newt

edit: constructive criticism is absolutely welcome on this post and with my writing currently! especially from fic authors! I’d love love love to hear everyone’s thoughts on it, as well as the ship alone :) questions are absolutely also welcome! my ask box is also always open !!:)

————————————————————————

It was quiet in Yuka’s apartment. The walls felt smaller than usual, especially given the unexpected company.

“Bar was compromised,” Shigaraki stepped inside through the doorway, shaking off his coat before draping it lazily over the closest object that was in reach. A messy gesture that he’d grown used to. Most of his possessions had turned to dust eventually, anyway.

“Spinner’s out with Compress right now, looking for some other shithole to set up base.” The man was visibly irritated, as one would be. The bar lasted as a hideaway for a lot longer than expected by any of the League members.

Yuka was draped lazily over the couch, standing to her feet once seeing his pale figure in the doorway. Her hoodie rode up slightly on her hip, pajama shorts uneven. The remnant evidence of a nap too deep to ever be normal for her. The dark bags under her eyes proved this.

“Yeah?” She yawned, pressing her lips into the nook of her elbow as she did so. “Bummer. Is everybody okay?” Yuka questioned. The woman’s tone was a bit unsure, standing a good distance from Shigaraki as he took in the unfamiliar landscape which was her home. Warm lights. thick blankets draped over fluffed upholstery. A worn out cat tree in one corner. A far cry from the villainous lifestyle she lives beside her comrades.

“I would’ve said something about that first if it was the case.” The man snapped, glaring over from his shoulder. His hair was ragged and disheveled, the intensity of the rain outside showing just from his presence.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the living space.

“I was just inquiring. No need to get mad.” Yuka didn’t pull back from where she was standing. She just… existed. Silently. Her presence could be considered an olive branch, perhaps. That she wasn’t backing down from the great Tomura Shigaraki, a figure who’s mere name struck fear into the hearts and souls of heroes and villains alike.

All but Yuka.

Yuka seemed unwavering, no matter the situation. It was about six months before the bar’s compromise that Shigaraki had grabbed her during a mission, his touch almost indefinitely rendering her to an eternity as dust beneath his boots.

Yet nothing occurred that day. All members of the League had went home safely. In one piece. But it felt like Shigaraki split in two that day. One part Tomura Shigaraki, the symbol of fear, and the other part the small boy he’d swore he killed off in cold blood the day everything went awry all those years ago. The one who yearned still for even a shred of hope to be passed to him like a torch.

Shigaraki turned to Yuka silently, nails scratching at the nape of his neck. “I’m not here for pity. So stop looking at me like that.” He huffed defensively. “Just… A place to crash. One night.” He asserted.

Yuka seemed to freeze in place, thinking for a moment as she weighed her options here. Of course she cared for Shigaraki. She’d been in the League for almost a year and a half now. And it seemed to be that out of all of the members, besides Himiko, Shigaraki was the one she gravitated towards the most. Or perhaps more so vice versa.

There were very few moments where Shigaraki wouldn’t be lurking near Yuka. Out on a mission? He’s within sight, obviously. Which doesn’t seem odd, for it being a group effort, and him the leader. But at the hideout, while she’s making a drink? He’s leaned against the couch on the other side of the room. He’d just started a new habit of coming into her room unannounced, standing at her doorway, say that he’s “just making sure” that she’s not doing anything stupid, flick something over and then leave without closing the door. Petty behavior.

But also unlike his occasional treatment towards the others, Shigaraki never yelled at Yuka. He’d be snappy occasionally, but never yell. Never threaten. This behavior did not go unnoticed to Yuka. She appreciates his quiet presence. It’s something rare to find nowadays. But the everpresent feeling of something stringing them together couldn’t go ignored. Not when the man was now standing in her apartment, setting down a backpack and sitting down on her couch almost hesitantly.

Yuka trailed into the kitchen, her movements that of a ghost, even in her own house. The occasional glance from Shigaraki up to Yuka busying herself with making coffee didn’t go unnoticed by herself, yet wasn’t unwelcomed. She was used to people staring at her. But there was something different about the way that he specifically did so.

“Coffee?” Yuka inquired, already pouring a second cup. Shigaraki’s eyes narrowed, relaxing soon after again and glancing to the side. “Couldn’t hurt.” He grumbled, legs spread apart while he sat on the couch. A lazy position that made it seem like he already made himself at home.

“You’re not that much of a people-person,” Yuka murmured. It wasn’t a jab whatsoever. Just her usual flat and blunt voice she kept with everyone. Yet somewhere in those deep undertones of her demeanor, it was warmth. A sort of sympathy. “I’ve come to notice that.”

“Why would anyone be?” He huffed, almost defensive in the way he leaned forward. Still wired from the incident, Yuka thought. I don’t blame him. Who wouldn’t be mad?

Her hands briefly grazed Shigaraki’s while handing over the mug, an accidental touch. Yuka didn’t pull away though. Or flinch. Just as everything else. “Here you go.” She breathed out, turning back to make her way to the kitchen.

Yet, on the other hand, Shigaraki did not take this lightly. His breath hitched, grabbing the mug with more force than needed, almost spilling the contents while jerking it towards his chest. Yuka’s eyes flashed from the mug between them to his face, scanning it. Not exactly startled, just observing. Seeing what next reaction he’d gauge. What words would be spoken.

“You’re a real freak of nature, you know that?” He asserted, trying to add more bite into his words than necessary. Yet it only came out hoarsely. “It would be easier around you if I could just dust you.”

Yuka turned slowly, her eyes fixing on his face. “What? Do I make you nervous?” Her inquiry was blank. It was unclear what undertone she meant through her words, but Shigaraki wasn’t a fan of it.

“What?” He hissed lightly. “No. You’re just… Odd.” His eyes narrowed, posture already absolutely shrimped. His elbows were leaned on his knees now, hands clasped together. “You’re weird. I would’ve taken the opportunity of being immune to my quirk as some bragging right. But you… You just stand there, like an NPC.” He rasped, pointing a finger lazily at her.

Yuka’s stance, as usual, was straight. Blankly standing there. His comparison wasn’t wrong. She looked out of place. As close to alien as you could get. “I mean, yeah.” She breathed out, tone steady and slightly quieter. “You’re not wrong.”

“Don’t do that!” He snarled, now standing up and taking a stride towards her. “Don’t— fuck.” He ran a palm over his face, other hand clenching into a fist. “Are you trying to make me angry? What’s your endgame here, Yamanaka?” He hissed out.

Yuka didn’t so much as flinch. She remained steady, unbothered. Yet her brows raised only slightly at his sudden outburst. “I dunno.” She chimed quietly. “You’re the one who showed up at my place.”

He hesitated before jerking out his wrist to grab hers, fingers tightening around her pulse point. “Shut up. Just—“ He huffed, opposite palm still clenched tightly. “—Stop.” His voice cracked on the last syllable. A show of upsetness he wasn’t used to displaying so openly.

In the silence between the two, Shigaraki’s hand twitched at the realization that there wasn’t dust under his palm. The foreign feeling sunk into his nerves like a drug injection. a pulsating, almost uncomfortable amount of warmth. The deep caverns of scarred skin, the light brush of hair on her arm. All so alien to him.

His own touch on himself was consistently cold and unwelcoming, like a corpse. But being able to close the distance of his palm on another bleeding body was almost overwhelming.

Yuka tried to pull away lightly after around a minute, but Shigaraki’s grip only grew stronger. “Don’t.” He demanded lowly, eyes fixed to her wrist where his grasp curved around it like a bangle. “Don’t.” Shigaraki repeated a bit softer than previously. Yuka blinked at his face. Silence. Before the small brush of skin she initiated. Her wrist turning in his grasp, palm facing up.

“You’re fine.” She assured quietly. Too casual. “It’s fine.” It was as if Yuka could read his rapid thoughts swarming his consciousness. The hot, burning feeling in his palms and chest. Too fuzzy to be anger, but too hot to be disgust. Or disdain. So he just stood, seeping in that feeling. A gap he hadn’t closed since before everything went awry.

His touch hesitantly trailed down to his palm, all fingers tracing the inner seam lines. The heavy silence of the atmosphere was excruciating to him. Yuka seemed both completely unaware and completely on lock the entire time.

His gentle touch sent a small jolt of an unfamiliar, unrecognized feeling from her palm straight up her neck. She would’ve considered his touch reverent, if it weren’t for knowing who he was.

“Take your time,” Yuka affirmed midly.