#thank u for reading my mind anon shiggy has been on the brain ALL NIGHT

[hawnks]

If you're still taking requests, could I ask for some soft Shiggy headcanons?

wc: 650, pg13, Shigaraki and you find different ways to communicate

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Shigaraki has trouble expressing himself at the best of times. For years his focus has been solely on his goal. The excess, things that make him feel good, were a waste of time. He never got to that young adult vulnerability, holding hands in school courtyards, splitting a box of pocky in the family living room. Admitting (even if it was humiliating) that he liked someone.

Since meeting you he’s gotten better at deciphering his own emotions. He can name some of them now, angry, happy, horny. Part of him is still all stray-cat though, ready to bolt or fight at the slightest provocation. Sometimes it feels like a game of operation, trying to get him to be anything but calculatedly aloof.

Verbal confirmation is rare at the start of your relationship, admitted only in the heat of late nights, or the most dire of arguments. It’s something that will come, naturally. But there are other ways he conveys his feelings in the meantime.

If you had asked him outright to do this, he would have scoffed at you. The silence gives him more leeway, let’s the tenderness slip through the cracks. It’s been a quiet night, in general. You’re together on his bed, a fair distance apart. Enough room for you to drop your feet into his lap, laugh at the brow raised in response.

For a moment he does nothing, just stares at your legs thrown over his. His expression is contemplative, almost wistful, if Shigaraki could ever be described as that. He looks disconcerted, out of his element.

You brace for him to just push you off, ready to give him your best pout. Instead he reaches over to his nightstand.

Your collection of items left in his room grows by the day. Traces of you are everywhere, clothes and books, stray hairs. And this, the bottle of nail polish he picks up, opens.

His touch is delicate, even buffered by the brush. He’s always so gentle, so careful with you. His quirk must make him cautious. He’s such a danger, even to, especially toward, the people closest to him. But maybe there’s something else too. Maybe he’s gentle with you for no other reason than he wants to be. Maybe it’s a mix of all these things, a complicated web even he doesn’t fully understand.

He’s certainly not doing this out of obligation.

The nail polish is cold as it goes on, chilled by the temperature of the room. But where he touches you, pinky and ring finger on your foot to steady you, he’s warm. So much warmer than he looks. So careful careful careful with you.

He finishes your nails in silence, gets so engrossed in the delicate process he seems bewildered when he runs out of toes to paint. Without a word, you give him your hand, and with no answer he starts painting those nails too.

You suppose you should feel powerful, having one of the most powerful men in the country preforming this service for you. He’s hunched over, almost bowing. But all you feel is gratefulness. Tender, a little wistful yourself.

When he’s done, he doesn’t let go of your hand for a long moment. His hold is so loose, just three fingers holding it up. His brow is furrowed, lips pursed. Looking at you like he’s just discovering this part of you. Or maybe, of him and you combined. Amazed and terrified that he can touch you at all.

His hand slips away. Your own falls back against your belly, careful not to smudge his work.

thank you, you don’t say

you’re welcome, he doesn’t reply.

He adjusts your legs on top of his, nudging you into a more comfortable position. You follow his motions easily.