Reblog If You’re A Rotting Corpse

My best 2024 Shiggy draws. 1

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🪐 orbital resonance 🪐

jade appreciation time

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rotting from the inside

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Rip out my brain please please please

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tomura tries to sneak out of your apartment one morning before you wake up, because he has to get all the way back to his apartment before his dad shows up to take him to a 9AM yoga class.

god forbid he be forced to explain:

a) why he slept over at an apartment that was not his own to his father (toshinori would be calling wedding venues and asking his assistant to look into your ring size before they'd even made it to the yoga studio)

nor b) the fact that he was going to a fucking yoga class at 9 o'clock in god damn the morning with his dad, to you.

he slips out of your bed soundlessly, moving as carefully as possible not to wake you. it pains him to do it. really, it does. your sheets are warm, and soft, and smell like you. and you're still there resting so peacefully, tucked under them, breathing soundly with your face burrowed into the collar of his hoodie that you'd worn to bed the night before. you look so pretty like this, tomura had spent at least half an hour just staring at you while he was laying next to you in your treacherously comfortable bed, and would have happily spent another hour more doing it.

there are very few forces on earth that could tear tomura out of bed like this, but the mortifying prospect of having to explain to his over-enthusiastic father that he has a girlfriend is certainly one of them.

he creeps out of your room and into the bathroom, splashing some cool water on his face and using the lotion that you keep next to the sink that makes his skin feel so nice. you started buying a bigger bottle lately, now that the two of you are both using it, and you never mentioned it but tomura still noticed when the little tube was replaced by a larger version of the same product. next he reaches for the toothbrush that he's started keeping next to yours, double checking the hour on his phone to make sure he wasn't running out of time.

he contemplates stealing one last peek at you in bed before he leaves, but he knows that if he doesn't leave now he won't have time to change his clothes before his dad shows up outside his place, so he heads straight to your front door once he's done in the washroom.

you're standing in his path before he can get to it.

you've got a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, but he can still see the soft skin of your thighs where the hem of his hoodie hangs peeking out from underneath the edges of it. there's a little frown tugging the corners of your mouth down.

tomura freezes in his tracks.

"going somewhere?" you ask him, your voice quiet and a little bit hoarse from sleep.

oh, fuck.

"morning," he mumbles, a bit nervously, as you pin him in your stare.

"it is," you reply, as though agreeing with him. "early, even. so why are you sneaking out of my apartment like a burglar?"

tomura rakes a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "i, uh, gotta be somewhere."

"you have to be somewhere?" you repeat, a bit incredulously—like the words don't quite compute. you don't seem mad at all, just thoroughly bewildered by the whole strange situation. "tomu, we went three rounds last night and you're awake before two PM on a weekend. are you okay?"

"'course i'm okay," he rushes to get out, tripping over his words.

"did I like... do something? or is there someone el—"

"are you kidding?" tomura's voice cracks and he wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. he reaches out and grabs the edge of the blanket you have wrapped around you, his fingers twisting into it desperately. he knows you can't possibly—can't reasonably—think that he's seeing anybody else when the fact that he even landed someone like you is an honest to god miracle. the kind of underdog success story they make multi-part docuseries on.

tomura groans, shuffling forward and resting his forehead against your shoulder as he snakes his arms underneath the blanket around your frame to hold you close.

"you're being weird, tomu," you say quietly, brushing your fingers through his hair and letting your nails drag lightly against his scalp in that way that makes him want to shiver.

"fuck, I know, I know,"—he buries his face further into the crook of your neck, breathing in shakily—"'m not being sketchy or anything."

"you are," you remark lightly. "it's not that I don't trust you, I'm just confused."

tomura mumbles something, but the words are lost to the skin of your throat.

"what was that?" you ask.

tomura steels his nerve and takes one last long breath buried against your warmth. he pulls away and faces you.

"I have to go to a yoga class with my dad."

he loses his nerve about halfway through his admission, his eyes flickering away from yours to a point on the wall just above your front door, as a violent heat surges through his cheeks.

"a yoga class?"

he knows it sounds ridiculous. it is ridiculous. it may have been more believable to tell you he was going to hook up with someone el—

"why didn't you just say that?" your laughter cuts through his spiralling thoughts like a morning alarm.

his gaze snaps back to you, only to find you smiling softly.

"you... you're not...?" tomura isn't even sure what he's going to say. mad? surprised? convinced he's lying?

"i mean, i've noticed you've been looking kind of toned lately, but honestly i thought it's because we've been fucking so much," you scrunch your nose up a little. "yoga makes sense on both counts, though."

you turn and look across your apartment to the clock hanging on the wall.

"what time's your class?" you ask him, suddenly worried that this impromptu interrogation may have made him late. "i didn't mean to—"

tomura grabs either side of the blanket wrapped around your shoulders and tugs you forward, pressing his mouth to yours while your lips are still parted in speech.

(he doesn't make it to class that morning after all.)

my type if you care

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"Game with a spectator"

Tomura Shigaraki, the typically cold and calculating leader of the League of Villains, sits hunched over his gaming setup, crimson eyes narrowed at the screen. His gloved fingers dance across the keyboard with ruthless precision, dominating the virtual battlefield. But tonight, there’s an unfamiliar weight on his lap—his little daughter, barely old enough to string sentences together, perched there with wide, sparkling eyes glued to the monitor.

He’s not used to this. The softness of her tiny frame against his jagged edges, the way her small hands grip his tattered hoodie like it’s a lifeline. She’s babbling nonsense, a stream of excited gibberish that spikes every time something explosive happens on-screen—a critical hit, a flashy ultimate, or a brutal combo. “Boom! Papa, boom!” she squeals, bouncing slightly, her voice piercing the grim silence of his dimly lit room.

Shigaraki’s first instinct is irritation. The distraction could cost him the match, and he’s not exactly the nurturing type. His jaw tightens, a faint hiss escaping his chapped lips. “Quiet,” he mutters, voice low and scratchy, not even glancing down at her. But she doesn’t listen—doesn’t even register his tone. She’s too caught up in the chaos of the game, clapping her hands when a particularly epic moment flashes across the screen, her laughter bright and unguarded.

Something in him shifts, though he’d never admit it. The sound of her joy, so alien in his world of decay and destruction, doesn’t grate as much as he expects. He flicks his gaze downward, just for a second, catching the way her face lights up, completely unbothered by his scars or the menace he exudes. She’s not afraid. She’s *happy*. Because of him. Because of this stupid game.

“...Tch. You like that, huh?” he mumbles, more to himself than to her, his tone less harsh now. He adjusts his posture slightly, careful not to jostle her, one gloved hand instinctively hovering near her to make sure she doesn’t tip over. He’s hyper-aware of his Quirk, the danger of his touch, but she doesn’t seem to care, snuggling closer as another explosion lights up the screen.

“Papa win!” she declares, throwing her arms up as his character lands a finishing blow, securing the victory. Shigaraki snorts, a rare, dry chuckle escaping him. “Yeah. Obviously.” His voice is gruff, but there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes, buried deep beneath layers of resentment and pain.

He doesn’t push her off. Doesn’t tell her to leave. Instead, he starts another match, this time tilting the screen slightly so she can see better. Her excited babbles fill the room, and for once, Shigaraki doesn’t mind the noise. It’s... fine. Just this once.