Why Does Shigaraki Itch

As someone who's obsessed with 'My Hero Academia', I can totally picture Shigaraki interacting with a male reader in his usual creepy yet oddly captivating way. He'd probably start off dismissive, maybe even mocking, but if the reader shows any sign of being useful or interesting, he'd shift to that unsettling curiosity of his. Imagine him scratching his neck while sizing you up, asking vague but loaded questions about your 'quirk' or what side you're on. If you're not a hero, he might see you as potential cannon fodder for the League of Villains. But if you stand your ground or show a twisted sense of humor, he might actually engage more, in that chaotic, unpredictable manner of his. Just don't expect warmth—Shigaraki's version of 'friendly' is still laced with menace and a hint of boredom unless you spark his warped sense of amusement.

In 'My Hero Academia', Shigaraki Tomura, also known as Tenko Shimura, is not Izuku Midoriya's (Deku's) brother. They don't share any blood relationship. However, they share an intense and complicated relationship towards each other due to their opposing views and goals. Shigaraki, being AFO's successor and Deku, having inherited OFA, have become rivals. Even though they are not brothers, they, ironically, have parallel and mirrored narrative arcs in the story.

There are the hands of foe Shigaraki Tomura. The hands he wears are not only for show or frightening other people; they also have a very prominent symbolic value in Japanese culture. Each one represents an individual that was once important to him. Among these lost ones, there are people who symbolize the ideal living coexistence: family members are alive in spirit through these hands The artificial hand, covered by the skull like visage, known as "Father", serves as a metaphor for something else entirely. With every hideous hand upon him that reminds him of his past, he also cruels his hatred more deeply into villainy. It is a hideous but wonderful portrayal of a human being shackled by the past.

Every time I pause on that unsettling image of him — the pale face half hidden beneath a clutch of severed hands — I get pulled right back into the messy, brutal origin of his character in 'My Hero Academia'. Those hands aren’t just a gothic costume choice; they’re literal remnants of the life he destroyed and the way his mentor twisted that trauma into a purpose. As Tenko Shimura, his Quirk spiraled out of control and killed the people closest to him. All For One found the broken kid and, in his warped way, made those deaths into talismans: the hands from Tenko’s family were placed on him and turned into a symbol to never let him forget what happened and why he should burn the system down. It’s layered storytelling. On a surface level the hands are trophies — a grotesque display that marks him as a villain and makes people recoil. On a deeper psychological level they’re both a comfort and a chain. He clings to those hands like mementos, because they are the only remaining link to what little emotional life he had left; simultaneously they force him to stay consumed by rage and grief. All For One isn’t just grooming a weapon, he’s training a mind, using the hands as constant, tactile reinforcement of Tenko’s hatred and isolation. Beyond lore mechanics, I love how the imagery doubles as thematic shorthand. The hands are a physical manifestation of decay — not just the Decay Quirk he wields, but the decay of family, innocence, and humanity. They visually narrate his distance from normal society and the people he once loved. And later in the story, as his power and ambitions evolve, the hands also evolve into a sort of makeshift armor for his identity — a reminder that what he is now was forged from oblivion. It’s grim, sure, but it’s effective storytelling: every time he adjusts a hand on his shoulder or covers his face, you’re watching someone hold on to trauma while using it as fuel. I’ll admit, seeing him with those hands still creeps me out, but I can’t help admiring how the series uses a single, haunting visual to carry so much emotional and narrative weight — it’s horrifying in the best possible way for character design, and it sticks with me long after the episode ends.

What fascinates me about Shigaraki is how the physical costume — those grotesque hands — keeps working as storytelling long after his quirk changes. To me they’re not just a creepy fashion choice; they’re a walking museum of trauma, identity, and control. The hands began as literal reminders of the awful accident that shaped him, and even when his decay becomes something far more devastating and hard to contain, he keeps wearing them because they anchor him to the “Tomura” persona that All For One helped forge. They’re memorials and trophies at once: reminders of who he was, who he lost, and who taught him to direct his rage outward. On a practical level, the hands also function like restraint and camouflage. After his quirk evolves into the instantaneous, widespread decay that makes him a walking weapon, he still needs ways to limit accidental contact with allies, civilians, or the environment. The hands can be worn in layers, tied down, or used to cover his real skin, creating a buffer between him and whatever he touches. They also let him pick and choose when to activate that terror; if everything were bare and exposed, he’d be a walking hazard to anyone nearby — including his own troops. In battle choreography and animation, that physical restraint helps explain moments when he hesitates or targets deliberately rather than just annihilating everything in sight. Beyond utility and symbolism, I think there’s a theatrical motive. Villains in 'My Hero Academia' often cultivate an image, and Shigaraki’s image of clinging hands is unforgettable and nightmarish. It announces his philosophy: the world is broken, human touch is death, and history clings to you. Even after gaining terrifying new power, he keeps the hands because losing them would mean losing the story everyone has already accepted about him. For me, that mix of psychological scar, crude safety device, and brand-building is what makes him one of the more chilling characters — the hands are both his wound and his weapon, and that duality sticks with me every time I rewatch or reread his scenes.

Watching Shigaraki shuffle across a scene in 'My Hero Academia' always hits me with a weird mix of pity and dread. The hands plastered over his body aren’t just a creepy costume choice — they’re literal pieces of his past and the most obvious symbol of what shaped him. Those hands are the severed, preserved hands of people connected to his childhood trauma: family members and victims of the accident that birthed his quirk. After that catastrophe, All For One staged him into villainy and gifted him those hands, turning intimate loss into an outward, unavoidable identity. The hand over his face? It functions like a mask and a shackle at once, keeping his human features hidden while keeping the memory of what he lost pressed to him constantly. Beyond the grim origin, the hands work on multiple symbolic levels. They’re a badge of guilt — a wearable reminder that he caused devastation, intentionally or not. They’re also trophies in a twisted sense: to observers it looks like a villain who collects a morbid souvenir from every casualty, but the real sting is that those trophies were forced upon him as psychological chains. They represent manipulation by his mentor, the way pain can be weaponized to control someone. Stylistically, they make him look like a walking corpse or a living reliquary, which screams about dehumanization; he’s been objectified by his history, and by the hands’ presence he becomes less a person and more an embodiment of ruin. On a narrative level, the hands are brilliant because they communicate story without dialogue. They tell you about generational trauma, about how a child’s mistake can be exhumed and turned into ideology, about how villains can be manufactured by those who exploit wounds. I also see a darker reading: the hands as a grotesque mirror to society’s refusal to heal. Instead of burying pain and learning, it’s put on display and used to justify more violence. For me, that makes Shigaraki tragic rather than cartoonishly evil — every step he takes feels heavy with history. I love that the design provokes sympathy and horror at once; it’s rare for a character to get both so cleanly.

The ending of 'Seven Year Itch' really depends on how you interpret happiness. For me, it’s bittersweet—like finding an old mixtape with songs that hit differently now. The protagonist’s journey is messy, full of temptation and self-doubt, but there’s a quiet resolution where he chooses responsibility over passion. It’s not fireworks and confetti, more like a sigh of relief after a storm. What makes it satisfying is the realism; not every itch gets scratched, but growth happens in the cracks. That said, if you’re craving a fairy-tale wrap-up, this might leave you wanting. The charm lies in its honesty—about marriage, midlife crises, and the illusions we cling to. I’ve revisited it during different phases of my life, and each time, the ending feels… different. Maybe that’s the point.

The Seven Year Itch' is this hilarious yet painfully relatable story about Richard Sherman, a guy whose wife and kid leave for the summer, leaving him alone in New York. At first, he’s all about enjoying his freedom, but then this gorgeous blonde moves in upstairs—cue the midlife crisis! The play (and later the movie with Marilyn Monroe) nails that tension between fantasy and reality. Richard’s imagination runs wild with what-ifs, while his conscience keeps pulling him back. The famous scene with Monroe’s white dress blowing up? Iconic, but there’s so much more—like Richard’s inner monologues spiraling into absurd scenarios. It’s a witty take on temptation and the fear of aging, wrapped in 1950s charm. What really sticks with me is how the story balances humor with something deeper. Richard isn’t just a horndog; he’s genuinely torn between boredom and guilt. The play’s ending is bittersweet—no spoilers, but it doesn’t wrap up neatly, which feels honest. Also, the adaptation changes are fascinating; Monroe’s version leans into glamour, while the original play feels grittier. Makes me wonder how audiences then reacted versus now.