerful target.

So you tear your gaze away from his face, and you face the TV screen once more. Your hands stiffen around the console game controller, and you go back to playing. Your fingers are gliding to buttons with so much more ease. You’re not quite on his level. But you’re far better than you originally were when you were first taken to his room and handed a controller. Now you’re at the point where he’s no longer teaching about every little move you make and every monster you’ll face. You’re being told shortcuts. Cheat codes to get past the parts he finds annoying. Hints on how to beat puzzles. Sympathy when you lose a boss fight that even he thinks is bullshit. On top of it all- you get praise. 

The truth of the matter is that he gets what he wants. Another truth is that he doesn’t always give other people what you want. That’s what makes you so nervous. That’s what has you walking around on eggshells. That’s what makes things so complicated. What he wants- it’s still you. You know that based on the fact that you’re still here- perched out in his room, wearing his hoodie and a pair of his shorts despite the fact that he had gotten you your own wardrobe a long, long time ago. But that’s where things get weird. 

 Does he want you to tolerate him? Does he want you to enjoy doing things like this with him? Sure he’ll throw an anime on while you’re in the same room. Sure he’ll have moments like this where he’ll pass you the game, and he’ll want you to play. And sure you can sometimes wander around the bar all you want. Request things you like. Ask for things you need. But what’s the goal? To like him? To love him? Does he want you to rely on him and him alone? Does he want a friend? An equal? A pet? A plaything? And even then…

Where does it begin? Where does it end? What does he want you for? What does he want you to do? What will he kill you for?

You’re not sure. You’re not sure you even want to be sure. But you’ve learned not to be afraid to use words that might hurt your feelings. You call it complicated in your head because that’s all you can do. You tell yourself to avoid more complications because that’s all you need to do. And you fix your gaze on the screen, and you keep playing because it’s not complicated anymore, and that’s all you have left to do. Just keep playing. And playing. And playing. And playing. And-

And you stop. Pausing the game in one single frame.

You stop because his body had just moved closer to yours. You stop because you feel the hood of your hoodie being adjusted to expose your skin. You stop because you feel him hunting you- preying on you from behind. Getting closer and closer to the point you can feel a warm breath against your body. Getting closer and closer to the point you’re sure that this will be it. Getting closer and closer to the point he surrounds you completely- with long, lengthy limbs and dangerous, dangerous hands that you just can’t see. But can imagine, all the same. 

But then something happens. Something that isn’t your death. Something that isn’t your destruction. Something that isn’t your complete and utter decay. Rather it’s a new feeling. A feeling you’re scared of. A new feeling you crave.

A new feeling that is him having you sit snuggly between his legs. While long arms wrap around your torso. Squeezing you tightly. While lips make contact with the skin on the back of your neck. Kissing you sweetly. As if he were a loving and adoring boyfriend, and not your kidnapper and your warden all wrapped in one.

As if you were his loving and adoring partner, and not his victim and his prisoner all wrapped in one.

“Keep playing.” Shigaraki Tomura murmurs encouragingly into your skin in between all too-quiet kisses. This new position of his keeps you rooted in place. It keeps you rooted in your mind- stuck between a rock and a boulder of all places. His grip and his touch- it’s that of a lover’s. Romantic and warm. His mind and his person- it’s that of a madman. Calculated and exact. And oh, so complicated. ”Why did you stop?”

Why did you stop?

You know the answer to this question. You know it, and it pains you to admit it. The answer. The truth. But you’ve learned not to be afraid to use words that might hurt your feelings. There are things that are more powerful than your feelings. Things that are more dangerous. So you go ahead. And you do it. You use those words you know might hurt, and you look inside yourself. You don’t run. You don’t hide. You tell yourself the truth:

You stopped because deep down, this is exactly what you wanted. 

And that’s what makes things so complicated. 

And then, you unpause. You don’t respond out loud. He doesn’t need you to. Instead, you keep playing. And he keeps holding you. And you keep going. And he keeps kissing you. And it’s complicated. 

So, so complicated.

But you don’t think you could ever live in a world with him where it wouldn’t be.

[kiraske]

What people do to Tomura is a waste.

Character of all time and such a tiny part of the fandom recognizes it. Honestly put that man in something else that's not a teenage heroes school shonen and watch him shine.

[kiraske]

For the people who like Twigaraki Tomura

I do too tbh

[kiraske]

Yeah he did lmao!!!

[kiraske]

He’s so fine y’all.

[kiraske]

The Potential of You and Me [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Title: The Potential of You and Me [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Synopsis: You have a stalker. And he's tired of waiting for you.  Commissioned piece.

Word Count: 5100ish

notes: yandere, stalking, threats, noncon oral sex, humiliation and degradation

Every box packed is sealed with a mixture of bitterness and relief, all stacked high in increasingly precarious towers; filling the dark corners of your longstanding home with cardboard and hastily made tape labels that you hope won’t peel off in the moving truck. 

It makes you sick to see them. It makes you scared. It makes you sad. 

It might be different, if you were leaving under different circumstances. If you’d gotten a job in a new city and you were starting over with a fresh coat of paint, or something like that. Something you could spin into sweetness and adventure. 

If only.

If only you weren’t moving because you had a stalker and this was the only palatable option left. The police couldn’t do anything--there was no tangible evidence, no matter how many times you insisted things were missing. 

It turns out that “I can feel someone’s eyes on me” and a letter detailing how much they loved you and how good you were going to feel on the inside was not, in the eyes of the authorities, enough to really do anything. Change your locks, they said. You did. Switch up your routine, they said.  You did.

It didn’t matter. Things kept going missing. You kept feeling watched. You came home and found your bedroom window open and another letter on your pillow that you tossed out without reading. 

It wasn’t going to stop, with or without the advice of the police. And you couldn’t do anything to protect yourself, not on your own. You didn’t even have a damn quirk. 

So what can you do? You can pack up your life and find a cheap apartment in another city, where you don’t know anyone, where you don’t have a job, where you’ll be in a place half this size and nowhere near as nice.

You can throw away everything you’ve ever known and pretend that things are going to be fine. 

This is what you’ve been reduced to--but it’s this or your life, isn’t it? Your sanity? You don’t know how much more you can take or how long it will be before your stalker takes a step beyond stealing your underwear or sending you notes. 

What if your stalker decides to go further than leaving letters and taking panties? What if he decides to hurt you--or kill you? You were no stranger to the nightly news, to stories of women found killed and dismembered by men found to be stalking them. 

You had a life to live. Even if you have to live it somewhere else, if you want to be safe. 

You slap another label on a box filled with books (and God, you had too many books, didn’t you? But you couldn’t bear to part with them, stalker be damned) and wiped a trickle of sweat beading on the back of your neck. This would have to do for tonight. The moving truck was coming in 2 days, and you’d been living on little sleep, tons of coffee, and far too much takeout.

You needed a break. Just a little one. Just some sleep, to feel refreshed, before you spend another whole day packing and shoveling food someone else made into your mouth as quickly as you could before you went back to it.

You’re in the bathroom--still not packed, but you’d been putting it off for the end--when you hear the noise.

Something small. A creak. A noise that you would have brushed off a few months ago as nothing. 

But now it sends a twist straight into your gut. You freeze, turn off the sink, and spit foamy toothpaste carelessly into the basin. Your fingers shake and your toothbrush clatters into the sink, too loud, too overt. Fuck.

Your hands clench the end of the counter and you strain sideways, forcing yourself to listen.

Nothing… nothing. Maybe you are being paranoid. Maybe it’s best that you’re moving away, if even the slightest noise had you on edge--

But, oh. 

Oh.

You hear it again.

A creak--but it’s not just a creak, is it? 

It’s a step.

Down the hall. Something is in the hallway. No, not something, because something wouldn’t be wearing shoes that make an unmistakable sound when connecting with the floorboards.

Someone is in the hall. 

Someone is coming for you.

Your body seems to move on autopilot, quick, numb. 

One step, two step. 

You hear the hallway closet door opening. Nothing inside but boxes. 

Another step, and another. 

The guest room door opens. More boxes, and piles of stuff you planned to take to the donation center tomorrow. 

Step, step. Step. 

The hallway isn’t long enough, oh God, how you wish it was longer.

Because all too soon, the steps stop at your bedroom door and there’s an awful scratching sound, like someone is dragging fingernails down the wood. 

The terrible reality of that sound makes your body jolt back to life. You’re just standing there! You stupid, stupid moron. You have to do something. 

Your buzzing mind races, what are you supposed to do? Call the police! But your phone is on your bed, sitting idly on top of the bare mattress where you left it earlier. There’s not enough time. It’s too far away. You’ll get caught, mid-lunge, and your trembling fingers will probably drop the phone anyway.

So you, legs tingling with fear that seems to both paralyze and push you, rush into your doorless closet and stand inside next to the open doorway. 

You’ve already packed your closet up, so there’s nothing to hide behind, no layers of clothing to shield you. Only the darkness of the bedroom that you hope is enough to hide you. 

The door opens with a foreboding creaking that makes your chest hurt. Slow and methodical, like whoever it is is fucking with you on purpose.

You cover your mouth and nose and will yourself not to breathe. 

Someone steps into the room and you curse yourself for not turning off the bathroom light. But the closet should still be dark enough, right? You pray for that, mindlessly.

Whoever it is--it’s a man, you realize, with lanky silver hair, but you can’t see his face--glances toward the bathroom. 

He takes a step, then pauses.

Don’t come to the closet. Don’t come to the closet. Don’t come to the closet. It’s a mantra, a prayer, rushing through your brain as you will him to inspect the bathroom. 

Maybe someone up there likes you, because he does take slow steps toward the bathroom and you wait until he’s in the threshold (where he’ll no doubt see the room is empty) before you bolt from the closet, arm slapping carelessly against the door frame (it hurts) before you rush through the doorway of your room and into the hallway.

Everything is dark and dim. You were going to bed, now you’re running for your life. 

You register only sounds and vague physical feelings that puncture through the veil of your terror. The slap of your bare feet against the floor. The sound of the clock in the kitchen. The scratch against your elbow from one of the cardboard boxes as you run towards the front door, a sharp corner digging into your skin. 

And then you hear the slow, calm steps that come from behind you, almost matching the ticking of the kitchen clock in their lack of urgency.

Your fingers pull on the doorknob and nothing happens. Your palm grips it, twisting this way and that, turning the lock open and shut and open and shut. But it doesn’t open, no matter what you do, what you turn. A soft, helpless sound pushes its way out of your throat.

And then you look up and see something jammed into the top of the doorway, like it’s been stuck on there. A barrier? A lock? You have to get it off, and you go to stand on your tiptoes when a voice behind you sends every nerve in your skin tingling.

“You’re not very good at this, are you?”

Your bowels clench and your hands shake as they slap against the door and you turn your body around to face the man who broke into your home.

The light is dim, lit only by some streetlights streaming through the window and the tiny light above your stove in the kitchen. His hair is the easiest thing to see about him, light colored. His clothing is dark. His face is hidden in shadows.

“Please don’t hurt me,” you whisper, keeping your back pressed against the door. If only you had a quirk that would let you melt through walls or blast open locks or do something, anything, to help yourself.

The man tilts his head, and there’s a dim recollection in your mind at the gesture. It’s like something out of a movie. Or a video game. Is this a game to him? Some twisted entertainment? 

“No?” His voice has something of a gravel to it, like he needs to clear his throat. But there’s a smoothness underneath it all, too--a teasing lilt that worries you to the core. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“I--” You lick your lips, and your shoulders shake like you’ve been left in the cold for too long. “I don’t want to die.”

“Oh,” he says, and there’s a snicker at the edge of his voice that promises to cross over should you amuse him too much. “Of course you don’t.”

Your hand stupidly reaches behind you and pulls at the door again. All it does is make a shifting sound as it slips uselessly through your fingers. You aren’t going anywhere. At least not through the front door. But the windows… 

You stand up straighter, trying to center yourself, trying to calm down.

“What… what do you want? I-I have some money, but not much. I’m moving, so--”

He scoffs. You can’t see his expression, exactly, but you get the impression that he’s narrowed his eyes. That he’s annoyed with your suggestion for some reason  you can’t fathom. 

“I don’t want your money.”

It’s a stupid question to ask, but you ask it anyway.

“Then…what do you want?”

He sighs, and that snicker is there, all dark and teasing. It makes your chest hurt more. And then you watch, entranced, as he reaches into his pocket and pulls something out.  A handkerchief? Or a piece of lace? It’s light blue and colorful and--

Fucking hell. 

It’s a pair of your underwear. A cute pair you’d picked out on a whim last year. And… he’s holding it in his hands, fingers drumming in the air, almost toying with the fabric as you stare. This pair went missing, didn’t it? Then how--

“I came to give this back. Aren’t I generous?”

“Give it… back?” The words come out in quiet disbelief and everything clicks in your head, like a lock snapping shut on something you should have realized long ago.

He’s holding a pair of your underwear.

He’s broken into your home. 

He’s your stalker.

“You’re--my…” You can’t bring yourself to bring the word into reality. “And you’ve been…” Your back presses harder against the door, as if you might just conjure up that wall-busting quirk through sheer will alone. 

“Please leave!” You’re almost shocked at how high and loud your voice is, despite the way your body trembles. You lick your dry lips again, and words come tumbling out. Something, anything, to make him go away. “I’ve already called the police. So-so they’re on their way and if you don’t leave, they’ll--”

“Don’t lie.” 

Your mouth stops mid-ramble. 

“I’m… I’m not lying. I really did, I--”

His hand dips into his other pocket and he pulls out your phone, shaking it slightly at you, like presenting evidence of misbehavior to a wayward child. One of his fingers is sticking out to the side. It’s strange, but--

“Unlock it,” he says, holding the screen out flat and there’s no room for argument in his voice. Nor are you stupid enough to try to grab the phone from him. You place a shaking finger on top, and the screen lights up, revealing your latest background--some silly photo your friend sent you a few months ago. 

He begins to run his thumb down your screen, until you see that he’s bringing up your recent calls. 

“Moving company… takeout…” He smiles, but in the darkness, it looks more like a sneer. “No police.” 

You swallow, throat dry. He splays his fingers out suddenly, keeping his thumb wrapped around the screen. He places one finger down. Two fingers. Three, four, five.

And your phone crumbles to dust.

Your bowels clench hard, and you push back against the door.

“Please,” you whisper, throat dry, mouth trembling.

He takes a step closer. You can look at nothing but his fingers. Even in the dimness, you can see a fine layer of dust on them.  Your phone. Your phone, there and gone, nothing but ashes. And now he’s taking a step closer to you, reaching out with his hand. 

You make a sound, something soft and primal in what you believe are your last moments, but instead of agonizing pain and nothingness, you feel only a single finger on  your cheek. You blink, and the tears held back by your imminent death fall easily. His finger makes a lazy swipe up your cheek, catching the tear.

“I like that. Keep saying that, okay?”

“Please?” There’s disbelief in your voice, yes, but hope, too. Hope that you can get out of this alive.

He makes a low sound, like a hum. 

“Please… don’t hurt me.” 

He pulls his finger away and looks at you. Now that he’s closer, you can see a bit more of his features. Or at least, you can make out the smile he gives you. It’s not a comforting smile.

“I won’t hurt you, if you’re good. Now…” He takes a step backward. “Turn around for me. Face the door.”

You don’t want to. More than anything, you don’t want to listen to him. But you have to, at least for right now, if you want to live. So you force your stiff, leaden muscles to work and face the traitorous door that won’t open for you anymore.

“Good,” he says, with a note of something like pleasantness. “Now stay nice and still while I tie your wrists.” 

You do wait. You wait until you hear him unzipping the bag slung around his shoulders, and then you bolt on tingling muscles, pounding down the hallway and whipping back into your bedroom. You can’t call the police, but you sure as shit can jump from your bedroom window.

Your thighs are up against the bottom of your bed--you just have to climb on and get over your headboard to the window behind it, so close, so close--when you feel hands on your back, pressure, and all of the air goes out of your lungs as something big and heavy tackles you and pins you to the bed.

Your mouth opens, and you’ve finally gotten the idea to scream--only for four fingers to slap over your mouth in an instant. There’s dust on them. Like bitter salt. 

“Quiet.” The word is practically hissed into your ear, and all thoughts of making a sound cease. But you don’t give in, not yet, because you’ve read your true crime books and watched your horror movies, and you know what happens to people who get pinned to beds by stalkers who break into their homes. It can’t happen to you. It can’t. 

He grips your shoulders with one hand and flips you onto your back. He slowly releases the hand over your mouth, because you’re smart enough to stay quiet, aren’t you? Especially when those fingers could come down (one, two, three, four, five) and kill you in an instant.

You’re quiet. But you won’t give in without some fight. You move to sit up, free hands pushing against his check--do you really think you’re stronger?--and his breath hitches above you as he grips your wrists and pushes forward, pinning you to the bed.

Your teeth clack together when your head hits the mattress, and against your better judgment, you continue to buck and squirm, pulling at the wrists keeping you on the bed. He’s too strong. You don’t even make it an inch. And the sheer helplessness of it all turns to worms in your stomach, cold and slithering. 

But you don’t stop trying, and your breath comes in heaves as soft, timid sounds of daydreamed escape push past your lips. If you could just get a wrist free. If you could just get a leg free. If you could just get him off you.

Thoughts come and go without staying concrete. Maybe a hero was walking by your bedroom window just now and he heard the tousling and he’s going to break the window and save you. Maybe the police decided to do something and send a patrol car to your home. Like gray daydreams, these fuzzy hopes of rescue.

Instead, there is a man above you, pinning you down with nothing but his strength and if he wanted to, he could turn you to dust for being too difficult. 

But you don’t turn to dust. Instead he’s looking down at you, leaning forward so his hair tickles your face. You can make out his features now, tired, lined, crazed. He scares you in a way you can’t articulate. There’s something deeply, terribly sad and--wrong--about him.

“I should punish you a little.” His words feel sour, breathed onto your face. “But… I can’t stay mad at you…” He leans forward until his nose is absurdly pressed against your cheek, nuzzling your skin, even as you turn your head in an attempt to lessen the contact. “Not when I’m finally ready to take you home.”

The word is a vice, and it’s like all the strength gets sapped out of you at once. 

“Home?” 

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he tugs at your wrists until they’re resting on top of your stomach, and he takes one hand and holds both of your wrists firm. 

“Don’t be stupid.”

You aren’t. Your skin feels numb from fear, but you keep your wrists still as he leans backward and opens the bag hanging from his shoulders. He pulls out some restraints made from some type of cloth, and wraps them around your wrists one after the other. There’s a center strap in the middle of them, which he yanks high, pulling at your arms, until they’re above your head. The headboard--he’s tied the strap to the headboard.

"There. Nice and snug." He seems pleased, and that scares you more than any of his threats or the dust still clinging to his fingertips. You don’t want him to sound so pleased, not when you’re here, in the dark, tied to your bed.

Your words taste bitter as you force them out of your drying mouth. 

“What are you going to do?” You want to know. You don’t want to know. You want it over with--you don't want him to start. You flex your fingers, but your bound wrists aren’t going anywhere. 

He leans forward, and there’s something sickly sweet on his face. A grin--a grin that is not very nice at all. 

“What am I going to do?” he says, voice higher, frightened. Mimicking your fear. His hand reaches for your face and you flinch, but all he does is trail two fingers on your cheek, winding down until they rest on your lips.

“Open up.”

You do, because what other choice do you have? In an instant he shoves the fingers inside, and you gag on dust and salty skin. He pushes them too forward and you retch.

“Oops.” He giggles. It’s a breathy sound, not at all sweet. “Lick them, okay?” 

Your eyes widen. You want to ask him why, but the thought of making any muffled sound around his fingers makes you sicker than the grittiness currently in your mouth.

“It’s for your own good,” he says, with an almost teasing lilt to his voice. “I promise.”

You don’t trust any of his promises. But you do trust the taste of the dust in your mouth, a forewarning of what might happen to you if you don’t listen.

Slowly, you force the muscle of your tongue to start licking his fingers. It’s a short motion--you want as little contact with his fingers as possible. You have to fight back that way, at least, don’t you? Even if it makes him mad.

But it doesn’t make him mad. He coos, if anything. “Oh, you’re like a kitten.” The words are gross and stick inside your chest, and you can’t ignore the tears threatening to spill onto your cheeks. But you keep licking.

Done, or maybe just bored, he pulls them out and wipes an excess line of connecting drool onto your cheek. “Good enough.”

For what?

Without warning, he reaches lower and yanks down your pajama bottoms. You can hear the elastic rip from the force, and the soft fabric bunches up around your knees. 

Whatever part of you that had resolved to be good and quiet dissolves in primal fear, and you shriek--perhaps there’s words in there (Don’t, please, oh--)--but they die the instant he holds up his hands, and is there where you die, too? 

But he doesn’t bring his hand down. 

Instead, he digs down into his pockets and you only have the briefest moment to register that he’s holding the panties from earlier, the ones he stole from this very bedroom, before they’re shoved into your mouth. The fabric tastes stale and there’s brief pulses of horror (what was he doing with them all this time?) before you try to push at all the bunched up fabric with your tongue, desperate to get it out. 

He regards you with a smile, and there’s something so low in it, degrading and dark. 

“Keep them in there. Unless you want the neighbors to hear?” Then he pats your cheek with a few fingers. “If you spit them out, I’ll just gag you with something bigger.”

You don’t want to know what that would be. What remains of your whimpers are muffled around your underwear as he scoots backward and grips your thighs. He pulls them apart without a word and your legs tremble. You could kick, couldn’t you? You could fight and kick and even if your hands are tied, you could.

But you don’t want him to hurt you. You don’t want to die. You want this to be over with. You want him to do what he’s going to do and leave and you’ll call the moving company in the morning and ask if they can pick up your things today. Or you’ll run out the door with only your essentials, and a favorite book or two, a memento--your mom’s necklace, a trinket or two--and… and things will turn out all right.

They have to.

So all you do is keep up your pitiful little whimpers as he rips your underwear off and tosses the destroyed garment on the floor. The coolness from the exposure makes you tremble. Or maybe that’s the fear, and the realization that he’s going to touch you.

He hooks one arm under your thigh and keeps it pulled to the side, giving him easier access to the .

You feel them, then. His fingers. Warm and a bit gritty. Touching you, stroking you, playing with you carelessly like someone who is happy to explore something for the first time. There’s no real consistency to the way he touches you. He pulls apart your pussy lips and prods inside. You jump. He runs his fingers up and down the middle of your slit. 

It doesn’t feel good. But it doesn’t hurt (that’s something) and maybe he won’t hurt you, after all? Not that you want it, not that you would rather be anywhere else right now (I won’t complain about my new city, you think, not the rent or the public transportation or the new neighbors. I’ll be so good and so grateful if this is over with quickly and he leaves.)

And then his finger is touching gently at your clit. It’s too sudden. Your hips jerk and a sound is stifled by your gag. He watches you and pulls his finger back a bit, instead touching around your clit, ghosting it, a much more tolerable (and sickening) feeling. He’s gentle, almost, and it hurts to contrast it with everything else. 

You think about how many of your personal things have gone missing. The letters he’s left you flash in your mind. He can’t stop thinking about you. He wants to know you. He-needs-you-he-wants-you-he-will-have-you. And then… then you think about your phone crumbling to dust and what would it look like, if he did that to your skin?

You don’t want this. This can’t be happening. But it is, and there’s no way to escape the reality of the situation with his body so close to yours--with your hands tied firmly to the headboard. 

You feel the trail of slick on his fingers before you see it, just as he pulls his fingers away. It’s a bodily reaction, nothing more than that. But it doesn’t lessen the humiliation and the terror, and the panty gag in your mouth is soaked with drool and salty tears that have dripped in from between your lips.

“I was going to wait until we got back,” he murmurs. “But…” He almost looks wistful, and there’s a small, childish smile on his face. “You feel so much better in person than I imagined. You know that?” You see him working his bottom lip under his teeth--is that where his scabs are from? “Fuck it.”

All you register is him swooping down and the quick bob of his head before you feel it--his tongue between your pussy lips. It’s startling, and you gasp around your stolen underwear as the warm muscle goes from awkward prods to gently lapping around your clit, just touching the edges of it with enough firmness to send your nerves singing. 

You mewl. You can’t help it. It’s a sinful feeling, delicious and abhorrent. It’s a wet warmth that keeps going, lapping and lapping, making all of your nerves go haywire. Your legs kick on their own, and the thigh kept in his grip trembles.

He pulls back just enough to talk, and you wish he wouldn’t.

“Are you close already? You’re going to be so much fun…” 

He’s back between your legs then, and you feel one finger carelessly toying with your entrance. You clench, but he doesn’t go inside. Instead he presses his mouth back against you, and there’s warmth both from his mouth and your own body, flushing as he forces pleasure to start shooting down your stomach straight to those blissful nerves between your legs.

You moan into your gag, and he moans back. Everything feels sloppy and wet as his tongue begins to lap back and forth, harder, pressing firmer against your clit until you feel it coming--electric and tingling and unwanted, all the same. Your orgasm hits as you shake your head--no no no no--and your legs twitch until the orgasm fades.

All you’re left with is aftershocks and shame.

He maneuvers himself until he’s almost chest to chest with you. His pants press against your exposed lower half, and you can feel your dampness mingling with the fabric of his trousers. And there’s… something else you feel, too.

He’s hard.

You choke back a sob into your gag. You imagine what he’ll do now. He’ll pull down his own pants and he’ll spread your legs again, and you’ll feel him and it will be even more invasive and--

Your breath comes faster now, and you almost wish you were still gagged, so that the sound of  your frightened heaves weren’t so open and ragged. 

It seems like he understands what you’re thinking. 

“You can pay me back some other time, okay?” A finger traces up your neck to your mouth, and he sticks his fingers between your lips and pulls out the now damp panties without a word. “You’re probably tired, huh? I’ll take you back, then.” He says this all so casually and it makes it harder for the words to soak in at first. 

And when they do it, it stings just as badly. 

The sounds that were muffled by your gag now seem to echo around the mostly-empty, packed room. Sniffling. Little choked sobs that shake your chest. Because if he wants you to pay him back, is he going to let you go? If he’s planning on taking you somewhere, will he ever bring you back home? 

How could you call that moving truck anyway, if your phone is dust? 

Where can you run to, if your stalker can kill people with a touch? 

What can you do, except beg for something you know won’t be happening? 

“Please,” you whisper. Quick. Erratic.  “I won’t tell anyone. Just let me go, and I won’t tell.” 

His smile twists into something that’s almost like pity. But there’s something deeper in it. Sharp and bitter. “Hush, hush.” His knuckles reach up and wipe at your tears. “You’ll get used to it. I know you will.” He pats your cheek twice. “I’m…” He seems to consider something. “Call me Tomura. Only that.”

You don’t respond. You don’t want to call him anything. 

Without fanfare, he sits back up on the bed and reaches into his pocket to pull out a phone. His phone, you assume. There’s only a few swipes before he’s putting it up to his ear and talking to some unknown recipient. 

“Hey.” He looks at you and pets your hair. Is it meant to be soothing? Patronizing? Both? “Yeah, we’re ready.”

Without warning, there’s a heavy feeling before blackness fills the room. Your eyes widen like saucers but he doesn’t explain--he doesn’t need to, you know this is not going to be good. 

You could beg. You could spend the next few seconds promising that you’ll do anything if he just leaves you alone. But whatever words might force themselves out of your trembling lips are stuck inside your chest, like so many other things. Thoughts of the apartment waiting for you in a new city. The movers that will call and call and never get an answer from you. Friends and family who are waiting to go out for one-last-big-lunch to send you off.

He unhooks your wrists from the headboard and hoists you over his shoulder, giving you a perfect view of your bedroom as he takes steps into the heavy black swirl that appeared out of nowhere.

Behind you, the doorway of the unpacked bathroom is still open, lit up, showing the contents of your life in full display.

[kiraske]

You and Tomura are dating and he takes you to an old, demolished house.

You: “So… what are we doing here?”

Tomura: “You took me to meet your parents, so I took you to meet mine.”

You: “Oh… here?”

Tomura: “Yeah… here… over there… I think some are over there too—“

You: “Oh—“

[kiraske]

silly

[kiraske]

Art by hvoika076

Posted with Permission (reprint/edit and/or commercial use prohibited)

[kiraske]

It’s Nero Loses His Fucking Arm Day!

[kiraske]

Like Imagine you almost crying and freaking out, and they want to protect you from whatever is in your room, but then they check, and they see a tiny, tiny spider.

THATS SO ADORABLE! ^^

Warnings: Spiders i guess?

Word count: 536

Characters: Dabi, hawks and shigg

This is a little rushed but i hope ya'll like it <3

DABI

“D-DABI, COME HERE QUICKLY” Dabi heard you scream from the other room, he quickly got up from the couch and ran through the halls to find you.

When he entered the room to see you visibly scared, he got extremely paranoid “Baby? What's wrong?!” he cupped your face with his warm hands

“T-there!” you pointed at the floor, dabi stared at you slightly puzzled for a while, only to look down and see a tiny spider crawling around the floor

He looked back at you, a look of annoyance and amusement in his face “Are you fucking kidding?” he narrowed his eyes “PLEASE KILL IT!”

Dabi scoffed “Fine..” he slowly kneeled down, before a sudden smile appeared on his face “Actually…on second thought” He cupped the spider in his hand and slowly got up

“Come here darling” he smiled mischievously, slowly walking towards you with the spider in his hands. You instantly bolted out of the door, yelling for Dabi to stop, he chased you through the hallway while chuckling to himself. However, after a while he did kill the spider.

Needless to say, he slept on the couch that night, but you forgave him eventually 

HAWKS

It was a peaceful time for you and hawks, you were both laying in bed, snuggling each other in a warm embrace, but that cute moment came to a end when you suddenly turned around and saw a spider on your night stand

“HOLY SH-” you fell off the bed from shock “Uhm…what happened?” Hawks chuckled. You were too scared to say anything, you just stared at the nightstand, almost shaking from fright.

You looked so terrified it began to worry Hawks “Feather? Hey… what's wrong?” he walked towards you “T-there!” you pointed at the nightstand, hawks turned to look at it 

“what about it?”

“L-look closely” 

Upon closer inspection, he noticed a tiny spider on the nightstand, he stared at it for a few seconds, before bursting out laughing “Pfft- really? It’s so small” 

You looked away in embarrassment “SHUT UP! JUST GET RID OF IT” you screamed, hawks smiled “Alright alright”

He quickly got a sheet of paper and put it back out into the garden “There, ya happy?” you hugged him tightly, peppering his face with kisses “You really are my hero”

SHIGARAKI

Shigaraki was in his room playing some video games, when he suddenly heard someone screaming his name, he instantly recognized your voice and paused his game “What's wrong?” he got up from his and headed towards your room 

Upon entering, he saw you with a scared look on your face, you turned to look at him “I- I saw a…” you paused, pointing at your bed yet not looking at it.

Shigaraki turned to look at your bed, only to find a tiny spider in your bed “HOLY SHIT A SPIDER” he hid behind you “KILL IT” you screamed “FUCK NO! YOU KILL IT!”

Turns out both of you were terrified of this microscopical spider, so you both agreed on making dabi kill it, witch he reluctantly did 

“Are you ok my love?” shigaraki hugged you

“Yea, but i was so scared-”

Before you could finish, dabi interrupted “You two are pathetic” 

[kiraske]

is this relevant?

[kiraske]

broken mirror