The Little Things (Shigaraki fluff)
Tomura Shigaraki isn’t used to being handled gently.
Even now, as he sits stiffly on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched and fingers scratching at his neck, every instinct tells him to pull away. To snap. To remind you—like he reminds everyone—that he isn’t something soft.
“Stop glaring at the moisturizer,” you murmur, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice.
“I’m not glaring,” he mutters.
“You are. It’s winning.”
He clicks his tongue but doesn’t move. That, in itself, is progress. You step closer, always careful, until you are standing between his knees. Close enough to feel the faint tension radiating off him, like a live wire barely contained, your hands hover for just a second.
“Hands?” you ask quietly.
A pause, then reluctantly, he lifts them.
You take his wrists with practiced ease, guiding them away from his already raw neck. His fingers flex once, twice, before settling. He watches you the entire time, red eyes sharp, searching—like he’s waiting for you to flinch.
You never do.
“See? No disintegrating,” you tease softly.
“Tch.”
But there is no bite to it, there never is when it comes to you.
You dab a small amount of cream onto your fingertips and hesitate—not because you’re afraid, but because this part matters. Because no one has ever done this for him before, not like this.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” you say softly. He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t pull away either and that speaks volumes.
So you begin.
Light touches, barely there at first—spreading the moisturizer across his cheek, slow and deliberate. His skin is rough in places, dry and irritated, the result of neglect and habits he’d never cared to break. Your touch is the opposite: patient, attentive, grounding.
At first, he stays rigid. Then, almost imperceptibly, he leans into it. It’s small. Anyone else might’ve missed it. But you feel it—the shift, the quiet surrender.
“...Feels weird,” he mutters.
“Bad, weird?”
A pause.
“…No.”
You smile a little, softening your movements as you work across his face. Your thumb brushes carefully beneath his eye, smoothing away tension that seems permanently etched there.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says suddenly.
It isn’t dismissive. It isn’t cruel.
It’s uncertain.
Your hands paused just long enough to meet his gaze.
“I know,” you say simply.
That seems to unsettle him more than anything else. His brows knit faintly, like he doesn’t quite understand what to do with that answer. People did things for reasons—power, fear, gain. Not… this.
Not care without a price.
You resume, gentler now, your touch lingering just slightly longer than necessary.
“I want to,” you add.
Silence stretches between you, but it isn’t heavy, it’s almost..comforting. His shoulders lower a fraction. The tension in his jaw eases. Even his hands, now resting in his lap, stop twitching.
When you finish, you pull back just enough to look at him properly.
“All done.”
He doesn’t move right away.
“…That’s it?”
“Yeah. Low effort, high reward.”
“Hmph.”
But he doesn’t look annoyed, if anything, he looks..relaxed.
You release his face slowly, giving him time to adjust. His hands twitch for a second before settling in his lap again. He glances away, then back at you, like he has something to say but doesn’t have the right words.
“…You’re weird,” he mutters.
You grin at that, a comforting warmth settling in your chest, you know what he means. “You let me put moisturizer on your face. I’m not the weird one here.”
A faint scoff—but his lips twitch. Barely.
You reach up, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face—light, fleeting.
He doesn’t flinch.
And for a moment, Tomura Shigaraki—destruction incarnate, walking ruin, a man who reduces everything he touches to dust—just sits there, letting someone take care of him.
Not because he has to.
But because, for once, he wants something more than violence. He wants these small moments. The little things.
