Chapter 1: A Friend Or a New Foe?
Chapter Text
“This has been the fourth straight week of consistent Nomu attacks. Twenty-four people have died within the last few weeks, leaving heroes discouraged and alarmed,” the newscaster said, her voice stern and slightly detached. “That’s it for me—now back to Aki for the wea—”
Click.
“I’m so sick of hearing these people talk all the time,” a man muttered as he shut off the TV, cutting the newscaster off mid-sentence. Slumping forward, he crossed his arms on the bar counter and dropped his head with a heavy sigh and a frown etched deep into his face.
“Shigaraki Tomura, I’m sure you’re aware you don’t have to turn the television on at all.”
Shigaraki shot the other man a death glare, rolling his eyes. “You don’t think I know that? What else am I supposed to do around here besides rot on this shitty stool for hours while we wait for customers who never show up?”
Business hadn’t exactly been booming lately.
Most days at the bar were dead quiet. The only sounds filling the downstairs space were the tinny music from Shigaraki’s Nintendo Switch or, occasionally, a deep voice echoing from the strange computer tucked into the back corner. Shigaraki lived in the upstairs unit above the bar—a single oversized bedroom that felt painfully empty. Bland. Lifeless. Just like everything else.
He worked double shifts most days. No real breaks, unless the bar was so empty that it didn’t matter. Cleaning. Serving drinks. Greeting customers—though that almost always backfired and tanked business. Bartending when Kurogiri wasn’t around. All kinds of shit. It didn’t pay much, but it was better than nothing.
Not that he had anything else going on.
Shigaraki didn’t take days off. He barely left the building. When he wasn’t working, he was in his room, gaming, scrolling his phone, or passed out until the next shift.
With a half-hearted sigh, he kicked his feet off the stool and stood up from the bar. “No one’s been in for hours. I’m heading to the konbini real quick. I’m—”
Grrrrr… grrrrrr…
“—a little hungry…” he mumbled under his breath.
Kurogiri set down the glass he was cleaning and gave a nod. “Be back within the hour. I doubt Master would appreciate you being away if anything were to happen.”
Shigaraki scoffed. “You two need to stop treating me like I’m five. I’m almost twenty-one. I can handle myself.”
He grabbed his keys from the ring on the wall by the door and stepped outside. Immediately, he winced.
Why the hell was it so damn bright out?
How long had it been since he’d last left the bar?
The walk to the konbini was short—should’ve been, anyway—but it felt like it dragged on forever. Kamino was buzzing. Crowds clogged the sidewalks, people shoulder to shoulder, spilling out of shops, rushing across crosswalks. He couldn’t remember the streets ever looking like this.
CRASH!
“FUCK!” Shigaraki hit the ground hard, the pain jolting him out of his thoughts as his elbow cracked against the pavement.
“Oh shit—dude, you good?” a rough male voice asked, not too concerned, but not mocking either.
Shigaraki looked up to see a tall guy with messy black hair, a face scarred all over, piercings dotting his skin. The stranger reached down to help him up, but Shigaraki slapped the hand away with a deep scowl and stood on his own, groaning as he did.
The other guy chuckled.
“What the hell are you laughing at? You think it’s funny to body-check someone on the street?”
“Yeah,” the guy grinned. “But mostly ‘cause you look like a kid who’s two seconds away from throwing a tantrum.”
Shigaraki’s face flushed red. “Fuck you. If you’re not gonna apologize, then I’m leaving.” He turned and walked a few steps before—
“Hey, princess. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
Shigaraki froze. The glare he shot over his shoulder could’ve incinerated buildings.
“I’m sorry for running into you, mophead.”
“If you don’t let go of me in the next two seconds, I’ll dust you before you even have time to blink.”
The guy raised an eyebrow, slowly letting go of Shigaraki’s wrist.
Shigaraki didn’t say anything else. He turned back around, started walking again—
“Hey! Mophead! You dropped this!”
The guy waved Shigaraki’s wallet in the air, smirking as he casually turned and walked off in the opposite direction.
Shigaraki’s eyes widened. “OI! COME BACK HERE!”
He bolted after him, but the crowd thickened at the worst possible time, bodies pressing in from all sides. By the time he fought through the swarm of people and made it to the end of the street, the guy was gone.
“Fuck me…” Shigaraki groaned, smacking a hand to his face.
Of course. The one time I leave the bar… I get robbed.
“I don’t need you two to keep treating me like I’m five. I’m almost twenty-one. I can take care of myself.”
His own words from earlier echoed mockingly in his head.
“How the hell am I supposed to get food now? Or order that new game? I don’t even have my card saved on file…” he muttered, scowling as his stomach growled.
Shigaraki wasn’t great at socializing. Wasn’t interested in it, really. That’s why he never left the bar. Why he never talked to anyone. So this? This whole situation?
It was humiliating.
The walk back to the bar was even more painful than the walk to the konbini. All he could think about was how hard Kurogiri was going to scold him—and how much it was going to bruise his pride.
But when he walked in, he noticed something strange.
The bar was... busier.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me.”
“Oh, would you look at that. Tomura-kun,” a familiar voice called.
“Don’t call me that, Giran.” Shigaraki scowled and trudged inside, plopping down on one of the couches near the wall by the door.
“I’ve been hearing plenty about you lately, y’know.”
Shigaraki narrowed his eyes. “Don’t even think about dragging me into your shady shit again. I told you, I’m not interested.”
Giran laughed, raising his hands. “Relax. Not about that this time, I swear. Actually, I found some people you might be interested in—for your little group.”
“Group?”
“C’mon, man. You see how wrecked you get when this place actually attracts a crowd? You’re the only one working here. Having a few others around would save you a lot of heat from outsiders.”
“Shigaraki Tomura,” Kurogiri interjected, calm as always, “if I may momentarily interrupt—”
“No. You may not.” Shigaraki pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his temper in check. “I swear to God, I am not doing this right now.”
Kurogiri paused, then, unfortunately, continued anyway. “You were gone for quite some time. Did something happen?”
“You two need to fuck off. I’m not dealing with this right now—not after getting robbed by some ugly, burnt asshole.”
The two men went dead silent.
“Robbed?” Both men said in unison.
Shigaraki stood up. “Just fucking forget it. I’m going back to sleep.”
“But it’s only 2 in the after—”
“Shut the fuck up, Giran.”
Shigaraki stormed upstairs.
Giran scratched the back of his neck and sighed.
Once Shigaraki had disappeared upstairs, Giran let out a long sigh and scratched the back of his neck.
“Man… why’s he always gotta be so damn moody?”
Silence.
He waited a beat—still nothing.
“Alright, guess I’m out then. Later,” he said with a shrug, heading for the door and letting it slam behind him on his way out.
The next morning, Shigaraki shuffled down the stairs, barely awake, dragging his feet like a corpse on autopilot. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm, crust still stuck to his lashes, and yawned wide enough to pop his jaw. Hygiene was clearly not a priority today—not that it ever was.
But the second he opened his eyes—
You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.
“You again?!” he barked, instantly wide awake as the familiar wave of irritation crashed over him.
There, sitting on one of the bar stools, was that smug, scarred bastard.
“Oh hey, mophead,” the guy greeted, lips curled into that same annoying smirk.
Shigaraki was already storming across the room, fists clenched, blood boiling.
“Give me my fucking wallet back, you freak,” he snarled, grabbing the front of the guy’s shirt in a tight four-finger grip and yanking him up from his seat.
The man didn’t flinch. He just stared back, cool as hell.
“Shigaraki Tomura,” Kurogiri’s voice cut in, calm and clipped, “please refrain from assaulting our guest.”
Shigaraki didn’t look back.
“Calm down??” he repeated, voice cracking with disbelief.
“Yeah, mophead,” the man echoed, tone smooth as ever. His eyes didn’t break contact for even a second.
“That any way to treat your new coworker?”
Chapter 2: Wallet, Whiskey, and Bad Intentions
Summary:
Shigaraki’s new “coworker” Dabi is just as much of a pain as he thought he’d be, but Kurogiri’s made it clear that he’s stuck with him. After a long shift at the bar, Shigaraki’s already annoyed, and Dabi’s not making it any better. But when Dabi tosses Shigaraki’s wallet back at him after a day of irritating silence, it’s clear that things are getting a lot more complicated between them than Shigaraki wants to admit.
Notes:
I never realized it'd be this fun to write a canon-compliant enemies-to-lovers Shigadabi fic <3
come join me on twitter to stay updated on when a new chapter gets released!! <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Shigaraki blinked once.
Twice.
His mind hadn’t even caught up yet, but his body was already acting—grip tightening in the thief’s collar, fingers twitching dangerously close to that fifth digit.
“…Coworker?” he said, low and flat, like he was repeating it just to confirm he’d heard right.
The scarred man didn’t even flinch. He just raised an eyebrow and gave that same shit-eating grin from yesterday, casual as hell.
“That’s what I said,” he replied. “Guess the boss didn’t tell you.”
“I am the boss,” Shigaraki snapped.
A soft distortion hummed from the hallway behind them, dark fog trailing in from the direction of the kitchen. Kurogiri stepped into view with a clean white dish towel folded neatly in his hands, posture straight and calm.
“Not quite,” he said, tone even. “You are the future owner, Tomura. But until such time, there are decisions I must make on behalf of the League’s stability.”
Shigaraki scowled. “Stability? What does hiring him have to do with anything?”
Kurogiri didn’t raise his voice. He never did.
“Giran highly recommended that we employ Dabi. Not only is Dabi a capable individual with useful connections, he also happens to be unemployed, without a permanent residence, and on the radar of some less-than-forgiving associates. This arrangement provides him with shelter, income, and distance from unwanted attention.”
“I don’t give a shit what he needs,” Shigaraki muttered. “I don’t want him here.”
“That is unfortunate,” Kurogiri replied without missing a beat. “But it is necessary. The bar has been understaffed for weeks, and I cannot manage both floors alone when I am also tending to your needs.”
Shigaraki felt his ears burn. That last part was a little too pointed.
He tore his hand away from Dabi’s shirt and turned away abruptly, dragging both hands down his face in frustration.
“So that’s it? You just let any freak walk in here, throw him a dish towel, and tell me to play nice?”
Dabi snorted, making a beeline for the dining table and shamelessly digging into a plate of steaming breakfast like he lived there.
“‘Any freak,’ huh? You wound me.”
“Don’t talk to me,” Shigaraki snapped. “Ever.”
He stomped toward the couch and flopped into it like gravity had doubled just for him. Hoodie sleeves tugged up over his hands, collar tucked high over his mouth. He looked miserable. Ferally so.
Dabi pulled out a chair and sat down, looking smug and comfortable in the worst way possible.
“Breakfast’s pretty good,” he commented casually, taking a bite of scrambled eggs. “Didn’t peg you for someone who eats actual food.”
Shigaraki shot him a glare over the edge of his collar. “I’m gonna bury you alive.”
“Tomura,” Kurogiri warned from the kitchen.
Dabi grinned at him with a mouthful of toast.
“Relax, mophead. I’m just here to work. You won’t even notice I’m around.”
“That’s exactly what someone annoying as hell would say.”
Kurogiri placed a fresh cup of tea on the table beside Shigaraki with the same quiet grace he always had, ignoring the hostile energy bleeding out of the room.
“You both begin your shift at noon,” he said. “I expect you to act with the decorum that any employee of this establishment should possess. Regardless of personal history.”
“There is no history,” Shigaraki grumbled.
“Yesterday would suggest otherwise,” Kurogiri replied lightly.
Dabi leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “See? I am memorable.”
Shigaraki didn’t respond. He just let his head fall back onto the couch cushion and stared blankly at the ceiling.
This wasn’t happening. There was no way.
The bar was dead quiet when it was time for their shift—Kurogiri floating back in first, Shigaraki sulking in after, and Dabi trailing behind with the ease of someone who didn’t care about anything in the world.
The lights were dim, floors already swept, shelves stocked. Everything was spotless. That was all Kurogiri’s doing, obviously. Shigaraki didn’t lift a finger for this place unless it meant punching someone.
Kurogiri handed Dabi a simple black apron with the bar’s logo stitched in gold.
“You will shadow Tomura today,” he said, tone polite but firm. “Observe how he handles the till, registers, drinks, and communicates with patrons. The work is straightforward, but we uphold a standard here.”
Dabi turned the apron over in his hands. “No mask?”
“You’re not a wanted criminal,” Shigaraki muttered. “Yet.”
Dabi smirked and tied the apron behind his back anyway. “Then I’ll try not to disappoint.”
Kurogiri glanced toward Shigaraki. “I am trusting you to act as a proper example.”
Shigaraki clicked his tongue but didn’t argue.
He moved behind the counter with all the enthusiasm of a funeral procession and immediately shoved a crate of clean glasses toward Dabi without warning.
“Start polishing.”
Dabi caught it with ease, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not gonna teach me first?”
“That is teaching.”
“…Charming.”
For the next hour, they didn’t talk much.
Shigaraki wiped the counters down with slow, bored circles, pretending he wasn’t painfully aware of Dabi being just a few feet away. Dabi polished the glasses like it was some sort of game, occasionally spinning one between his fingers or juggling two just to see if Shigaraki would yell at him.
He didn’t. But he twitched every time.
Eventually, someone walked in. A middle-aged salaryman with tired eyes and a loosened tie, probably just looking to unwind.
Shigaraki immediately stepped in, cool and detached.
“Welcome,” he said, voice low. “What can I get you?”
The man blinked at him, unsure. “Uh… whiskey. Neat.”
Shigaraki poured it with muscle memory. No mess, no wasted motion. Handed it off and collected the cash without blinking.
Dabi watched from the end of the bar with his chin in one hand, silently impressed.
“…Didn’t think you had customer service in you,” he muttered.
Shigaraki didn’t even look at him. “I don’t.”
By the time the last customer left, it was nearly eleven. Shigaraki’s patience had long since left his body.
He sat at one of the booths now, legs stretched out, arms crossed, glaring at a wall like it had personally wronged him.
Dabi slid into the booth across from him, uninvited.
Without asking, he kicked his feet up on the table between them—boots and all, scuffed and still faintly stained from God-knows-what. The wooden surface creaked slightly under the weight.
Shigaraki’s eye twitched. “Get your nasty-ass shoes off the table.”
“Make me,” Dabi said, propping his chin in one hand.
“You are so—” Shigaraki cut himself off, growling into his hoodie collar. “—insufferable.”
“You always this fun to work with?” Dabi asked, ignoring the insult entirely.
Shigaraki didn’t answer.
“You know,” Dabi went on, tapping one boot against the table leg, “I don’t think you hate me as much as you think you do.”
That got his attention.
Shigaraki turned his head just enough to glare at him. “Wanna test that theory?”
“Nah,” Dabi said easily. “Just pointing it out. Most people ignore me or freak out when they see my face. You tried to kill me. Kinda refreshing.”
Shigaraki stared.
For once, Dabi didn’t smirk. He looked… tired. A little far-off. Like there was more he could say, but didn’t.
“…Why are you here?” Shigaraki asked, finally.
Dabi looked at him, then down at the tabletop.
“I needed somewhere to be,” he said after a long pause. “Figured this was better than nowhere.”
Shigaraki didn't say anything.
And for a moment, neither of them moved.
The silence wasn’t awkward anymore. Just quiet.
Then Dabi leaned back and casually reached into his coat pocket.
“Oh—forgot. Got something of yours,” he said, and tossed a familiar black rectangle across the table.
Shigaraki snatched it midair. His wallet.
“…The hell is wrong with you? ” he said, deadpan.
“Technically, it fell out of your pocket when you tried to deck me yesterday,” Dabi said with a shrug. “I figured I’d hang onto it.”
“You could’ve returned it this morning.”
“Could’ve. Was funnier to wait.”
Shigaraki glared daggers at him.
“…Don’t think this means we’re friends,” he said eventually.
Dabi’s smirk returned, small and crooked.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Notes:
I promise Chapter 3 is a lot more interesting (ﾉД`) it's just a slow build up ya know? Next chapter, they're both put in a brief situation that makes Shigaraki blush <3
Chapter 3: Tell Me How This Isn't a Problem
Summary:
Shigaraki is still a mess, and when he accidentally dusts a delivery box, Dabi doesn’t let it go. The walk to pick it up is full of awkward moments, and Dabi pushes Shigaraki’s buttons one too many times. When Dabi crosses a line, Shigaraki snaps and storms off, leaving the tension thick in the air.
Notes:
These two are a mess but imagining these scenes animated makes me laugh wayyyyy too much for my own good. This one is a bit of a long one, so grab some popcorn and buckle up folks
I would love it if you came to join me on twitter!! <3
Chapter Text
The morning light was a punch to the face. Shigaraki squinted against it as he stumbled down the stairs, still fighting the remnants of sleep. He hated mornings. Hell, he hated most things. But mornings? They were the worst. Especially when the night had been full of restless dreams and half-formed thoughts that clung to him like cobwebs.
His bare feet slapped against the cold hardwood as he made his way into the bar. The scent of stale alcohol and lingering cigarette smoke wrapped around him like a familiar, suffocating blanket. The bar was quiet—too quiet—and for a second, he almost wished for the chaos of last night. The stupid, smug bastard who’d swiped his wallet. The weird tension in the air that followed him all the way back upstairs.
But no, this was just another morning.
Shigaraki paused in the doorway of the bar, rubbing his eyes, trying to wake himself up. And that’s when he saw him.
That fucking guy.
Sitting on the same stool by the counter, like he’d never left. And Shigaraki was suddenly wide awake. His jaw clenched, fists tightening at his sides.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Shigaraki muttered under his breath, too exhausted to scream. “What the hell do you want now?”
Dabi barely looked up from his phone, lazily scrolling through something with a bored expression plastered across his face. When he finally did glance over, that same smug grin was there, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“Good morning, Tomura,” Dabi greeted, slow and deliberate.
Shigaraki froze. The room didn’t. The clock ticked. The coffee pot hummed in the background. But Shigaraki went still, eyes narrowing like a blade being drawn.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
Dabi arched a brow, clearly amused. “What? That’s your name, isn’t it?”
Shigaraki’s voice dropped, low and sharp like glass underfoot. “You don’t get to fucking call me that.”
He was close now—too close—and the air between them sparked with something volatile. Dabi didn’t flinch, but the grin faltered just a little. Enough to show he’d touched something raw.
“Alright, alright. Chill,” Dabi said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t realize we were only on last-name-only terms. ”
Shigaraki glared at him, every muscle in his body tensed like he was ready to break something—maybe Dabi, maybe himself.
From behind the counter, Kurogiri’s calm voice cut through the silence. "Shigaraki Tomura. Please, don’t escalate things."
Shigaraki didn’t respond. Just grabbed the coffee Dabi had pushed across the counter like it was an offering—and nearly crushed the mug in his hand.
“You’re lucky I haven’t erased your face off the goddamn map,” he muttered.
Dabi leaned back in his seat again, smug composure fully reinstalled. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried.”
Shigaraki didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because beneath the fury, beneath the rising heat in his chest and the twisting in his gut, something else was stirring—and he hated it. Hated that Dabi’s stupid voice was still in his head. Hated that he noticed how close he was standing. Hated that part of him didn’t want to step away.
This was going to be a problem.
The silence that followed hung thick in the air. Not heavy like awkwardness—no, this was something sharper. Tighter. A rope pulled just a little too far, fraying in the middle.
Dabi watched him, that unreadable expression now sitting somewhere between curious and entertained. Like he was cataloguing reactions, pushing buttons just to see which ones stuck. He tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking down to where Shigaraki’s hand was clenched tightly around the coffee mug.
"You always this dramatic in the morning?" Dabi asked, voice too casual to be genuine. "Or is it just when I’m around?"
Shigaraki didn’t answer. He just gritted his teeth—and that’s when it happened.
Without thinking, he set the mug down hard, fingers still locked tight in irritation. All five.
The instant his pinky touched, the ceramic dusted with a sharp crack, splintering into powder on the counter.
Hot coffee sloshed everywhere, dripping down the edge and splattering onto the floor. Shigaraki stared at it, frozen, like it had taken a second for the realization to hit him.
“Fuck,” he hissed, yanking his hand back like he’d been burned. His expression shifted into something caught between anger and embarrassment.
Dabi didn’t flinch. Just raised an eyebrow, one hand casually braced on the counter, looking altogether too amused.
“Dramatic and destructive. Starting to get a clearer picture.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Dabi smirked. “Touchy.”
Shigaraki turned sharply, jaw locked so tight it ached. “Don’t fucking call me that,” he spat. “You don’t get to call me that.”
Dabi blinked. “What?”
“My name,” Shigaraki snapped. “You don’t get to say it. You don’t know me.”
That shut Dabi up for a second. The smirk dipped into something more thoughtful, something almost unreadable.
“Fair,” he said after a pause, voice quieter now. “Guess I’ll earn it.”
Shigaraki barked out a dry, bitter laugh. “You’re not gonna be around long enough for that.”
Right then, Kurogiri appeared from the back, seemingly unfazed by the spilled coffee and mug that turned to dust. He didn’t even blink.
“Please refrain from destroying the new hire before the end of his second day, Tomura.”
Shigaraki’s eye twitched. The sound of his name again—grating. Worse coming from someone who had the right to use it.
Dabi gave him a look like see?, but didn’t push it this time. Smart move.
Shigaraki shoved past the counter, boots squelching slightly through the puddle of coffee. He pushed open the swinging kitchen door harder than necessary, vanishing behind it with a sharp, bitter energy trailing in his wake.
And Dabi just leaned against the bar, arms folded, eyes on the door like he hadn’t just nearly gotten himself dusted.
He was still smiling.
But only just.
Kurogiri didn’t say anything for a moment after Shigaraki stormed off. He just observed the remains of the mug, the puddle of steaming coffee dripping off the edge of the counter, and the scorch of silence that followed.
Then he sighed.
“I had a feeling you two wouldn’t make this easy.”
Dabi, still leaning against the bar with a lopsided grin, tipped his head lazily in Kurogiri’s direction. “We’re just bonding.”
“Mm.”
The portal-man moved to clean up the mess, shadow-like fingers curling toward the dust pile.
“Don’t bother,” Dabi said, pushing himself upright. “Might as well mop it up.”
Kurogiri paused, something unreadable flickering beneath the fog of his collar.
“Fine. But if you destroy anything, I’m docking it from your paycheck.”
“Joke’s on you, I didn’t know I was getting paid.”
Kurogiri’s silence answered that better than any dry remark could.
Dabi rolled his shoulders and stepped around the bar, grabbing a rag and the mop bucket in the corner. He moved with that same careless swagger, but something in his expression had tightened—not quite regret, not quite guilt. Just… unsettled.
He didn’t know why the name thing had hit Shigaraki so hard. But he felt it, like static in the air. He could still hear it in the guy’s voice—You don’t get to call me that. Like a bruise someone kept pressing.
He crouched, wrung out the rag, and started wiping the mess.
Didn’t get far before Kurogiri dropped another bomb on him.
“You’ll be helping him with the inventory run today.”
Dabi paused mid-swipe. “The what now?”
“Basement stock check. We do it weekly. It’s a two-person job.”
He looked up at the other man, brows lifted, rag still dripping between his fingers. “You serious?”
Kurogiri tilted his head ever so slightly. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Dabi glanced toward the kitchen, where Shigaraki had disappeared. He imagined walking back there, side by side, surrounded by silence and shadow and unresolved heat.
He sighed. “You’re kind of a sadist, huh.”
Kurogiri, naturally, didn’t answer.
The basement stairs creaked under Dabi’s boots, a clipboard in one hand, a flashlight in the other. He descended slowly, the hum of a faulty overhead bulb casting flickering light over the shelves of liquor crates and unopened boxes.
Shigaraki was already there, crouched by the lower shelves, clearly pretending Dabi didn’t exist.
The tension in the room was thick. Tangible. Like the air had been soaked in gasoline and someone had just flicked a lighter.
Dabi cleared his throat.
“So... I’m your inventory buddy.”
Shigaraki didn’t look at him. “Don’t talk.”
Dabi scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that.”
He leaned against the nearest shelf, taking in the stacks of bottles and boxes, and the way Shigaraki’s shoulders were wound up tight, like he was holding in the urge to snap something—or someone—in half.
“You always this much fun, or is it just when I’m around?”
Still nothing. Just the sound of cardboard shifting, bottles clinking faintly as Shigaraki checked off items on his list with short, tense movements.
Dabi tapped the flashlight against his palm, pretending not to watch him. Pretending this was all casual. Easy.
But something about the silence was louder than any insult.
He swallowed, tongue against the roof of his mouth.
And for once, he didn’t say the first dumb thing that popped into his head.
Shigaraki kept his head down, scribbling on the clipboard like it was the only thing tethering him to sanity. The fluorescent light above them buzzed. One bulb flickered. The air was cold and smelled faintly of damp cardboard and cleaning fluid.
Dabi’s footsteps shuffled closer. Not on purpose, probably—just looking for something to lean against while pretending he wasn’t watching Shigaraki’s every move.
“You always call people that,” Shigaraki muttered suddenly, not looking up. “By their names?”
Dabi blinked. “Uh… yeah? Most people like being called their name. You mad ‘cause I didn’t say please?”
Shigaraki turned, eyes narrowed. “Don’t play stupid.”
“I’m not. I just—” Dabi paused, tilting his head slightly. “You mean Tomura?”
Shigaraki stood up, clipboard in hand, the scrape of the metal clip loud in the quiet. His jaw tightened, and his voice dropped a note.
“Don’t.”
Dabi’s brows lifted slightly, a flash of surprise, then amusement. “Wow. You’re really that pissed about it?”
Shigaraki stepped forward, a little too close now, the clipboard hanging loosely at his side.
“You don’t get to fucking call me that.”
The words were sharp, almost venomous—but not loud. Not yelled. Quiet, like something that’d been festering in his throat for years and only just clawed its way out.
Dabi opened his mouth. Closed it. The grin he usually wore was gone now, replaced by something unreadable. And then—
CRASH.
A box on the top shelf teetered, shifted—and started to fall. Shigaraki spun around just in time to see it tipping toward him. He moved to catch it, reflexes kicking in—but so did Dabi, faster than expected, lunging into the narrow space between shelves with an arm stretched overhead.
He caught the crate—barely—grunting under its weight, the momentum of it forcing him to stumble right into Shigaraki.
Their chests bumped. The clipboard clattered to the ground. Bottles inside the crate rattled dangerously in Dabi’s arms.
The two of them froze, awkwardly pressed together between shelves of cheap liquor and dust-covered glass, breath caught in their throats.
Shigaraki’s hands had shot up instinctively—fingers splayed, pinky raised, like he wasn’t sure whether to help or destroy.
Dabi looked down at the space between them, then up at him, deadpan.
“…So, this part of the bonding exercise too?”
Shigaraki let out a quiet, guttural noise—half a growl, half frustration—and shoved away from him with the back of his forearm. Dabi stumbled a step, but managed to hold onto the crate, setting it down with a solid thud.
Shigaraki didn’t say anything. Just grabbed the clipboard off the floor and turned back to the shelves, face and ears burning red.
Dabi shook out his arm, flexed his wrist. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Shut up.”
He grinned to himself and picked up the flashlight again.
Still had no idea what line he’d crossed earlier, but whatever it was... it mattered.
And for some reason, that made him want to cross it again.
The front door creaked open just as Shigaraki was wiping up the last of the dusted coffee. Kurogiri stepped out, his form calm and composed, which only made what came next worse.
“There’s an order that never got picked up from the supplier this morning,” he said. “They close in twenty minutes. I need you two to go.”
Shigaraki blinked, still crouched on the floor. “What do you mean, go?”
Kurogiri’s eyes flicked toward the wall clock. “It’s a short walk. Two blocks. But the box is too large for one person to carry comfortably.”
Dabi, perched behind the counter, looked up with a smirk. “Sounds like a two-man job.”
Shigaraki straightened, hand tightening around the rag. “No. Nope. Not with him.”
“I would go,” Kurogiri said, “but I have to prepare for the evening crowd. This is non-negotiable.”
Shigaraki’s glare shifted between Kurogiri and Dabi, as if sheer willpower could make the problem disappear. It didn’t.
“Fine,” he muttered, already regretting every life choice that had led to this moment. “But if he talks, I’m throwing him into traffic.”
Dabi snorted. “Guess I’ll walk on your left, then.”
They stepped out the front door of the bar, the air between them already heavy with everything unsaid. Shigaraki grabbed his hoodie from the hook by the door, not bothering to check if Dabi was following.
But just before they hit the alley, Dabi slowed, then stopped.
"Wait," he said.
Shigaraki turned back with a scowl. "What now?"
Dabi squinted at him, almost like he was doing math in his head. "How are we supposed to do this?"
Shigaraki narrowed his eyes. "Do what?"
"You know..." Dabi gestured vaguely with one hand. "Carry a giant-ass box. Together. With your quirk."
Shigaraki stiffened. Dabi went on before he could snap.
"Pretty sure I saw you nuke a whole mug earlier just by setting it down. Which—by the way—was kinda insane, not gonna lie."
Shigaraki didn’t answer. His mouth pulled into a flat, irritated line.
"So," Dabi pressed, "I’m just supposed to trust that your pinky’s gonna behave?"
Shigaraki’s shoulders twitched. “I’m not a fucking toddler.”
“Didn’t say you were.” Dabi raised his hands, mock-innocent. “I just like not dying in the street over a box of bar supplies.”
Shigaraki exhaled slowly through his nose, sharp and angry. "As long as I don’t touch it with all five fingers, it’s fine. I’ve lived with this shit my whole life."
“Yeah?” Dabi said, tone unreadable. “Doesn’t exactly scream ‘convenient.’”
“It’s not.” Shigaraki turned and shoved the door open with his elbow. “Welcome to the fucking club.”
He didn’t wait for Dabi to catch up. But of course, he did.
The alley spat them out into a dull stretch of sidewalk, the kind of place where the city felt quieter than it should. The sky was a heavy gray, not quite stormy but threatening to be, and the buildings around them loomed like they were just waiting to crumble.
They didn’t talk.
Their footsteps echoed too loudly against the cracked pavement, a slow, syncopated rhythm that kept overlapping—never quite in step, never quite apart.
At one point, Dabi’s shoulder bumped into Shigaraki’s. Not hard. Just enough.
Shigaraki flinched.
Dabi didn’t apologize.
The silence stretched thin between them, full of glances neither of them wanted to get caught giving. Shigaraki kept his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pocket like he was afraid of what they might do if left to their own devices.
"How far is this place?" Dabi muttered eventually.
"Two blocks," Shigaraki grumbled.
"Exciting."
Another bump. Narrow sidewalk. This one they couldn’t help—some rusted metal scaffolding jutted out, forcing them closer together. Close enough that Shigaraki caught a whiff of smoke clinging to Dabi’s jacket, like burnt pine and cheap cologne.
He hated how aware of it he was.
When they reached the supplier’s side entrance, the guy barely glanced at them—just waved a hand at the sealed box and muttered something about inventory backups before disappearing into the back.
Which left them alone again.
With a box.
Shigaraki stared at it like it had personally insulted him.
“Ready, Pinky?” Dabi asked, voice all teeth.
Shigaraki shot him a withering glare. “Touch me and I’ll disintegrate your fucking face.”
“Tempting.”
They picked up the box together—awkwardly, clumsily, a two-man operation held together by stubborn silence and as few fingers as humanly possible. Dabi clearly carried most of the weight. Not that Shigaraki would ever admit it.
The return walk wasn’t much better. They both kept to their side of the box, like stepping on a landmine was a real possibility. Shigaraki’s grip was a warped balancing act—thumb, three fingers, no pinky. No mistakes.
Except he’d already made one.
It was still sitting in the back of his mind, gnawing.
The way Dabi had said his name earlier.
Tomura.
He hated it. Hated how it echoed. How it sounded like something cracked open.
They reached the bar, finally. Dabi gave the box a shove to balance it on his knee as Shigaraki stepped up to open the door.
But Dabi didn’t let the silence stay dead.
“You know,” Dabi began, voice low and teasing, “I didn’t think you were the sentimental type. But your name? Seems like it means more to you than you’re letting on.”
Shigaraki froze.
Fingers still on the key. The other hand holding the box.
And just like that—snap—a fifth finger slipped down.
The box crumbled to ash in his hand. Supplies, papers, packaging—all of it gone in a swirling gust of dust that settled at their feet like a goddamn punchline.
Shigaraki stared at it.
So did Dabi.
Neither said a word.
Chapter 4: Hands Made to Ruin
Summary:
Neither of them talks about the dusted box—or the name slip—but the tension sticks. For two days, it’s tight silences and sharper looks, until things finally boil over. Dabi asks the wrong question at the worst time, and Shigaraki loses it. Words are thrown, lines are crossed, and by the end of it, Shigaraki’s gone, leaving Dabi alone with the mess they made.
Notes:
This one is a bit shorter, but I hope you still like it!
I would love it if you came to join me on twitter!! <3
Chapter Text
The bar was quieter than usual that evening, with the usual hum of distant chatter and the clink of glass, but Shigaraki couldn’t focus on it. His mind kept replaying the moment the box had turned to dust, the way Dabi’s eyes lingered on him, the awkward tension hanging between them like smoke that wouldn’t clear. He felt the weight of it, pressing in on him.
Dabi hadn’t said much after the incident, just some snide remark about Shigaraki’s lack of control, before disappearing into the back to do whatever the hell it was that kept him occupied.
That was hours ago.
Shigaraki had told himself it didn’t matter. It was just a mistake, nothing more. Yet, every time his eyes flicked to the corner where Dabi had been, a knot tightened in his chest. He hated that Dabi always seemed to get under his skin.
His gaze flickered to the door as it creaked open, and Dabi stepped in. Shigaraki’s heartbeat quickened, but he quickly shoved the feeling down. He was fine. He didn’t care.
He turned away, focusing on wiping an already spotless counter. It wasn’t the first time he’d acted like he didn’t notice Dabi’s presence. It probably wouldn’t be the last.
But Dabi didn’t make it easy. He walked up to the counter and leaned against it, close enough that Shigaraki could feel the heat from his body. “So, what’s your deal?” Dabi’s voice was casual, but there was an unmistakable edge to it. “You sure you don’t wanna explain why you keep wrecking everything you touch?”
Shigaraki’s grip on the cloth tightened. He didn’t want to deal with this right now. Not with Dabi. Not with anyone. But Dabi wasn’t the type to leave things alone.
“Just drop it,” Shigaraki muttered, his voice lower than he intended. His eyes stayed fixed on the counter, but his words were sharp, like a warning.
Dabi was quiet for a beat, then, with that signature smirk of his, he said, “Nah, I don’t think I will. What, you scared? Or are you just pretending it doesn’t bother you?”
Shigaraki’s chest tightened at the words. He didn’t like where this was going. He didn’t like any of this. His fingers twitched, wanting to snap, to lash out—something, anything to break this moment, this stupid tension.
But instead, all he said was, “Shut the fuck up, Dabi.”
Dabi let out a low chuckle, one that sent a chill down Shigaraki’s spine. “Yeah, alright. Pretend like it doesn’t bother you. But we both know that’s not how this works, right?”
Shigaraki froze for a second, his hand still gripping the rag too tightly. Dabi’s voice, calm but laced with something that sounded like the truth, made it worse. Shigaraki didn’t have an answer to that. He hated that he didn’t.
Instead of responding, Shigaraki turned, using the counter as an excuse to hide the way his fingers were clenched, knuckles white from tension. Dabi stood there, a shadow at his back, as if waiting for him to crack. But Shigaraki wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
He wasn’t.
And yet, as Dabi stayed there, just close enough to make Shigaraki uncomfortable but not enough to say anything more, Shigaraki realized something—he didn’t want this to continue. The quiet undercurrent of whatever the hell this was... he wanted it to stop.
But he wasn’t sure how to make it. And that pissed him off more than anything else.
Dabi leaned against the doorframe, eyes never leaving Shigaraki as his fingers drummed casually against the wood. "So, what's the deal with your quirk, anyway? Is it a control thing, or are you just... that careless?"
Shigaraki shot him a sharp glare, hands clenched into fists at his sides. His quirk had always been a touchy subject—too personal, a constant reminder of the mess he had to live with. But now Dabi was bringing it up like it was just some casual inconvenience.
"Shut the fuck up, Dabi," Shigaraki spat, voice low and cold. "You have no idea what it’s like—"
"Really?" Dabi interrupted, stepping forward with a raised brow. "Because I think I'm starting to get a pretty clear picture right now." He crossed his arms, eyes flicking down to Shigaraki’s clenched fists. "You’re telling me you just walk around, destroying everything you touch, and that doesn’t get to you at all?"
Shigaraki's jaw tightened, teeth gritted. He could feel his temper flaring, but he wasn’t sure if he was angrier at Dabi’s words or the way they hit a little too close to home.
"It’s none of your fucking business," Shigaraki muttered, voice clipped.
Dabi didn’t back down, still standing too close for comfort. “Yeah? Well, I think it is. You’re walking around like you're some kind of disaster waiting to happen. And maybe you are.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "But what are you gonna do when your sensitivity—" He gestured vaguely to Shigaraki’s hands, "—ends up causing you to destroy more than just bar supplies?"
The question hung in the air between them. Shigaraki’s breath hitched, but he quickly masked it with anger.
"I said," Shigaraki began, stepping back, "Shut the fuck up."
Dabi raised a hand in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Don’t get all bent out of shape.” He took a step back, but there was still something in his eyes—a quiet challenge, maybe even a little curiosity, lingering in the air.
For a moment, the tension between them crackled, thick and suffocating. Shigaraki stood frozen, staring down at his clenched fists, but before he could say anything else, Dabi leaned in a little closer, his voice lowering just enough for Shigaraki to hear.
"Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when it all comes crashing down because you can’t control yourself.”
Shigaraki's stomach churned at Dabi’s words, the weight of them sinking in deeper than he wanted to admit. His fists tightened, nails biting into his palms as his body trembled with restrained anger. He wasn’t about to give Dabi the satisfaction of seeing him crack, though. Without a word, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, his footsteps sharp against the floor, louder with each step, like he was trying to outrun something—maybe himself.
Behind him, Dabi didn’t move, his gaze cold but calculating as he watched Shigaraki’s back retreat into the hallway. The door clicked shut softly, but Dabi’s smirk lingered, slow and dangerous, pulling at the edges of his lips as the sound of Shigaraki’s footsteps faded.
He’d hit a nerve. And Shigaraki knew it.
Chapter 5: Between The Lines
Summary:
Two weeks in, and something’s different. Shigaraki’s still pissed about the dusted box, still pretending Dabi doesn’t get to him—but the silence between them isn’t so sharp anymore. A comment hits too close, a look lingers too long, and suddenly, Shigaraki’s blushing like an idiot over a damn coffee mug. He doesn’t know what this is turning into, but it’s starting to feel like something he won’t be able to walk away from.
Notes:
Timeskip who?
I would love it if you came to join me on twitter!! <3
Chapter Text
Fifteen days. That’s how long it took before things stopped feeling completely fucked.
Shigaraki didn’t even notice the time passing until he was wiping down the bar, doing the same menial tasks he’d been doing for days now. His movements were automatic, too ingrained to think about, but his mind... his mind was somewhere else. Somewhere, where he wasn’t stuck here, washing down mugs and trying not to get too attached to Dabi.
The coffee cup—the one he had accidentally dusted when he first met Dabi—was gone. It had been obliterated in an instant. Shigaraki didn’t care, really, but the fact that Dabi never mentioned it again made him... uneasy. Like there was some kind of unspoken understanding between them. And that bothered him more than it should’ve.
Shigaraki’s eyes flicked to the shelf where the mug used to sit, empty now. His hand tightened around the rag as the words from that day came rushing back—Dabi’s sarcastic comment, his gaze that had lingered just a little too long.
Whatever. Not my problem, he told himself, setting the rag down and moving toward the counter to grab another glass.
By day six, the dynamic had shifted—subtle, but noticeable. Shigaraki wasn’t sure when it happened, but something had changed. Dabi wasn’t just some annoying presence anymore; he’d become a fixture. Every morning, Dabi would show up, and Shigaraki would clean the same damn spot over and over, ignoring the fact that Dabi was always watching him.
There were moments of unexpected... normalcy. Conversations about the weather, about nothing in particular. And, on more than one occasion, Dabi would slide a coffee cup across the counter toward Shigaraki with that usual lazy grin. Shigaraki would grab it without thinking. No anger. No irritation. He was just... going with it.
It was the eighth day when Shigaraki had stopped making an effort to keep his distance. Maybe it was easier that way. Maybe it was just getting too hard to pretend. He didn’t know. What he did know was that Dabi had this annoying way of slipping into his routine like it was always meant to be that way.
He was sitting on the far side of the bar again, watching Shigaraki with that cocky, unreadable look.
"How’s it feel?" Dabi asked, arms folded across his chest, voice low. "You know, being stuck here all the time? Not much different from before, huh?"
Shigaraki gave him a flat look. "Don’t start with that shit."
Dabi smirked but didn’t press him any further. He just tipped his head back against the chair and watched Shigaraki wipe down the same spot again. His gaze didn’t waver, but there was something... softer in it now. Shigaraki couldn’t figure it out.
"You're avoiding the obvious," Dabi said suddenly, like it wasn’t a big deal, like they weren’t having the same argument every damn day.
Shigaraki clenched his jaw, but his eyes stayed focused on the rag in his hand. "Yeah? Well, you're not exactly helping."
The silence that followed felt... charged. Both of them standing there, pretending everything was fine.
As the tenth day came in just a blink of an eye, Shigaraki stood in the corner, staring blankly at the mess in front of him, trying to ignore Dabi’s incessant humming. Dabi was acting too relaxed for Shigaraki’s liking, as though nothing was wrong between them. The silence stretched, but Shigaraki felt a simmering tension that was impossible to ignore.
Dabi, for once, wasn’t poking at him. But then, the guy always had a way of waiting for the right moment to slide under Shigaraki’s skin.
"You gonna do something about it?" Dabi finally asked, breaking the silence.
Shigaraki shot him a sharp look, brows furrowing. "Do something about what?" he bit out, voice colder than usual.
"The way you’ve been acting," Dabi’s tone was casual, almost bored. "You’re acting like you don’t care, but you’ve been pissy all day. Something bothering you?"
Shigaraki gritted his teeth. "None of your fucking business."
Dabi let out a low chuckle, leaning back in his chair, eyeing Shigaraki like a predator sizing up prey. "It’s just weird, you’re usually more... explosive. But today, it’s like you’re pretending everything’s fine when it clearly isn’t."
Shigaraki’s patience was running out. His fist tightened at his side. "I said, drop it."
But Dabi wasn’t backing down. "If you’re so good at pretending, then why are you still here? Couldn’t you just walk out if you’re that annoyed with me?"
Shigaraki couldn’t answer that, not without acknowledging the truth he wasn’t ready to face. He just turned and walked away, his footsteps heavy against the floor. He didn’t have the energy to fight back today—not with Dabi, not with anyone.
"Yeah, that’s what I thought," Dabi muttered, but there was something in his voice, something almost like amusement.
Shigaraki kept walking, his mind racing.
By day twelve, something weird had started happening. Shigaraki noticed that, for reasons he couldn’t understand, he was actually replacing the coffee mugs that had been dusted.
He didn’t get why. He just... did it. Maybe it was because Dabi never asked for it. Maybe because it had been easier to pretend it didn’t bother him.
But on the thirteenth day, Dabi noticed. And Shigaraki knew the second Dabi’s eyes landed on the mug.
“Really?” Dabi said, raising an eyebrow. "You’re gonna replace the damn mug?"
Shigaraki's face flushed immediately, and he avoided Dabi’s gaze, his fingers tightening on the counter. "Shut up."
Dabi stepped closer, eyes locked on Shigaraki’s face, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Look at you, all flustered. I’m just trying to figure you out here.”
Shigaraki’s heart skipped a beat, and his face flushed even harder. He didn’t understand why, but the attention... the way Dabi said it, like it was some personal victory—he couldn’t take it.
Dabi leaned in just slightly, eyes gleaming with amusement. “You know, I don’t think I've ever seen you blush. You really should do it more often.”
The words hit like a punch, and Shigaraki’s face burned even worse than before. "You're an asshole," he muttered under his breath, but his voice was softer now, like he was trying to hide it.
Dabi chuckled, a low, teasing sound. "Yeah, I know."
Shigaraki’s head snapped up at that, his chest tightening in that unfamiliar, uncomfortable way again. He couldn’t respond. Couldn’t even think of a snappy comeback.
Instead, he turned away quickly, his heart racing. But this time, he didn’t leave. He stayed.
......
And in that pause, something hung between them, unspoken but undeniable. It wasn't just the usual tension that simmered whenever Dabi was around. No, this time it felt different—closer, almost... fragile. Like if either of them said the wrong thing, it would all collapse.
Shigaraki didn't have the patience for it, though. He never had. He turned away, grabbed a rag from the counter, and started wiping down the already clean bar top. Anything to keep his hands busy. He didn't want to think about what was happening, didn't want to acknowledge that Dabi was beginning to worm his way under his skin in ways that were unsettling, even for him.
Chapter 6: The Space Between Us
Summary:
Shigaraki’s day running errands in the crowded, hot streets of Kamino takes a turn when Dabi starts following him. They bicker, but there’s a noticeable shift in their dynamic as they walk together. Shigaraki opens up about the strain of acting like nothing matters, and Dabi quietly reveals he feels the same but has stopped hoping for anything different. The chapter ends with a moment of tension when their fingers accidentally brush, leaving both of them feeling unsettled. The growing closeness between them is clear, even if neither of them knows what to do with it yet.
Notes:
These two are fun to write <3 but I'm exhausted
come join me on twitter to stay updated on when the next chapter gets released!! <3
Let me know your thoughts and please leave kudos to show your support!
Chapter Text
The streets of Kamino were packed, yet again.
Summer in the city always brought a flood of tourists with it—loud, clueless people who somehow always managed to walk directly into Shigaraki’s personal space. The heat didn’t help either. It clung to his skin like a second layer, thick and oppressive, making every step through the crowd feel like a chore.
Kurogiri had sent him out to run errands. Batteries from the electronics shop. A couple bags of ice to keep the bar cooler than the inferno outside. Simple enough. But simple didn’t mean tolerable.
Shigaraki tugged at the collar of his hoodie—too hot for it, but he wasn’t about to walk around with his arms exposed—and scratched at the side of his neck, irritation bubbling up in his chest like a slow boil. The crush of bodies, the stench of sweat and sunscreen, the sheer noise of it all made his skin crawl. He just wanted to get this over with and get back inside.
Then, like clockwork, the universe decided to piss on his day even harder.
“You really shouldn’t walk around with that look on your face,” came a familiar voice from beside him, casual, amused.
Shigaraki didn’t look. He didn’t have to. That heavy stare, the slow, easy gait that didn’t match the chaos around them—it was Dabi. Of course it was.
He gritted his teeth. “Why the fuck are you following me?”
The words came out more tired than angry, like he’d already lost the will to argue before the conversation even began.
Dabi just shrugged, hands behind his head in that relaxed, cocky posture like he didn’t have a single care in the world. “Dunno. Just felt like it. Not like I have shit to do anyway.”
Shigaraki scoffed, rolling his eyes. He didn’t slow down. If anything, he walked faster, hoping Dabi would take the hint.
He didn’t.
“Plus, I’m bored,” Dabi added with a grin. “Entertain me.”
That made Shigaraki whip his head around, a spark of that familiar irritation lighting behind his eyes. “I’m not your fucking clown, asshole.”
Dabi chuckled, not even slightly phased. “Could’ve fooled me. You’re cute when you’re pissed.”
Shigaraki blinked.
Something about the way Dabi said it—so offhand, so low and smooth—made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. It wasn’t new, exactly. Dabi always had a way of toeing the line. But this time, it felt different. It felt real.
He turned his head away again, jaw tight, ears slightly tinted red.
They walked in silence for a few minutes. The crowd thinned a bit as they veered into a less tourist-heavy street, but the heat didn’t let up. Shigaraki adjusted the bags of ice in his arms, pretending he didn’t keep glancing at Dabi out of the corner of his eye.
Dabi looked... relaxed. Like he belonged there, strolling beside Shigaraki like they did this every day.
It made Shigaraki’s chest tighten.
“What?” he finally snapped, unable to take the silence.
Dabi just gave him a look. Not mocking, not smug. Just... studying. “You’ve been weird lately.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“No, like—” Dabi scratched behind his ear, uncharacteristically hesitant. “You’ve been letting me hang around.”
Shigaraki scowled. “I don’t let you do anything. You just show up.”
“Yeah. And you don’t make me leave.”
That made Shigaraki stop walking for a second. Not long, just enough for the pause to register. Dabi stopped too, standing there in the sun like he had all the time in the world.
Shigaraki stared straight ahead. “You’re annoying, but not enough to kill. Yet.”
Dabi grinned. “Progress.”
They started walking again, but slower this time. More in step.
And somewhere along the next block, Shigaraki muttered, almost too quiet to hear, “You don’t ask for shit.”
Dabi raised a brow. “What?”
Shigaraki scowled, clearly annoyed he had to repeat himself. “I said, you don’t ask for shit. You just show up, talk your crap, and sit around. You don’t expect anything from me.”
Dabi paused, then gave a half shrug, looking entirely unbothered. “Didn’t think you were the type to give a damn either way.”
Shigaraki’s frown deepened, and he shot Dabi a sharp look. “I’m not. ”
Dabi didn’t tease him for it. Didn’t laugh, didn’t call him out. He just nodded once and looked up at the sky like the conversation had already moved on in his head.
They walked the last few minutes in silence again, but it wasn’t heavy this time. It felt... bearable. Comfortable, even.
At the corner store, Shigaraki paid for the batteries while Dabi leaned against the wall by the entrance, arms crossed and eyes on everything but him.
When they stepped outside again, Dabi bumped his shoulder lightly against Shigaraki’s.
“You know,” he said, that grin returning, “this counts as hanging out.”
Shigaraki snorted. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
But he didn’t tell Dabi to leave.
And Dabi didn’t offer to.
The silence that settled between them after that wasn’t tense—it was... suspended. Like neither of them really knew what to say next without unraveling something they'd both been trying to ignore.
They walked the rest of the way without another word.
By the time they got back to the bar, the sun was dipping lower in the sky. The late afternoon light spilled in through the high, dusty windows, casting long streaks of orange and gold across the floorboards. The place was quiet, as usual. Kurogiri had left a note by the register: Had to step out. Be back tonight. Don’t touch the reserve.
Shigaraki dropped the bag of ice by the back freezer with a grunt and left the batteries on the counter. He scratched absently at his neck, feeling heat still lingering there—part sun, part irritation, part something else entirely.
Dabi didn’t say anything. Just followed him in, let the door swing shut behind him, and leaned against the wall like he owned it. Arms crossed, head tilted, watching.
“Quit staring,” Shigaraki muttered without turning around.
“Wasn’t,” Dabi replied lazily.
Shigaraki turned just enough to shoot him a look.
Dabi smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Okay. Maybe a little.”
There was a pause.
“You’re not that interesting,” Shigaraki mumbled, pulling a stool out from behind the bar and plopping down onto it. He didn’t mean it. Not really.
“Sure,” Dabi said, walking over. “That’s why I followed you all the way through the goddamn tourist trap. For the thrilling company.”
Shigaraki huffed a laugh before he could stop himself. It was short and dry, but it slipped out anyway.
Dabi raised an eyebrow. “You laughing at my jokes now? Gonna hold my hand next?”
“Shut up,” Shigaraki grumbled, glaring at the countertop like it had personally offended him.
But Dabi didn’t press. Didn’t move. He just dropped into the stool next to him, propped one foot on the lower rung, and let the quiet stretch out between them. It was still warm inside, the air slightly thick from the day, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
Shigaraki tapped his fingers against the bar, his nails clicking rhythmically. Then, a beat later, he said, low:
“ You ever think about what it’d be like to... I don’t know. Not act like none of this shit matters? ”
Dabi shot him a look, unimpressed. “What, like you care?”
Shigaraki didn’t look at him, picking at the counter with his fingers. “No. It’s just... sometimes, it feels like it’s too much. Pretending like it doesn’t get to you. Like I don’t want something else for once. Something that isn’t a pain in the ass.”
Dabi was quiet for a second, just watching him. Then he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter, his voice quieter, but still sharp. “I think about it all the time.”
Shigaraki blinked, then turned his head to glance at him, but quickly looked away again.
“I’m just used to knowing I’m not gonna get it,” Dabi added, his tone shifting, more resigned. “So, I stopped bothering to think about it.”
Shigaraki’s fingers stilled, and for a moment, he couldn’t say anything. His throat tightened, his chest heavy. He’d never been good at this kind of stuff. Still... he couldn’t leave it hanging in the air.
He muttered, almost inaudibly, "...Guess I'm not the only one."
And Dabi didn’t smile this time. Just nodded once, slow and steady, like he understood more than he let on.
They sat there in that stretch of dusk light, neither of them moving, the quiet between them no longer sharp or awkward—but something worn-in. Something familiar.
As the conversation drifted off, Shigaraki’s hand rested on the counter, a fraction too close to Dabi’s. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, but for some reason, the space between them felt thicker than before. Neither of them moved, the silence stretching in an almost charged way, as if the world had paused for just a moment.
Then, their fingers brushed—lightly, almost imperceptibly—but it was enough. Shigaraki’s breath hitched, a sharp, unfamiliar tension flooding through him. His heart skipped a beat, and he immediately pulled his hand back, as if the contact had burned him. The warmth from Dabi’s skin seemed to linger on his fingertips, a sensation he couldn’t quite shake. His face flushed, the heat creeping up his neck as he quickly turned his head, trying to hide it.
Before he could recover, the sound of the door to the bar chimed, and Kurogiri entered. Shigaraki immediately cleared his throat, trying to cover up the sudden, uncomfortable tightness in his chest. “Kurogiri,” he said, his voice almost a little too sharp as he focused on the bartender. “You're back?”
Kurogiri gave them a quick, unreadable look before heading to the back of the bar.
Shigaraki stayed still for a moment, still feeling the faint echo of Dabi’s touch lingering in his skin. His hands were tense on the counter, his mind racing to dismiss the weird flutter in his chest. He had never been good at this kind of thing, but something about the closeness had made it impossible to ignore. And now, with his face burning under the weight of the unspoken moment, he didn’t know how to shake it off.
Dabi, as usual, seemed entirely unaffected, lounging back like he didn’t have a care in the world. Shigaraki, though, couldn’t stop himself from glancing at him from the corner of his eye, still feeling that strange, new pull between them.
Chapter 7: Before It All Comes Down
Summary:
The bar is dead quiet, but Shigaraki's head is screaming. He drowns himself in busy work, wiping glasses and cleaning counters like it’ll stop the gnawing anxiety in his chest — like it’ll make him forget how empty the place feels without him. When Dabi finally drifts in, late and careless as always, the air shifts. Their usual sniping is muted today, but the tension coils tighter. Shigaraki can’t stop noticing the little things: the way Dabi’s eyes linger too long, the way their shoulders brush behind the bar and leave heat crawling under his skin. It’s infuriating — how much space Dabi takes up in his head without even trying. But everything unravels when Shigaraki overhears the conversation he was never meant to hear: All For One plotting, Kurogiri warning, and the cold truth that Shigaraki is just a weapon to be used — valuable only if he stays intact. The words cut deep, leaving him spiraling, clawing at his own skin just to feel something real. And through it all, Dabi hovers close, sharp-eyed and silent, watching Shigaraki crack at the seams. The space between them grows electric — painfully close but never touching — as the storm outside creeps closer.
Notes:
A bit of a shorter chapter, but things are heating up!! This chapter was super Shigaraki-oriented, and now All For One has finally entered the fray. Next chapter, Shigaraki and Dabi finally cross the point of no return in their relationship
I would love it if you came to join me on twitter!! <3 Please leave kudos to show your support!
Chapter Text
The bar was dead quiet for a Monday afternoon.
Shigaraki wiped down the countertop with a rag that smelled faintly of bleach, the sound of fabric against wood the only thing cutting through the silence. The air was humid—sticky even with the overhead fan spinning slowly above him, squeaking every third turn. Outside, gray clouds hung low in the sky, casting a dull light through the windows and smearing the bar's already gloomy interior with a lazy, sleepy haze.
He didn't mind the quiet. It gave him room to breathe—space to think.
It was the kind of day where time seemed to stretch and bend. Where nothing felt quite real.
Shigaraki moved around the bar like he always did, mechanically. It was an escape. If his hands were busy, his mind wouldn’t have to be. He lined up glasses on the counter, one by one, and wiped each down with an exaggerated focus. The routine kept the thoughts from creeping in too much, even though they always did.
The clink of glass against wood. The low hum of the fridge in the back.
It was strange, sometimes, how a place could be both suffocating and liberating all at once. This bar had become his refuge—a space he didn’t have to talk about the things he didn’t want to face.
A loud crash broke his rhythm, and he paused, turning his head toward the back door. It had been nothing. Maybe a bottle falling in the stockroom or Kurogiri dropping stuff again. But the sound echoed in his ears longer than it probably should’ve.
His gaze wandered to the dusty mirror mounted on the wall by the doorframe of the kitchen behind the bar. His reflection was blurry, unfocused, as though even the glass didn’t want to show him the truth of himself. He scratched at his neck absentmindedly, but stopped when he noticed the red marks under his nails. They weren’t deep. But they were there.
He moved away from the mirror and into the back of the bar, grabbing a bottle of whiskey to restock. The hum of the fridge seemed to grow louder, a constant reminder of how out of sync everything was lately. The air in here felt thicker than it should have, stifling. And when his fingers brushed against the cool glass of the bottle, the small gesture sent a jolt of tension through him, a reminder of how tightly wound everything had become.
Shigaraki's movements slowed as he worked, but his mind—his mind was miles away.
It wasn’t just the bar that was quiet. Everything outside felt muffled too. Even the city, which usually had some hum or beat to it, seemed to have gone quiet in the same way. He couldn’t help but wonder if something was on the horizon. His gut twisted, and a dull pressure weighed down on his chest. This feeling was nauseating, anxiety that always seemed to find a way to slip through all the cracks.
He hadn’t heard from Dabi yet, though he wasn’t exactly waiting. Or maybe he was. A small part of him had started to notice when the bar felt emptier without Dabi around. He didn't even realize when these kinds of thoughts started to bring a small, almost sad frown to his face. But Shigaraki didn’t dwell on it, didn’t admit to himself how much the tension shifted when Dabi walked in, how he makes his heart race in this way he can't describe, or how strange it felt when he wasn’t there, crowding his space like he always does.
It was nothing. Not important. Not now.
The thought of Dabi brought a short, bitter laugh to his lips. Of course, Dabi would show up late. He always did. It was a running joke by now, a silent understanding. Not that Shigaraki ever acknowledged it, not to his face.
He moved to check the glasses again, running a few fingers over their rims to make sure they were spotless. His gaze shifted briefly to the clock on the wall—it was almost 3:30; not that Shigaraki was counting exactly how many minutes Dabi was late or anything, but the silence was starting to get stifling.
Another half hour and the regulars would start coming in. The bar would shift, the chatter would increase. But until then, the stillness clung to him like a weight.
Then, at 3:45, the door creaked open. Dabi stepped in without saying anything, the usual smirk noticeably absent today. He glanced around the bar, then made his way behind the counter like he belonged there, which—by now—he kind of did.
“Rain’s coming,” Dabi muttered, slumping into the stool Shigaraki usually kept for himself during breaks.
Shigaraki grunted with a small sigh. “Figured.”
The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. Not exactly. But it was thick. Heavier than normal.
Dabi leaned back and pulled some pen out from his jacket pocket, twirling it between his fingers.
“You look like shit,” he said after a moment.
“Thanks.”
“No, seriously. You sleep?”
Shigaraki didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Dabi shrugged and pocketed the pen again.
Even through Dabi's nonchalant nature, there was a slight tight feeling in his chest. Was it concern for Shigaraki? Was it a need to want to do something to relieve that thickness in the air? Who knows. Dabi surely didn't. Or maybe he just wasn't ready to face it.
Time crawled.
The clock ticked over to 4:00 PM, and the bar's regulars would start filtering in soon. Shigaraki moved to get things ready, feeling Dabi’s eyes on him sometimes—just for a second, like he was trying to figure out something he hadn’t asked yet.
And then he was in the back, restocking a few bottles, when the soft crackle of the monitor in the stockroom caught his ear.
He paused.
The old light above the back table buzzed faintly, the only sound besides the faint shuffle of Kurogiri’s misty form, swirling slightly more restless than usual.
Kurogiri's voice, calm, deep, and smooth like rolling smoke, spoke first.
"...we're nearly ready. The final shipment of Nomus came in last week. Everything is falling into place. However... Tomura isn’t prepared. Exposing him to a confrontation of this magnitude... it risks everything.”
And then a voice he hadn’t heard in a long time. One that lived in the back of his mind, in the parts of him he tried to ignore.
All For One stood with his back to them on the screen, hands clasped behind him, voice devoid of concern. “It isn’t about preparation. It’s about necessity.”
Shigaraki's breath hitched.
He didn’t have to see the screen to know who it was. That deep, smooth, calculating voice that could only belong to one person.
Sensei.
His gut twisted. He leaned in just a little more, his nails digging unconsciously into the wall.
“He doesn’t know?” Kurogiri asked quietly.
“No. And he shouldn’t, it’s better this way. Let him believe he’s chosen a different path. When the time comes, he’ll remember where he belongs.”
“But he’s still unstable,” Kurogiri pressed, a flicker of tension threading through his usually unflappable tone. The mist that made up his body quivered subtly, betraying emotion he rarely allowed to surface. “Emotionally. Tactically. Sending him into this chaos could be catastrophic—for him, for us.”
A pause. Heavy. Final. The distant hum of city traffic seeped in through the cracked windows.
“He needs to be tested,” All For One said, his voice almost gentle, almost cruel. “A structure that never faces a storm never learns its strength. Tomura must be forged in conflict. And once I've acquired One For All, nothing shall stand in our way.”
Kurogiri’s mist shifted again, disturbed by something invisible, coiling slightly at the edges. He was silent for a long moment before asking, softer now, with something almost like fear threading his tone, “And if he breaks?”
All For One’s helmet tilted, as if smiling. His answer was absolute.
“Then he was never worthy to succeed me.”
Silence.
Then, with a calm finality, All for One added, “Protect Tomura at all costs. I’ll need him intact.”
Shigaraki’s stomach lurched. His mouth went dry.
He staggered back from the wall like he’d been physically hit. His skin crawled, and he didn’t even realize he was scratching again until the sting caught up with him.
He didn’t want to think about what that meant. Didn’t want to acknowledge what he’d just heard.
But it echoed. Over and over again.
Protect Tomura at all costs. I’ll need him intact.
Then he was never worthy to succeed me.
Shigaraki clenched his jaw and stormed out of the backroom.
The bar was packed by seven.
The air was hot and loud, soaked with overlapping voices and clinking glasses. Shigaraki moved through it like a ghost—mechanical, hyper-aware of every sound, every motion, but too wrapped up in his own mind to care. He served drinks. Cleaned spills. Ignored the urge to scream, to destroy.
Dabi showed up again behind the bar halfway through the rush, brushing past Shigaraki to grab a bottle. Their shoulders touched, the heat emanating off of Dabi's body lingering on the spot where they touched. Shigaraki flinched.
Dabi gave him a look.
“You good?”
Shigaraki stared at him. Really looked. At the burn scars crawling up his face, the piercings, and those always half-lidded icy blue eyes that were now sharper than usual.
“No.”
He didn’t elaborate. Dabi didn’t ask.
But that was the moment it shifted. The moment the silence between them started to stretch thin. Like something was about to snap, but couldn't quite break free just yet.
And outside, somewhere beyond the neon signs and cheap beer and chatter—
something terrible was already on its way.
Chapter 8: Fractures Beneath The Skin
Summary:
The city's burning, heroes and villains ripping each other apart — but none of that matters when Dabi throws himself into the fire just to save Shigaraki. One second, they're fighting to stay alive; the next, they're crashing into each other like they’re the only thing keeping the other breathing. And then it happens: the kiss. Messy, desperate, and way too real. It's not soft. It's not sweet. It's raw, like they’re trying to pull something out of each other they don’t know how to say. And when it’s over, nothing’s the same. The world's falling apart outside, but the real disaster is between them — and this time, neither of them can pretend they don’t feel it anymore
Notes:
So sorry this chapter came at the end of the week! I've been feeling ill lately so I wasn't able to upload it at the beginning of the week like I planned :((! Chapter 9 and 10 will release next week, sometime between Monday-Wednesday! Follow my twitter to keep up with when a new chapter releases! Enjoy!
I would love it if you came to join me on twitter!! <3 Please leave kudos to show your support!
Chapter Text
The bar had been quieter than usual, almost unnervingly so. The air inside felt heavy, saturated with the kind of tension that only Shigaraki and Dabi could sustain between them—unspoken, unacknowledged, but ever-present.
Shigaraki was ridiculously sleep deprived. The conversation between Kurogiri and All For One from a week prior still lingered in Shigaraki's head, replaying in his head every night when he went to sleep. It haunted him. He would wake up in cold sweats, panting, and looking around as if All For One would be lurking in a dark corner in his room.
It was the kind of night where everything seemed muted, like the world outside was holding its breath. But then it happened.
The ground shook with a violent tremor, sending ripples through the wooden floorboards. The bar’s sign rattled on its chain, clanging against the building’s exterior. It was more than just an earthquake—it was the kind of force that rattled bones and made the walls groan with distress. For a moment, everything seemed to freeze, as if the universe itself was pausing mid-breath.
Shigaraki’s pulse jumped. The tremor spread like a warning shot through his chest, setting his nerves alight. He felt his breath catch as panic began to claw at his insides. No… not yet. It can’t be happening already.
Another low rumble coursed through the floor, glasses clinking together behind the bar. A thin layer of dust dropped from the ceiling, catching the low, dim light above their heads, swirling like tiny ghosts in the still air.
Shigaraki’s fingers twitched where they rested on the scarred wood of the table. His nails scraped against the grain unconsciously, the faint scratching sound barely audible over the thudding of his own heartbeat. His throat felt dry, tight, as if he’d swallowed sand.
A loud boom followed by the heavy rattle of windows brought him out of his trance. Shigaraki’s mind was spinning, and suddenly all he could hear were fragments of a conversation he’d overheard months ago—Kurogiri and All For One, their voices low and purposeful, speaking about an impending battle that would change everything. A key event. A war.
The old light above the back table buzzed faintly, the only sound besides the faint shuffle of Kurogiri’s misty form, swirling slightly more restless than usual.
Kurogiri's voice, deep and smooth like rolling smoke, spoke first. “He isn’t prepared. Exposing him to a confrontation of this magnitude... it risks everything we have built.”
All For One stood with his back to them, hands clasped behind him, voice devoid of concern. The dim overhead light barely touched the gleaming edges of his armor. “It isn’t about preparation. It’s about necessity.”
“But he’s still unstable,” Kurogiri pressed, a flicker of tension threading through his usually unflappable tone. The mist that made up his body quivered subtly, betraying emotion he rarely allowed to surface. “Emotionally. Tactically. Sending him into this chaos could be catastrophic—for him, for us.”
A pause. Heavy. Final. The distant hum of city traffic seeped in through the cracked windows.
“He needs to be tested,” All For One said, his voice almost gentle, almost cruel. “A structure that never faces a storm never learns its strength. Tomura must be forged in conflict.”
Kurogiri’s mist shifted again, disturbed by something invisible, coiling slightly at the edges. He was silent for a long moment before asking, softer now, with something almost like fear threading his tone, “And if he breaks?”
All For One’s helmet tilted, as if smiling. His answer was absolute.
“Then he was never worthy to succeed me.”
The memory gripped Shigaraki’s chest like a vice as another aftershock shuddered through the building.
He stood up abruptly, chair legs screeching sharply across the floor. His hand was trembling and he jammed it into his hoodie pocket to hide it, knuckles whitening from how hard he clenched his fist. Dabi, leaning lazily against the bar with a bottle of cheap beer dangling from his fingers, narrowed his eyes at him, the lazy tilt of his body sharpening into alertness.
“What the hell was that?” Shigaraki muttered, voice rough and raw around the edges. His eyes flickered toward the ceiling as if expecting it to collapse inward.
Dabi didn’t answer immediately. He flicked his gaze toward the door like a lazy predator sensing something just beyond the brush. His brow creased, his hand tightening imperceptibly around the neck of the bottle until his burnt knuckles stood out paler than the rest of his skin.
“Not good,” Dabi said finally. His voice, normally steeped in apathy, carried a rare undercurrent of alertness—a tension strung tight just under his skin.
Another boom shook the bar. This time something heavy toppled behind them—an old stack of crates smashing against the ground with a hollow crash.
Shigaraki’s stomach twisted. He needed to see it. He needed to see it with his own eyes.
He shoved the door open without thinking, the rusted hinges shrieking.
The world outside had descended into hell.
Thick, acrid smoke filled the air, blurring the outlines of crumbling buildings. Civilians screamed as they sprinted through the streets, some dragging children behind them, some too panicked to think. In the distance, colossal forms—Nomus—rampaged, hurling debris and swiping at heroes who scrambled to contain the chaos.
Shigaraki froze.
His fingers curled uselessly at his sides, nails biting into the fabric of his pants. His heart hammered against his ribs, erratic and painful, like it was trying to punch its way out of his chest.
The smell of burning concrete, of blood and sweat and fear, filled his nose, clogging it, making it hard to breathe.
He stood on the edge of it all, useless, invisible, a ghost at the start of a nightmare.
And then—
A heavyset man—wild-eyed, clutching a bloodied pipe—stumbled toward him out of the chaos. He wasn’t thinking, wasn’t seeing. He lunged, swinging wildly.
Shigaraki flinched instinctively, his legs locking up, his mind blanking under the sudden rush of fear.
The next moments moved too fast.
Heat. Movement. A rough hand slamming into his chest.
Dabi shoved Shigaraki backwards, hard enough to knock the air out of him. Shigaraki hit the ground with a dull thud, the impact jarring up his spine and rattling his teeth. His elbows scraped against the asphalt, stinging sharply. Before he could even gasp, Dabi was standing over him, one hand raised, flames already roaring to life.
A wall of blue fire exploded forward, searing the ground between Shigaraki and the attacker. The man shrieked and stumbled back, shielding his face, dropping the pipe with a hollow clatter.
Dabi didn’t give him another glance. His body turned automatically, grabbing the front of Shigaraki’s hoodie in a fist and hauling him up off the ground with a grunt.
“Move, dumbass!” Dabi barked, the heat from his flames still curling off his skin, making the air shimmer around him.
They sprinted into the nearest alley, ducking low under a sagging fire escape. Shigaraki stumbled, half-pulled by Dabi’s grip. His breathing was ragged, tearing from his lungs in painful bursts. The pounding in his ears nearly drowned out the sounds of the city tearing itself apart.
Once hidden in the shadows, Dabi shoved Shigaraki back against the brick wall, still gripping his hoodie like he was afraid Shigaraki would vanish if he let go.
The blue glow from Dabi’s extinguished flames danced in his narrowed eyes, casting strange, ghostly shadows over the ruined planes of his face.
“You okay?” Dabi rasped, voice raw, almost rough enough to cut.
Shigaraki stared at him, wide-eyed. His chest heaved with shallow, rapid breaths, the fabric of his hoodie vibrating against Dabi’s hands.
“You—” Shigaraki swallowed hard. His voice cracked, dry and disbelieving. “You used your Quirk. You said you weren’t—”
Dabi’s hands fisted tighter into Shigaraki’s hoodie, yanking him half a step closer, the force rattling through Shigaraki’s bones.
“Yeah, well,” Dabi growled, voice low, dangerous, frantic. His breath smelled faintly of smoke and something bitter underneath. “I don’t give a shit what I said. You were about to get your face caved in.”
The air between them was suffocatingly hot. Shigaraki could feel the residual warmth radiating off Dabi’s body, the way his chest heaved against his own, the frantic thrum of Dabi’s heart reverberating through their point of contact. Their faces were barely inches apart—too close, yet not close enough.
For a second, neither moved.
Dabi’s eyes flicked down—lips, throat, hoodie strings—and then back up.
Shigaraki saw something flicker in them. Something like fear. Something like desperation. Something like regret.
Dabi inhaled sharply through his teeth—and then, suddenly, violently, he kissed him.
It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t slow. It was clumsy, fueled by adrenaline and terror and something neither of them wanted to name.
Dabi’s lips crashed into Shigaraki’s with bruising force, his hands still tangled in the fabric of his hoodie like he needed to anchor himself or else drift away. Shigaraki’s head knocked lightly back against the wall, stunned, mouth parted slightly in shock. A tiny, involuntary gasp escaped him, muffled between their mouths.
For a heartbeat, he didn’t respond.
But the heat, the frantic way Dabi clung to him—it seeped into him like water into cracked stone. Shigaraki’s hands, stiff and trembling, came up to grip the front of Dabi’s jacket, bunching the leather under his fingers.
The kiss deepened messily, all ragged breaths and clashing teeth and tongues too desperate to be careful. Dabi’s burnt hand found Shigaraki’s waist, fingers curling tightly enough to leave bruises, grounding himself against the trembling, hot weight of Shigaraki's body.
Dabi angled his head, sliding a knee forward, pressing it between Shigaraki’s thighs without even realizing it. The friction made Shigaraki moan softly into his mouth—a broken little sound that vibrated against Dabi’s lips, sending a tremor through his core.
The moment expanded between them like a detonation—hot, wild, irreversible.
When they finally tore apart, it was messy. Their lips were swollen, breaths coming in harsh, uneven pants. A thin, glistening thread of saliva still connected them, stretching until it snapped.
Shigaraki’s chest heaved against Dabi’s, both of them still pressed so close that every rapid heartbeat passed between them like electricity. Four of Shigaraki's fingers were still fisted in Dabi’s jacket like he didn’t trust himself to let go.
Dabi’s forehead pressed lightly against Shigaraki’s, his breath ghosting over his skin, sticky and hot.
“Fuck,” Dabi muttered, almost a whimper, like he couldn’t believe what just happened.
Shigaraki swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly.
His voice, when he finally found it, was hoarse. Barely a whisper.
“What the hell are we doing?”
Dabi let out a ragged breath that might’ve been a laugh or a sob. His grip loosened slightly but didn’t let go.
“I don’t know,” Dabi whispered back. “Don’t fucking ask me.”
For a long, long moment, they just stood there, bodies pressed together, chaos raging outside, the weight of what they’d just done hanging heavy between them.
Neither moved to break the contact.
And now the silence between them was deafening.
Dabi’s forehead still rested against Shigaraki’s, their breath mingling, their bodies locked in place by a gravity neither of them dared acknowledge.
The world outside screamed and burned, but here, in this tiny, stolen corner of the alleyway, time had collapsed into something fragile and trembling.
Shigaraki’s fingers were still fisted in the front of Dabi’s jacket, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. He could feel the wild stutter of Dabi’s heartbeat through the thin space between them—uneven, frantic, terrified.
It should have been a relief when Dabi finally moved.
Instead, it felt like whiplash.
Without warning, Dabi jerked back, tearing away like he’d been burned by the contact—ironic, considering. The sudden loss of warmth left Shigaraki swaying slightly, his back scraping rough against the brick wall.
For a second, Dabi just stared at him—wide-eyed, wrecked, mouth parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. His burnt hands hovered in the space between them, twitching uselessly, like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore.
Shigaraki opened his mouth. Closed it. The words shriveled on his tongue.
What the fuck just happened?
Dabi’s gaze flicked away first, sharp and violent, like he couldn’t stand to see whatever expression was carved into Shigaraki’s face.
“We need to move,” Dabi snapped, voice cracking down the middle like a broken stick. He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned on his heel and stalked toward the mouth of the alley, movements jerky, too fast.
Shigaraki closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to steady his breathing. He could still feel the ghost of Dabi’s lips against his own—bruised, desperate, real in a way that nothing else had ever been.
He pushed off the wall and followed.
The moment between them hung heavy in the air, stretching like a fracture across the surface of something much deeper. Neither of them mentioned it. Neither of them could.
The city around them had turned into a warzone.
Flames licked at the sides of crumbling buildings, the smoke so thick it stung Shigaraki’s eyes and throat. Civilians ran in all directions, faces twisted in terror. Heroes shouted orders he could barely make out over the din.
A massive Nomu—a hulking beast of stitched flesh and exposed bone—charged through the main street, its roar loud enough to shake the broken windows still clinging to the surrounding buildings.
Without thinking, Shigaraki stiffened.
Dabi noticed instantly. His hand shot out—hovered near Shigaraki’s wrist without touching, the hesitation clear before he yanked it back.
"Stay close," he muttered, voice low, raw.
Shigaraki barely nodded. He felt brittle, hollowed out. Like one wrong move would shatter him completely. He's never experienced this kind of vulnerability before, and it was terrifying.
A Nomu spotted them and let out a bellowing roar. Its muscles coiled, legs bunching, preparing to charge.
Before Shigaraki could react, Dabi stepped in front of him, shoulders tensed, flames already curling around his fists, his skin slowly peeling off the palms of his hands from the heat. It wasn't good for him to use his quirk so much. Having to constantly redo the staples and piercings over and over again was probably almost as annoying as it was to be in the bar with Shigaraki for twelve hours straight without a break.
This wasn’t like before, when Dabi’s quirk had slipped out in a panic.
This time, it was intentional.
Deliberate.
The flames shot forward in a searing wave, blue fire illuminating the destroyed buildings around them. The Nomu shrieked, flailing as the fire singed across its front, peeling skin away from muscle.
Shigaraki watched, chest tightening unbearably. Almost like a strange fondness filling this hollow space in him.
Is he doing this for me?
A realization, a revelation. Heavy. Terrifying.
Something inside him cracked under the weight of it.
The Nomu charged anyway, barreling through the flames, furious now. Shigaraki moved without thinking, his body reacting on instinct. He dove to the side, Dabi pivoting with him, still keeping up a steady wall of fire to keep the distance between the creature and them.
They fought together—awkward, uncoordinated, but it was strangely fitting.
Dabi was reckless, wild, his fire burning too hot, too bright, to the point where it made Shigaraki cough from the smoke filling his lungs.
Shigaraki, however, was clumsy, uncoordinated, and struggling to keep cover behind Dabi. It hurt his pride to let Dabi protect him. But at the end of the day, Shigaraki wasn't a fighter. He spends his days playing video games, isolated in his room, and barely leaves the bar. Dabi, though, seemed like he knew what he was doing. Like he had experience fighting.
It wasn’t perfect.
But they made do.
Until—
A chunk of shattered concrete, dislodged by the Nomu’s rampage, came flying through the smoke.
Shigaraki didn’t see it in time.
The impact was blunt and vicious, slamming into his shoulder and knocking him off his feet with a strangled grunt, and sending him flying into the ruins of a nearby building. Pain flared hot and sharp through the side of his body, blooming outward in almost electric bursts.
He hit the ground hard, vision swimming, blacking out for a brief moment.
“Shit—Shigaraki!”
Dabi’s voice, raw and frantic, pierced the haze of pain.
Within seconds, he was there—dropping to his knees beside Shigaraki, grabbing his uninjured shoulder with shaking hands.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—look at me,” Dabi ordered, voice breaking. His shaking hands hovered over Shigaraki like he didn’t know where to touch without hurting him worse.
Shigaraki slowly blinked up at him, dazed, the edges of his vision graying out.
The look on Dabi’s face—
It wasn’t anger.
It wasn’t annoyance.
It was pure, undiluted terror.
[email protected] (Guest) on Chapter 2 Fri 02 May 2025 07:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
Vidurasin on Chapter 3 Mon 21 Apr 2025 07:46PM UTC
Last Edited Mon 21 Apr 2025 07:46PM UTC
Comment Actions
blueflamez on Chapter 3 Mon 21 Apr 2025 10:07PM UTC
Comment Actions
[email protected] (Guest) on Chapter 5 Fri 02 May 2025 08:13PM UTC
Comment Actions
Tomuuss (Guest) on Chapter 6 Tue 22 Apr 2025 07:28PM UTC
Comment Actions
blueflamez on Chapter 6 Tue 22 Apr 2025 10:33PM UTC
Last Edited Wed 23 Apr 2025 04:33AM UTC
Comment Actions
tinygarbageman (Guest) on Chapter 6 Sun 27 Apr 2025 09:12AM UTC
Comment Actions
Guest (Guest) on Chapter 8 Sun 18 May 2025 08:49PM UTC
Comment Actions
fagatron5000 on Chapter 8 Wed 02 Jul 2025 11:25PM UTC
Comment Actions