A New Life For Tomura Part9

A new life for Tomura part9

Skin Hunger - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

There's no such thing as a good night at work when you work in the world's most infamous brothel for monsters, but your night takes a turn for the worse when you find yourself serving drinks to visiting half-vampire Shigaraki Tomura. You don't mean to catch his interest, and you don't mean to start a conversation. You definitely don't mean to get him drunk. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Chapter 1

The ringing of one of the dozens of bells on the wall in your boss’s office startles you out of the reverie you’ve fallen into. It isn’t much of a reverie – you were daydreaming about getting out of here, like always – but at the sound of the bell, you snap to attention. You know what a ringing bell means, even before your boss looks up at you from behind his desk and gives the order. “Suite Twelve needs a mop-up. Get to it.”

You check the floor plan out of habit, and your heart sinks. “Suite Twelve is still in use.”

“And? Clearly they aren’t ready to let the party end, and they’re paying by the hour.” Overhaul shrugs. “It’s not your concern. All you need to be concerned with is not interrupting, and we both know you’re capable of that.”

You bow your head. “Yes, sir.” The warlock looks away, back down to the grimoire he’s studying, and you risk another question. “Who was in there tonight?”

“That’s Chrono’s concern, not mine,” Overhaul says. “Why don’t you go find out?”

You know a dismissal when you hear it. “Yes, sir,” you say again, and you step out of Overhaul’s office, your glamour already settling over you.

A glamour is small magic, and as the lesser variety of half-fey, it’s all you’re capable of – but it’s enough to make your job easier, and to make you Overhaul’s go-to for dealing with disasters in progress. Other maids are obtrusive, no matter how hard they try not to be, and going into a room with a session in progress means risking their lives in addition to the worker’s. But your faint glamour allows you to slip in and out of the rooms unnoticed, clearing away the messes and the injuries. And the evidence. There’s always a lot of evidence. The patrons of the inhuman world’s most infamous brothel find themselves here for a reason, and it’s not because they’re careful.

You learned one side of the story in school in the human world, when you could pass as human, but Overhaul insisted that you learn the rest. You could recite it by heart by now. Humans have always outnumbered inhumans, but for thousands of years, the power held by inhumans – magic, physical strength, other natural gifts – was enough to allow them to act as they wished, without fear of retaliation. When human society advanced, that changed. The inhumans who could do so retreated to their own realms, but some inhumans are too intertwined with humanity to withdraw completely. Something had to be done to prevent their extinction.

The way Overhaul tells it, it was all his idea, two hundred years ago – creating a place for inhumans to satisfy their urges, contained away from humanity and outside of humanity’s control. You’re not sure if it was really his idea, but either way, it stuck. There are places like this one all across the world, in netherworlds and pocket dimensions, places where inhumans come to play or fight or fuck or feed. For some inhumans, in some cases, it’s all four.

Suite Twelve is on the fifth floor, and tonight it contains one of at least nine packs of werewolves. When you stop outside the door, you can hear them even through the soundproofing – human-sounding laughter and inhuman howls and the kind of noises that emanate from the rooms and suites every night of the year. It sounds like nothing you want anything to do with, but it’s the job. You raise your wrist, tapping your master rune against the locking rune on the door. It disables instantly, and you slip through the door without a sound.

You see instantly why one of the guests rang the bell for a clean-up. There’s a body on the floor – the body of one of the workers, a man you recognize only vaguely. He must be new. Then again, most of the workers aren’t here long enough for you to get to know them. You slip around the edges of the room, trusting your glamour, until you’re alongside the body. Legs askew, torso flayed open to the air, eyes wide and staring – sometimes the workers who die on the job have the luxury of an unexpected death, but this man saw it coming from kilometers away. Did he try to stop it? You lift one of his hands idly, checking for defensive wounds, and get one hell of a scare when his hand twitches in yours.

He’s alive. The worker is still alive, and your priorities shift in a heartbeat. This isn’t a corpse you can tip down the disposal trapdoor before you mop up the blood. Overhaul can heal any injury, even injuries as bad as this, which means you need to get the worker out of here and down to Overhaul’s study as soon as possible. But your glamour only covers you, and if the werewolves who mauled this guy half to death realize they didn’t finish the job, you’ll be in trouble, too. And there isn’t much time to solve the problem. If you wait too much longer, the worker will die right before your eyes.

If you had real magic, you’d apply your glamour to your voice and lull the werewolves into calmness, rendering them insensate to any noise the dying man might make as you drag him to the door, but you don’t have real magic. Charming seven werewolves is outside your abilities. Charming one dying man into staying still and quiet is within them. You whisper the instruction in his ear – stay quiet, stay still – and hook your hands under his armpits, dragging him across the floor and leaving a smear of blood in his wake.

There’s no way a party this large only had one worker with them. You force yourself to take a good look at the occupants of Suite Twelve, and in amongst the hulking, heavily-furred bodies of the werewolves, you spot human limbs, human skin. Strands of human hair woven through a wolf’s claws as it cups the back of the worker’s head. Human hands gripping one wolf’s shoulders, human legs hooked gingerly around its waist. At least three additional workers, and none of them are bleeding excessively. The part of you that’s human doesn’t like it, but the rest of you leaves without another look.

In the hallway, you call for help. Each floor of Asylum has a bouncer, hired specifically by Overhaul to deal with that floor’s usual patrons. “Rappa,” you call out. “Over here!”

Rappa’s footsteps are heavy as he comes down the hall towards you. “A fight?”

“Sorry,” you say. Even behind Rappa’s mask, you can tell he’s frowning. You’ve heard that when Overhaul hired him, he promised him a lot of fights to break up, but most of Asylum’s patrons are too frightened of the prospect of getting banned to fight much. “I’m supposed to mop up and the guy’s still alive. Can you take him to Overhaul?”

Rappa tilts his head, confused. “The boss can fix this?”

“If he gets to him in time.” You try to hold Rappa’s attention. It’s not easy. “I can’t get him there fast enough. You’re the only one who can save him.”

“He’s human. Why do you care?”

Your jaw clenches involuntarily, and you feel your glamour ripple. “I’m half-human,” you say. “So are you.”

Overhaul and his right-hand man are both pure human, extending their lives and augmenting their bodies with magic, but almost everyone else in Asylum’s management structure is a half-breed of some kind. Rappa is half-giant, and unlike you, he’s unambiguously proud of his inhuman heritage. Appealing to what he considers as the weak side of himself was a stupid move, but you’re getting desperate, and you try again. “If you help him, I’ll make sure you get the next fight, even if somebody else is in charge of the floor.”

You should have started with that. Rappa’s eyes light up. “Deal,” he says, and hoists the injured worker up, ignoring your requests to be careful. “Make sure it’s a good fight.”

You’ll get Rappa a fight to break up if you have to start one yourself, but you probably won’t have to. “It’s a full moon. All the fights are good.”

Rappa laughs and thunders off down the hall, leaving you to your actual job. You still have a mop-up in Suite Twelve, and possibly a worse one than you left, depending on what’s happened between your exit and right now. You call up your glamour again, confirming that it’s still intact, and tap the locking rune on the door to deactivate it once again. You might have saved somebody’s life, maybe, but that’s not your job here. Your real job is cleaning blood and bodily fluids off of every surface in Suite Twelve before they have time to set in. As the proprietor of the world’s oldest and most infamous inhuman oasis, your boss can tolerate a lot of things – but a mess isn’t one of them.

Most of the people who serve guests or work menial jobs in the oases are here as a last resort, and you’re no different. If you had somewhere else to be, you’d be there. You suppose you could have looked for work in another oasis, but when it comes down to it, you prefer the devil you know to the devil you don’t. You were born inside Asylum’s walls, the daughter of a worker and a faery guest, and although your mother scraped together the money to send you to boarding school in the human world, you’ve never had anywhere but Asylum to come back to. You coming back was a foregone conclusion. You could pass for human in childhood and adolescence, but in the last year or so, the truth’s begun to crawl its way out from beneath your skin. Asylum is your home. You can’t leave. And if you’re here, you might as well work.

No night in Asylum is easy, but full-moon nights are the worst, and the mop-up you’re called to do in Suite Twelve isn’t even close to the last task you’re called in to take care of. A patrilineal half-fey like you has next to no magical ability, but in Overhaul’s employ, you make use of all of it – glamour on your body to conceal you as you sneak in and out of the rooms and suites and hot springs, glamour on your voice to soothe tense guests until a bouncer or a member of Management can arrive to make amends more officially, spilling a drop or two of your own blood to distract an overwrought lich long enough to pry the worker it’s draining out of its grip. You get Rappa the fight he’s after – a brawl between two rival werewolf packs over a worker they both took a shine to – and as you’re helping clean up the mess, he gives you some news.

“Overhaul patched up the human you rescued,” he says, and for a brief moment, you feel better. “He’s already back to work.”

Feeling good doesn’t last. Good things don’t last in Asylum. You take a brief moment to wash your hands in the water of a hot-spring, then wander off to Room 309 on the demon floor. There’s been an orgy going on since the full moon broke the horizon in the farthest-eastern human time zone, and demon cum stains something awful.

You’ve heard from guests who’ve visited other oases that those oases have off-hours, but Asylum doesn’t. Asylum serves creatures of the night, so as long as it’s daylight somewhere on earth, Asylum will be open to receive them. When you asked Overhaul why, he pointed you towards the dictionary definition of the word ‘asylum’ – a place of refuge, a safe harbor. Then another book levitated off the shelf and dropped at your feet, shedding dust. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

You remember looking at it, confused. “Sir?”

“The other definition of the word,” Overhaul said. “They’re all mad here.”

It was a misquote, and you think the original is more accurate. We’re all mad here – Overhaul for building this place, the guests for coming to it, and you, for staying here instead of going somewhere, anywhere else.

The demon mop-up takes forever. By the time it’s done, you smell like smoke and sulfur, and there are still six hours left in the night. Chrono sends you to change into a clean uniform, then corrals you as you’re coming out of the servants’ quarters with wet hair. “Change of plans. You’re needed in the lounge.”

“What?” You know how to tend bar, sure – but not on a full moon night. “Why?”

Chrono doesn’t answer you, and you should know better than to ask questions. “Man the bar for the rest of the shift. You’ll receive instructions from Overhaul or myself if you’re needed elsewhere.”

You nod and set off, but Chrono grabs your arm again. “Change out of that uniform first. You’re front of house for now. Dress like it.”

The front of house uniform isn’t all that different than the uniform you wear on a nightly basis – just tighter and more modern, and with a mask of some kind over it. The higher-up somebody is in Overhaul’s organization, the more elaborate their mask is, but front-of-house wears simple half-masks, enough to match the aesthetic but not enough to obscure the face. You grab a simple black one on your way out of the servants’ quarters, tying it behind your head with a ribbon as you step into the lounge.

It’s empty, as usual. You’re not even sure why Overhaul keeps it open – most of Asylum’s guests don’t come here to drink, and the ones who do can order it brought to their rooms directly – but it’s been here as long as Asylum’s been standing, and just like the rest of Asylum, it’s never closed. Whoever was in charge before Chrono called you in left sort of a mess. Eight or nine dirty tankards, a sticky spill on one corner of the bar counter, and a solitary pickle balanced on top of an empty bottle of vodka. Given what you’ve been cleaning up all night, it could be a lot worse.

The cleaning goes quickly, and then you move on, filling out the restock sheet Chrono’s left for you underneath the ledger where you’d write guests’ orders, if there were any orders. An hour in, Room 512 calls for drinks – one Corpse Reviver, one Zombie, and three El Diablos – and you’re still working on them when the server arrives to bring them up. “Hey, make it snappy, huh? They’re not in a mood to wait.”

“I’m working on it.” You set down the El Diablos and start pouring shots of rum for the Zombie. “Is whoever’s in 512 actually undead, or do they just have a weird sense of humor?”

“Door number two. It’s one of those laughing demons.” Setsuno’s been working here at least as long as you have, but he looks unsettled behind his mask. “You know, the kind who want a performance.”

“I’m guessing the workers ordered the drinks, then?” You wait for Setsuno to confirm it. “Do you know which is the guest’s?”

“The Corpse Reviver,” Setsuno says. You strain the Zombie one-handed and go fishing for the components for the last drink. “Why?” “Are the workers holding up okay?” you ask. Setsuno looks blankly at you. “Did they seem scared or panicked at all?”

“Oh. Yeah. The youngest one looked pretty spooked.” Setsuno holds out his hand and the first four drinks fly from your end of the bar to settle onto his tray. “Are you going to be done with that last one any time this century?”

“Almost.” You’re trying to decide which of the components of the drink will be easiest to hide a glamour on. The gin? The Cointreau? The Lillet blanc? They’re all strong flavors, but demons aren’t easy to trick. It needs to look like a mistake, so that if you’re caught, it’ll reflect on you and not the workers. “Just a second –”

“Hey,” Setsuno protests, as you pluck a maraschino cherry out of a jar by the stem and wrap a glamour around it. “Does the boss know you’re putting spells on the guests?”

“They’re not spells.” Overhaul knows. In fact, he encourages it – your weak glamours, applied here and there, put the brakes on problems that would otherwise require management’s intervention before they can begin. You drop the cherry in the glass and hold it out to Setsuno. “Here. Let me know if they need anything else.”

“Will do.” Setsuno glances around the lounge and sighs. “Man, I wish I had this gig. It’s a nice spot for a break.”

“You’re telling me. I used to nap here when I was little.”

Setsuno stares at you. “What?”

You shouldn’t have said that. You cringe, and Setsuno takes a step closer – but then another order unfolds itself on the bar counter, and you turn away, thankful for the distraction. When you look up again, there’s a different server waiting, and you breathe a sigh of relief. It’s not that you’re ashamed of growing up here. You just don’t want to spread it around.

Overhaul has strict rules about birth control amongst Asylum’s female workers, but with so much magic in play, things happen sometimes. Usually it results in an abortion – the workers, most of whom are human, want nothing to do with a half-human child – but every so often, a worker decides to keep the baby. The consequences of that depend on the inhuman parent. Werewolves, for instance, treat children they’ve sired with a worker the same as they’d treat children they sire with their mate, and no parent wants their child growing up in Asylum. Workers who get knocked up by werewolves usually leave, becoming part of the pack’s orbit as they raise their children. Workers who get knocked up by demons, on the other hand, typically go into hiding. Demons like their children. A little too much.

Faeries aren’t common guests at Asylum, which means your mother knew who your father was, even though she never told you. Overhaul knows, too, but you’ve never asked him. It doesn’t matter. Faeries as a rule look down on half-fey, and if you ever tried to visit a faery realm, you’d be thrown out at best and enslaved at worst. Only some inhumans are capable of siring or bearing children, and of those species, faeries are among the most disinterested. The only inhumans who take less interest in their half-human offspring are the inhumans least likely to come to Asylum.

You’ve just sent off yet another order of drinks, this time to a siren in Room 129 who really wants his worker to loosen up, and you’re in the middle of adding an instruction to the restock sheet when someone barks a question at you from the other side of the counter. “Does this place have WiFi?”

Guests have been asking you questions since you were old enough to talk, but in the twenty-three years you’ve lived in Asylum, you’ve never heard anybody ask that. You look up from the restock sheet and find the guest in question staring back at you. “What?”

“WiFi. Do you have it?” The guest brandishes a smartphone at you. A really nice smartphone, in a pale hand with dry skin and ragged nails. “Do you even know what WiFi is?”

“I know what it is. We don’t have it,” you say, and the guest swears. “If I were you, I wouldn’t try to use your phone in here at all. The flux field will fry your battery if you don’t turn it off.”

The guest’s eyes narrow slightly. The skin around them is dry and itchy-looking, and his irises themselves are red. He powers off his phone and glances around the lounge, eyes lingering on the light fixtures, on the faucet, on the scrying mirrors that act as a security system and the locking runes on the doors. “Nothing in here is electric,” he says. “It can’t be, if the flux field’s strong enough to fuck up my phone.”

You nod. “You should tell people that when they come in,” the guest says. He looks at his powered-off phone, grimacing. “This was new.”

“If you haven’t been in here long and you haven’t been using it, it should be fine,” you say. The guest doesn’t answer, just tucks his phone into his pocket and crosses his arms over his chest, and the silence goes from neutral to awkward in roughly seven seconds.

It’s the kind of situation you’d bail out of instantly anywhere else – you spend enough time being uncomfortable at your job that you’ve got no patience for discomfort in other situations. But you are at your job, which means you have a built-in conversation topic. “Can I get you a drink?”

“What?”

“A drink.” You gesture at the bar, and the guest’s eyes track your hand. “We have everything.”

“You don’t,” the guest says, and then orders champagne. You’re pretty sure every bar on the planet has champagne. “How do you know I can pay for it?”

“They opened up a tab on you when you came through the door.” You find a bottle of champagne and the correct glass – Chrono saw you pour it into a wine glass once and gave you hell – and pour. “And they gave you a passkey. Show it to me?”

He has it looped around his wrist. You copy the symbol into the ledger and write down the order and the price. The guest is leaning across the bar to watch you, getting much closer than you’d like, and he makes a surprised sound when the order you’ve written melts from the page. “Magic,” he says, and you nod. You’re not sure why he’s so surprised. Then: “You’re charging that much for a glass of champagne? This had better be the best champagne in the world.”

“You tell me.” You slide the glass across the bar and watch as he raises it to his lips.

He’s got to be some kind of inhuman, or part-inhuman – no human makes it through the door as a guest, unless they’re packing some heavy magic. You’d say he was a magic-user of some kind, a warlock or an occultist, except he was too surprised by the flux field and resultant lack of WiFi to be someone who works with magic regularly. Half-demon, maybe. He has blue-grey hair to go with his red eyes, worn long enough to brush his shoulders and slightly too tousled to have done it purposely. His clothes are formal – white shirt, black vest, black pants, black tie. The look should come with a suit jacket, but it doesn’t. Guests don’t exactly show up to Asylum in their pajamas, but it’s rare to see one come in dressed to the nines.

The guest finishes half the glass of champagne and sets it down on the bar. He glances at you and you raise your eyebrows. “Well?”

“Pretty good,” the guest says. “Still not worth what you’re charging.”

“It’s an import,” you say. Technically, everything’s an import when it’s coming to a pocket dimension. “And it was good enough for you to drink half of it.”

“Not much else to do.” The guest takes out his phone, scowls when he realizes it’s powered off, then sits down at a barstool. “What’s with the mask?”

“It’s part of the uniform,” you say. Your usual uniform is a hideous old-time maid outfit, but the front-of-house uniform is sleeker, and the mask is just the icing on the cake. You like how you look in this much more than you do in the other uniform, but that lasts only as long as it takes you to remember that guests like you in it, too. “Everybody has one.”

“Why? It’s not like it hides your face.”

“I don’t know. The aesthetic, maybe?” You have your own pet theory – something about Overhaul being older than you think, and picking up his germophobia during the Black Death – but you don’t know for sure. “It’s the boss’s thing.”

“Yeah, no kidding. He looks like a fucking toucan.”

You almost choke on thin air, and while you’re struggling not to laugh, the guest keeps talking. “I was supposed to stay with my master – to learn – but he kicked me out. What am I supposed to do around here?”

“Find a room and watch,” you say. It’s the guest’s turn to choke. Unfortunately for him, he just took a sip of champagne. “You can tell which ones are okay with it. Look for a green rune above the door.”

That’s all some guests come here to do – you can’t count the number of times you’ve seen a demon drop the entry fee without blinking and spend the entire time indulging their voyeuristic dreams. “I didn’t come here to watch strangers fuck,” the guest says, coughing. He picks up the champagne and downs the rest of it, then shoves the glass back towards you. “I came here to learn.”

You pour another glass one-handed and mark it in the ledger with the other. “Learn about what?”

The guest doesn’t answer, and when you slide the glass across the bar to him, he seizes your wrist. You jerk back, and his grip tightens, but he doesn’t pull you forward – just holds you in place, the fingers of his other hand pressing down over your pulse. “Not a lich,” he says. You plant your feet and yank your hand back again. This time you pull free. “Too strong to be a human. If you were a wolf you’d be howling at the moon right now. What are you?”

“What are you?” you retort. “You first.”

“Guess.”

You don’t have time to guess. Two more orders alight on the edge of the bar, and you get to work, mixing two Mai Tais for one and pouring eight blowjob shots for the other. “I’ll guess for you,” the guest says. “Half-demon.”

“Nope.” You glance at him while you shake the can of whipped cream. “Half-demon.”

“Try again,” the guest says. He takes a sip of his second champagne. “Mer?”

“Do I look like a mermaid to you?” You’re not even going to guess that for him. Half-demon was your best guess. Half-giant is out – he’s not tall enough, and no giant, half or otherwise, would ever call someone else ‘master’. You fall back on a guess you ruled out earlier. He could be a magic-user who’s just really bad at it. “Warlock?”

“Not a chance,” the guest says. “Shapeshifter?”

“If I was, I wouldn’t tell you,” you say, and he snorts. “You’re not a shapeshifter, are you?”

“I wouldn’t tell you, either.” The guest takes another sip of his champagne and props his chin in his hand to study you as you set the blowjob shots down at the end of the bar for the server to pick up. “I’ll give you one more guess. If you don’t get it by then –”

“You’ll what?” You see a smirk cross the guest’s face, his lips pulling back from his teeth, and then you see it. The word flies from your mouth before you can stop it and turns you into one enormous, cringeworthy cliché. “Vampire.”

“Half-vampire,” the guest corrects. His smirk grows. “I can’t believe you didn’t guess. That one was easy.”

You don’t meet a lot of vampires, and there’s a good reason for that. Vampires are bad for a business like Overhaul’s. You’ve heard there are oases that cater specifically to vampires, and you’ve heard that some vampires still like to hunt in the wild, and regardless of what you’ve heard or haven’t heard, you know you’ve seen exactly two vampires in your entire life. Both came uninvited. Both left quickly. And neither of them were turned loose to wander Asylum unsupervised.

Overhaul and Chrono must know there are vampires here. If you needed to know they’d have warned you, and if it comes to a fight between you and a skinny half-vampire who’s had two glasses of champagne, they must like your chances. Still – “A half-vampire,” you repeat, loud enough that the server who’s come to retrieve the Mai Tais can’t fail to hear. “What brings you and your master here?”

“Same thing that brings everybody else who comes here.” The half-vampire finishes his champagne, and before he can ask, you fill it again. “You know. Needs.”

If this half-vampire and his master are here to get their needs met, why is he down here with you while his master talks to Overhaul? Did Overhaul know they were coming? The half-vampire is watching you over the rim of his glass. “You meet weirder needs here. Don’t make that face.”

“I’m just wondering – why here?” you ask. “I know there are vampire-specific oases –”

“Those? They’re just blood banks.” The half-vampire shakes his head. “My master has better taste than that.”

You don’t like the word ‘taste’ in the context of drinking other people’s blood, and your mask isn’t anywhere near enough to conceal your grimace. The half-vampire isn’t paying attention. He’s drinking champagne, talking between swallows. “This place isn’t our first choice,” he says. “Our old arrangement fell through last month.”

“What happened?”

“Why do you care?”

“I want to know,” you say. You do. You don’t meet many vampires, let alone half-vampires who like champagne and are in a chatty mood. “What happened to make us the better offer?”

“The guy who runs the old place grew a conscience.” The half-vampire rolls his eyes. “Apparently it’s more honorable to hunt down screaming humans in the wild than it is to buy one who signed up for it.”

You wish you could say you were horrified to hear that people sell themselves to vampires, but the workers at Asylum sell themselves to all kinds of inhumans. The only difference is that the outcome of an encounter with a vampire can only be death. “So he stopped selling to your master?”

“Yeah. Something about upsetting the natural way of things.” The half-vampire finishes his third glass. You don’t refill it until he nudges it towards you, at which point you fill it to the brim. “My master can’t hunt like he used to. Not for the kind of humans he wants, but he can pay whatever it takes to get them. How much of a conscience would you say your boss has?”

You don’t even have to think about it. “Absolutely none.”

“Then I guess we’ll be seeing each other again,” the half-vampire says. “My master has an appetite. Shigaraki Tomura.”

“What?”

“Shigaraki Tomura. That’s my name.” The half-vampire – Shigaraki Tomura – takes another sip of champagne. “What’s yours?”

“You still haven’t guessed what I am yet.”

“I gave you a big hint. You owe me a hint, too.” Shigaraki looks interested. He’s leaning forward on his elbows, studying you. You wonder if he can tell that he’s making you uncomfortable, and if he can tell, if he cares – or if it’s something he wants to do. “A hint, or your name. Your choice.”

If you were anything other than the type of half-human you are, it would be easy. For most people, inhuman or otherwise, names mean nothing, and neither do lies. The rules for half-fey are blurry. You don’t want to find out what they are while dealing with a vampire. Because of that, you fall back into proper customer service. “Our names don’t matter at Asylum, Shigaraki-san. To us, it’s all about the guest.”

“If it’s all about the guest and I’m a guest, you should answer my question,” Shigaraki says. He’s smirking again. “Since you tried to sneak out of it, I get to pick what you tell me. And I want your name.”

“Why?” You can see that the question throws him, so you let it stand, and top off his glass of champagne in the bargain. “It makes sense for me to know your name, Shigaraki-san, but you’d have no use for mine.”

“Says who? I decide what I have a use for.”

“Why?”

Shigaraki takes another sip of champagne. “Why what?”

“Why would you have a use for it?” You sound like you’re bantering, but you want to know. Need to know, more accurately. “Most guests don’t concern themselves with the existence of servants.”

“If that’s true, then you shouldn’t wear these.” Shigaraki taps his own cheek, drawing attention to a scar over his right eye. It takes you a second to realize that he’s referring to your mask. “It makes it look like you’re hiding something. Like what you are. Or your name.”

“I’ll tell you my name,” you say, and you give Shigaraki a few seconds of triumph before you add the condition, “after you tell me why you want it.”

He opens his mouth. “And don’t lie,” you add. “I’ll know if you lie.”

“Witch.”

“No,” you say. You’re surprised he didn’t guess that sooner, but he’s still wrong. “What? You don’t want to know my name anymore?”

“I want it,” Shigaraki says. He picks up his champagne and drains the glass in one swallow. You refill it partway before he stops you. “I don’t see why I should have to tell you. I’m the guest. If it’s about what I want –”

“I’m giving you what you want,” you say. “You just have to give me something in return.”

Shigaraki watches you over the rim of the glass, and you look back. You’ve heard that full vampires can exert control over others through prolonged eye contact, but the same is supposed to be true of fey, and you’re not feeling inclined to do what Shigaraki wants you to do. He glances away from you first, takes another sip of champagne. You don’t look away, and when he looks back and makes eye contact again, you see his face flush.

That’s – weird. The words leave your mouth before you can think better of it. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t look at me,” Shigaraki snaps. He stares down into his glass, and you busy yourself putting away the almost-empty bottle of champagne.

You hear the whistle of something moving at high speed through the air and barely whip your head sideways in time to avoid the wing of Overhaul’s messenger slicing into your cheek. You don’t like spilling blood on the job, especially not when there’s a vampire nearby. The messenger flies past you, then comes back around, and this time, you catch it in midair. Shigaraki’s noticed it, too. “Origami?” he repeats. “Is that part of the aesthetic?”

You shrug. Almost everything travels on paper in Asylum – orders, bills, memos, contracts, and messages. Each type of communication comes folded into a different bird, but the only person who uses paper cranes folded from purple paper with gilded edges is your boss. The crane unfolds in your hand and you read the message in Overhaul’s cramped handwriting. Find the half-vampire Shigaraki Tomura and return him to my study. His master is ready to depart.

You’re about to look like the world’s most efficient employee. You tuck the paper into your uniform and turn to Shigaraki. “Your master’s ready to leave. If you’ll follow me, I’ll escort you back to him.”

“Great.” Shigaraki drains his glass of champagne, gets to his feet, and nearly tips over. He has to grab the bar to steady himself, and even then, it barely works. “What the hell?”

You make your way around the bar, waiting to see if he’ll straighten up on his own. You wonder if he’s faking it, but given how skinny he is, how much champagne he drank, and how quickly he drank it, it’s not a stretch at all that he’s pretty drunk. It’s clear when he straightens up that he’s still dizzy, and you duck in to support him. “Here. Lean on me. If your master’s anything like my boss, he won’t like being kept waiting.”

“What did you do to me?” Shigaraki mumbles as he slings one arm over your shoulders. When you wrap your arm around his back, you can feel his ribs through two layers of clothing. “You said you weren’t a witch. You lied.”

You have to laugh at that. “This isn’t magic. You’re just drunk.”

“Vampires don’t get drunk.”

“Humans do,” you say. “One of the downsides of being half-something else.”

Shigaraki makes a noise, but you can’t tell if he’s responding to what you said or to being drunk in general. You hustle him through the hallways as quickly as you can manage. Overhaul hates having to give the same order twice, and you can feel the unfolded message fluttering in your pocket, trying to fold itself again and tattle on you that the task isn’t complete. The faster you move, however, the more it seems like Shigaraki’s trying deliberately to obstruct you. More and more of his weight falls against you with every step.

You’re strong enough to carry him, but it starts to bother you. “If that champagne made your legs stop working, I really need to know about it so I don’t poison any more guests.”

“I’m conserving energy.” Shigaraki hiccups, then groans. “My master can’t find out. He’ll be pissed.”

There’s no way Shigaraki’s master isn’t going to find out. If you let go of him he’s going to go face-first into the floorboards. “How pissed is he going to be?”

Shigaraki doesn’t answer, but the way his shoulders tense tells you everything you need to know. You’re almost to Overhaul’s study. The door’s open, and you can see the weird light leaking through, the kind that means someone’s using magic. Inspiration hits. You shift Shigaraki so he’s leaning against the wall, shove him until he stands up mostly straight, and call up every ounce of glamour you have.

It’s not much, and it won’t hold long, but as long as Shigaraki manages not to say or do anything too weird, it’ll keep his master from noticing how absolutely plastered he is. Shigaraki stares at you as the glamour settles over him, clearly confused. “What –”

“It’ll hold until you’re by yourself as long as you keep your shit together,” you say. You pull him upright again, shifting position so it seems more like you’re escorting him than like you’re dragging him along. “Come on. We’re almost there.”

“Why?”

You could ask for clarification. Instead you ignore him. So far tonight he’s asked you multiple questions you don’t want to answer, and even though this is the one that’s least likely to get you in trouble, it’s the one you’re most likely to lie about. Shigaraki’s head, which he was holding up under his own power until two seconds ago, tips sideways until his cheek is resting against the top of your head. “You don’t smell like a witch.”

“That’s because I’m not a witch. Stand up straight.” You’d also like him to quit sniffing you, but you’re not going to win that one. You reach out with one hand and knock on the open door. “Sir, I’ve brought the half-vampire, as you requested.”

“That was fast.”

The voice that responds isn’t Overhaul’s. Shigaraki jerks out of your grip and stands upright, your glamour clinging to him, while you tense every muscle in your body, trying to hide the shiver that runs through you. Most inhumans leave some sort of calling card of their presence – a scent in the air, a shift in the temperature of a room, a momentary change in the light or shadows. You’re used to that. But the aura emanating from the vampire who must be Shigaraki’s master is intense enough to crawl under your skin, and it’s ice-cold. Barring two things you don’t think about, it’s the worst feeling you’ve ever experienced in your life.

Overhaul is responding to the master vampire. “The staff at Asylum are well-trained,” he says. “Shigaraki Tomura, welcome back. I trust you enjoyed your self-guided tour of our offerings.”

You linger outside the door, unsure of what you should do, but then Chrono sticks his head out into the hallway, spots you, and gestures sharply for you to leave. You don’t need to be told twice. You hurry back down the hall, down a set of stairs, and through a staff-only shortcut until you’re back at the lounge, with five drink orders folded into the shape of swans bobbing up and down at the end of the bar for your attention. You’ve finished all five and two more besides before the chill begins to seep out of you.

There’s nothing about what happened tonight that you’re comfortable with. Wire to wire, it’s been one of the worst full moons you can remember, and it doesn’t improve when Overhaul and Chrono step into the lounge at the end of your shift. Overhaul sits; Chrono stands. “Explain yourself.”

You could ask for clarification. You could do that if you wanted to spend the next decade paying for it. “The half-vampire came to the lounge. I thought it would be best to keep him there instead of letting him wander around.”

“How did you keep him there?”

You hesitate, and Overhaul steps in. “He was covered in your glamour when he came in. I want to know if we undercharged his master.”

Your face goes up in flames. “I didn’t – no,” you say. “I got him drunk.”

Overhaul coughs. Chrono’s shoulders shake briefly, the way they do when he’s trying not to laugh. You reach behind the bar and produce the mostly-empty bottle of champagne, followed by the ledger. Overhaul peruses the ledger while Chrono continues the interrogation. “If all you did was pour champagne, why was he wearing your glamour?”

You could get away with not answering Shigaraki’s question. Not answering your bosses isn’t an option. “He said he was going to get in trouble. I didn’t mean to get him in trouble, so I thought –” You can’t see Chrono’s eyes, but you can see Overhaul’s, and Overhaul’s looking at you like you’re out of your mind. “I thought if I put a glamour over him, his master might not notice.”

Overhaul doesn’t say anything. Neither does Chrono. An echo of the shiver from the master vampire’s aura runs through you. “Did his master notice?”

“His senses are too dull to hunt for himself. They’re certainly too dull to capture a glamour as weak as yours,” Chrono says. “Shigaraki Tomura escaped detection, at least while on the premises. And it seems he now owes you a favor.”

“No,” you say without thinking. “It was my fault.”

Chrono scoffs, then returns his attention to the bottle. Overhaul focuses on you. “Does he know what you are?”

You shake your head. “Good,” Overhaul says. “Next time, save your glamour for yourself. He and his master will return at the next full moon.”

Your stomach lurches. “They’ll be back?”

“The offer the master vampire made was quite lucrative. It would have been unwise to refuse,” Chrono says. “Serving vampires en masse is bad business, but on a limited basis – very profitable.”

You don’t even want to know – but you’ll find out. You’re dead certain of it. You grew up here, and you know where to listen to hear every secret told within Asylum’s walls. And even if you didn’t, even if you put your hands up over your ears and walked away from anyone who spoke of it, you know exactly who you’ll hear it from – the half-vampire Shigaraki Tomura, the next time he steps into the lounge with a bad attitude, a useless smartphone, and a list of questions you’re already dreading being asked.

116 notes View Post

flamme-shigaraki-spithoe

1 year ago

Mdni! 18+ // Tomura Shigaraki x Bunny!Reader

Tw: smut, bunny!f!reader, sex work, dry humping, body exploration(?), scent marking and hickeys, possessiveness if you squint, fluff really, shy Tomura but gets comfortable, intimacy, consent is sexy, concept is from pink heart jam, words: 3k (damn), not proof read sry ♡

Tomura knows this is stupid.

First of all, how would he explain to the league that he spends money in a brothel when they can hardly afford food right now. They'll kill him. Not that he owes them anything… But he knows what this looks like. As their leader he should care for them… but this is important.

Then, what if the girl recognizes him? That would be a whole mess. Would he get a refund at least?

And of course… the shame and self doubt that hits him now as he sits in the waiting room.

But he just needs to know. He will go crazy if he doesn't know.

“Room 8 is now ready.”

That is Tomura's room. He feels lightheaded and sick. But he needs to know. He just needs to know. He gets up and everything spins. One step at a time. He hopes the girl doesn't recognize him. Tomura opens the door to you kneeling in a bow on the tatami.

“Good Evening, sir. I am happy to–” you rise and both you and Tomura freeze. The only thing audible is the door clicking shut.

“Boss?!”

“(Y/N)?!” He grimaces and his cheeks go from a lifeless pale to a hot pink.

You get up and notice how his eyes drop to your lingerie clad body for a moment, he turns his entire face to the side, gulping. His body is so painfully tense, you can feel it.

“Didn't you recognize me in the picture?” You chuckle to lighten the mood. You grab your rope and throw it on.

“I was so nervous I didn't really look. I just said yes to everything,” Tomura mumbles. “I'll just go.”

“Cmon. You already paid. I just call front desk and set you up with someone else,” you walk to the phone. “So… You wanna have your first time? Is that it?” You ask, assuming from what you know. He doesn't seem like someone who suddenly gets so horny he needs to go to a brothel. You would send him to different colleague's depending on his answer though. He looks tortured enough.

“Y-yes.”

You pick up the phone and dial.

“I just want to know what intimacy is,” Tomura follows up and jumps a little when you slam the phone. He frowns. Your face is different now, softer. “What?”

“You're already here… I don't see why we–”

Tomura grimaces again and waves his hands hysterically, declining.

“What?” You cross your arms and turn to him. “Am I not your type? You don't find me attractive enough?” It's teasing. You know it's not that. You've caught him staring more than once when you're with the league.

“No! That's not– I never said that!”

You hold your pinky out. “Pinky promise this is a thing between us and that it won't make things awkward at work.”

“At work?” He looks at you funny. “Aren't you at work right now?”

You chuckle. “At my day job then? Happy?”

He looks at your pinky. You are serious. Are you scared he might hurt your colleagues? He doesn’t understand why you would do this. You know him. You… can… back out. Maybe it's the money.

“Why?” He needs to know. Your eyes look even more beautiful behind painted eyelids and darker lashes. He has never seen you wear makeup before. You always look at everyone with softness though– you look at him with so much kindness right now… it's so weird. You are a villain too. He could never look at someone like that.

You sigh. “You said intimacy. You want to know what intimacy is. If I send you to one of the other girls I can't be sure that that is what you get.”

“Oh,” he feels a tug in his stomach. He raises his hand and links his pinky with yours. “I see.”

You nod and smile then drop to one knee, undoing the laces of his shoes. “Let's hurry this along and not lose more time off your session.”

“A-are you really sure?” He panics. You are you. Like you know him. You know who he is and you see him nearly everyday. How could you possibly be okay with this? He's kinda gross right? Dabi always says that.

“Ah–” Tomura bites his tongue.

You hug him loosely, your hand strokes through his hair, untangling some knots. “I am sure. I won't do anything you don't want to do, okay? Just let me know. We can start with just laying down in our underwear– talk and see?”

You intertwine your fingers with his and lead him to the bed. You aren't even scared to touch his hands? “Want me to take off your clothes or do it yourself?”

“I'll do it.” He turns away. Damn… this is awkward. He takes his hoodie off first then kicks his pants off and quickly crawls into the bed, laying down next to you.

“Why are you working here?” He asks, staring at the ceiling.

“It's money,” you say casually and bring your hand to his chest. He jumps but gives you a nod as you stop, looking at him and waiting for confirmation. He was just surprised. You softly caress his skin, letting your finger move in intricate patterns over the dips and curves of his torso.

“But…-” No, he doesn't know.

“People fetishisize quirks like mine,” you plop yourself up on your elbow and look at him. His eyes wander to the bunny ears. “They have my entire life. I am in control here at least, you know.”

“But… Why are you still… with everything?” He tries to read your face but can't.

“Tomu… if it wasn't for me still working we would be starving,” you chuckle. “And Dabi is so insufferable when he's hangry.” You play with his hair. You touch him so freely. It feels nice.

But what truly made his heart skip a beat was the nickname. “You're right.” He sighs with a little smile. You have never seen him smile with such softness.

“I don't really know anything about you,” you whisper. Your thumb softly traces the scar on his lip. “I'd like to know more about you.”

His heart pinches again. “Why?” You're probably just saying it because you have to… this is just a job to you after all. He isn't special or anything.

You smile, frowning too. “Because I care about you?”

His lips part as he stares at you. Tomura might burst. What is happening? Someone cares about him? No… No you are just saying these things.

“So… Tomura, I need to know, are you a tits or ass guy?” You smile, saying it jokingly.

He goes red. “I… I don't know. I never thought about it much.”

“Hmm… I see. Can you sit up for me?”

Tomura leans against the cushioned headboard and watches how you turn your body to him.

“Can I sit there?”

“M-my lap? S-sure.”

You straddle him and his heartbeat picks up. Holy shit. You lean your face against his shoulder as you fumble with your bra in the back.

Tomura closes his eyes, husking, “you smell so nice.”

“Thank you,” you smile so sweetly. You take your bra off but Tomura makes an effort, trying so hard to look you in the eyes. You swear a droplet of sweat runs down his forehead. “You can look… you can touch them too.”

“Heh,” he is so nervous. “What if I– accidentally– my quirk–”

“I trust you,” your tone is silvery and you lean in to kiss his cheek, your breasts squished against his chest.

“You do?” He frowns. That's really stupid of you? He doesn’t even trust himself.

You take his hands and guide them to your tits. Tomura sucks in a sharp breath and closes his eyes. They are so soft. Holy Shit.

He is timid, gentle squeezes and fleeting touches. His pinkies are extended away. His cheeks are flushed pink with the red in his eyes nearly gone.

It is cute. You suck in air sharply when his next squeeze is harsher. He looks at you panicked. “You're all good,” you rasp.

He drags his thumbs over your nipples then gropes the flesh of your breasts again. He sighs.

“Let's move on?” You ask. You wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your chest flush to his and laying your head against his shoulder. “Don't touch my tail.”

Tomura looks down the curve of your spine, seeing the fluffy round scut. You usually hide it. He didn't even know you had one. It is so cute. “Okay.” His hands timidly slide down your back and grab your ass. It's different but holy shit. Tomura bites his lip.

“Can I kiss your neck?” You ask.

“Hm.” You place the first kiss where his nails left scars upon scars and he hates it. It makes his body feel so icky. “… I don't like that,” he whispers, scared he will ruin the mood.

“That's okay,” you rise to meet his eyes and smile. “How about here?” You lean down a bit further, placing the same kiss to his collarbone. This time it makes his body light ablaze.

“There is fine,” he sighs, still groping your ass.

You start to kiss and gently suck the skin there and Tomura is going insane. That… plus holding your perfect butt. The fact you trust him to touch you with no second guessing. That might be the best part. You aren't scared at all. He is dreaming. This is perfect. His hands timidly slide down the curve of your thighs all the way to your knees and back up. On their next drag down, his nails softly scratch against your flesh. You both take shaky breaths.

“Were thighs an option too?” He asks.

You giggle, “yes.”

There is absolutely no way you don't feel his twitching cock. He is glad he is doing this with you. Thinking about it now… Could he really trust anyone else? No. It was supposed to be you from the start. That he ended up here was no coincidence.

“You're doing so well,” you tell him and he sinks further into this fuzzy feeling.

He brings one hand to your chin, holding it gently, while the other hand twirls your hair. “Can I touch your ears?”

They lop for better access and you nod. He gently caresses a finger down over the fur. “I didn’t think they'd be so soft!” He says with wide eyes.

You smile. “Can I… kiss you?” You ask.

“Where?” He asks.

You point to his lips. “There.”

His eyes widen again. “Really?”

You nod. “Is that okay?”

He nods and gulps. You lean in and your lips softly peck his to test the waters. He nods again, still staring at you.

“Close your eyes. It will feel better,” you chuckle. He closes his eyes immediately and you drag out the kiss this time. He does not know what he is supposed to do. He just does something, timidly moving his mouth too. His hands grope at your thighs.

You kiss harder, opening your mouth wider. You taste so good. Tomura groans, grabbing your hips. You don't even flinch.

You kiss him like that until his lips are slightly swollen. His head falls back against the headboard.

“That's so nice,” he says.

You nod.

“You're so… amazing,” he whispers, closing his eyes. “Look at me saying dumb shit.”

You hug him, playing with his hair. “It's not dumb at all.”

He squeezes tightly. “I feel… safe. That is so dumb to say… for me..”

You look at the wall behind you and tears nearly shoot into your eyes. “I do too… With you.” You pull back and cup his face. “I guess that's what intimacy can be… Feeling safe with each other.”

Tomura thinks that over for a second. He has never before felt like this… It makes so much sense. He likes this.

He gently nudges you forward so you are laying on the bed and he is on top of you now. He really just wanted to see what you'd look like underneath him… stunning of course. “Can I kiss your neck?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

He leans down and nibbles on your delicate skin. He isn't gentle but you are sure he doesn't realize just how sensitive the skin is. Your hands are raking through his hair, tugging slightly ever so often.

He pulls back and you see the glint in his red eyes. “You gave me a hickey?” You raise an eyebrow at him.

“I didn't… mean to! I swear!”

You flip him on his back with your strength, grinning down at him with your hands on his chest. “Well, I guess then I have to–” You rub the underside of your chin against his shoulder, his face, his head… Everywhere.

He chuckles softly. “Are you… Scent marking me?”

“Yes.”

You two giggle. Tomura doesn't giggle… but right now, right here in these four walls… he can.

You finish by kissing him again. “All mine now,” you say and Tomura feels his chest contort. He wants to be all yours. What would that be like when this now is already so amazing. “So… what do we do about that?” You ask.

He knows what that is. He is painfully aware. It is painful at this point. “I… I don't know,” he admits. “I don't know if I can go all the way.”

You smile, “that's so okay! What do you want to do?”

He hesitates.

“You can want things, Tomu,” you say. “What do you want?”

He covers his face. “Can we do it like this?”

You need a second to catch on but you do. “Of course. Will you sit up again?”

At first he doesn't understand why you want him in that position again but once you are straddling him again and your arms are loosely wrapped around his shoulders, your breath fanning against his face… he gets it. You are so close to each other like this… It is just you and him right now– and the clock. He sees how you swiftly look over.

“How long–”

“Enough,” you tell him. “Is that okay?” You roll your hips, it's not harsh but not gentle either. It creates the perfect friction between your clothed groins.

Tomura sucks in a sharp breath and his head falls back. “Y-yes,” he forces out. His eyes are squeezed shut.

You keep rocking your hips while also kissing his face in the most gentle way. He holds you by your rips, your flesh bulging in his hands.

“Oh… fuck,” he whimpers. It feels so good.

He feels your breath by his ear and goosebumps raise all over his skin. “You're being such a good boy for me,” you whisper.

“Oh–” Tomura's eyes roll back. He? Good boy? “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you kiss him again, moaning against his lips as your hips stutter.

No way. Tomura whines. This feels good for you too? Holy shit. He opens his eyes to look at you– no… to take you in and soak you up. Is it possible to combine with you? Fuse to one being? He wants to.

Your cheeks are such a cute pink, your soft ears are twitchy and your lips parted slightly as you draw heavy breaths. You look at him with so much kindness it makes him feel static. What is happening to him?

“You can touch my tail if you want.”

He swears you sounded shy. He looks at you like a little puppy. “But you said–”

“I know but I trust… You.”

You trust him… Just him. Him alone.

His hand slowly moves down your back and he uses his middle and index finger to form a v shape with which he cups the base of the scut. He feels you shiver all over. Your forehead falls against his sweaty shoulder and you whimper softly. You never stop rolling your hips through all of it– if anything your movements become more greedy.

“(Y/N)--” Tomura whines, squeezing his eyes shut. He can't take it any longer. He's about to fall apart, come undone at the seams. And he is happy about it.

“I got you,” you whisper softly, caressing his cheek. “Cum for me.”

“Ah, shit–” his whole body jerks and his hands drop to his side, fingers clenching to tight fists. “Ha. ahh.” He breathes heavily, everything spins.

Your soft kisses on his cheek bring him back to reality. His heart calms down, he catches his breath. What the hell.

“You okay?” You ask, your eyelashes brush against his cheek.

“Yes,” he laughs. He just laughs. He doesn't know why. It's an eerie sound to him. Why would he laugh? He can feel you smile too.

The red light on top of the door now flicks on. His time with you is over. His heart sinks. Was any of this even real? He wonders. It felt real.

“You still have 15 minutes.” You say and hug him closer to yourself. “No need to rush.”

“Okay,” he whispers, taking as much of you in as possible. He probably won't ever get to hold you like this again. He knows he won't.

He takes a quick shower and when he walks out you are sitting on the bed in your rope, brushing your hair.

“Text me when you're back at the hideout?” You say and walk him to the door where he puts on his shoes.

“Why?”

You frown, “so I know you got there safe?”

“Oh… Yeah,” he nods. “Uh… Thank you.”

“Did… Did it answer your question?”

Yes. “I guess.” But was it even real?

“O-okay. See you… later? You gulp.

"I guess..."

》》》》

“Where'd you get all this?!” Dabi wants to know, stuffing his mouth.

“Stole it,” you shrug.

Tomura knows you lie. He knows you probably got paid last night and then went out to buy the food. It's been a few days and he still doesn't know what to think. It was really nice… but what now? He wants more. He wants to know it was… Something. He sounds so stupid. You said he can want things but he knows it's not true… the only thing he can possibly want is to destroy… right?

He gets up and grabs a cup of noodles then walks outside… he needs some fresh air. Dabi made the water way too hot… he can barely hold the cup. Your skin felt so warm… so alive– man even a cup of noodles reminds him of you.

He feels so different. Like taking deep breaths hits a whole different level… maybe he moved up a level now that he–

Tomura knows he would get third degree burns from dropping the cup on himself so he holds it tight, letting the shock out through a deep breath instead. His whole body stands alert. He didn't expect it… he's not opposed… he's just confused.

“What are you doing?” He whispers.

You are nuzzling your head against him, over and over. “You don't smell like me anymore… I don't like it.”

He looks at you, eyes unreadable. He reaches up to your turtleneck sweater and pushes it aside. “The hickey is almost gone too… then I have to give you a new one as well. Only fair.”

“I guess you do,” you smile subtly.

349 notes View Post

flamme-shigaraki-spithoe

1 year ago

Gen Z shigaraki and spiner

i think that, shigaraki is a great representation of some problem of the gen z.. Like it may be just me but even if hikikomori exist for a long time now, its appropriate with our generation. Plus i also can relate to a lot of their issues(hum hum childhood shiggy exept that i didn't kill anyone ;-; )

I also am not the best to explain such a things in english so if soemone get my point please repost as a respond.

I feel like its particulary hard for us, i mean if shigaraki continue his life with his real family i think that it will be a pretty "commun" gen z one from the struggle i had saw in my family and my friend's one when i was a child. I also have the sae tics as him when i'm stress out and a lot of my friend have to. Of course its not everyone but i feel like our generation is kinda fucked up and those vilains had help me go throught a lot as i was like "i'm not alone"

Its kind of a vent post honestly i feel like shit today.

The things is that i think that we needed this. They aren't the best writen vilains even if i love Tomura more then everything but like...i feel like they are somehow having gen z problems. The online addiction and parents issues are more expose now and i feel like, even Dabi somehow have that problem. The parents that want to make you someway and then realise that you'r not "enought" 'cause we'r never enought right ? We'r just phone addict :) we'r just spoiled brat and yea maybe we are but we don't just "creat" that feelings.itsin us that's all.

I'm so happy !

I looove cult of the lamb like, its one of my hyperfixation (the main at the moment even if Tomura is still my fav) and by posting on it i found other blog of fan of the game and all ! That's so cool ! 'Cause like i feel like the game is sooo underated !

Love Like Ghosts (Chapter 18) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

You knew the empty house in a quiet neighborhood was too good to be true, but you were so desperate to get out of your tiny apartment that you didn't care, and now you find yourself sharing space with something inhuman and immensely powerful. As you struggle to coexist with a ghost whose intentions you're unsure of, you find yourself drawn unwillingly into the upside-down world of spirits and conjurers, and becoming part of a neighborhood whose existence depends on your house staying exactly as it is, forever. But ghosts can change, just like people can. And as your feelings and your ghost's become more complex and intertwined, everything else begins to crumble. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17

Chapter 18

There’s something wrong with your house, but you knew that when you bought it. This morning, the thing that’s wrong with it is the potted plant that’s heaved over the fence into the front yard just past three am. The sound of a terracotta pot shattering wakes you up, and when you fumble for your phone to check the time, you see that you’ve got a text from Dabi. Your dumb horny idiot wouldn’t leave me alone until I gave him a plant. Whatever the hell he wants, I hope it’s worth it.

As far as Dabi goes, it could be worse. You send him a thumbs-up and a thank-you and wonder idly if Tomura really thinks one potted plant is going to get the two of you through a second round of sex. But when Tomura materializes in your room seconds later, he doesn’t try to start something. Instead he crawls under the blankets on your bed and wedges himself in beside you. Phantom’s excited to see him. She walks all over you to plop down between the two of you, her wagging tail thumping against your cheek.

You shift her to one side to avoid the onslaught and peer at Tomura through blurry eyes. “What?”

“Go back to bed.” Tomura sets Phantom down on your stomach and presses close against your side, wrapping one arm around you to hold you even closer. “I mean it. Go.”

You don’t like being told what to do, but you have work in the morning, and you’re still worn out from last night. You close your eyes again.

It’s a busy morning, so busy that your plan to get the morning-after pill before work is derailed within two minutes of your alarm going off. You were so tired last night that it was all you could do to make dinner, feed Phantom, and go back to sleep, which means you now have to shower and pack a lunch in addition to all your usual morning chores. And somewhere in the middle of that, you have to explain the plan for killing Tomura’s conjurer to Tomura himself.

Tomura, as predicted, is not pleased. His first protest is that he can do it himself, at which point you text Hizashi to come over later and explain – from outside the fence – what happens to ghosts who kill their own conjurers. Tomura follows up by pointing out that the others weren’t very helpful handling Garaki, and you counter with Tomura’s own statement about being his conjurer’s only remaining ghost. Finally, Tomura gets around to what seems to be the main point of contention. “I don’t trust them. Not with you. Not from him.”

Tomura doesn’t talk about his conjurer very much. From what he’s said, he barely remembers him. But you knew he’d say something like this, and you have a response ready. “If you’re materialized, he’s cut off from the world between. He’ll just be a human. And humans die.”

“Don’t copy me,” Tomura says. He knows you’re quoting what he said to Garaki. “Who’s supposed to kill him, anyway? If they try this stupid plan.”

“The rest of the adult humans,” you say. Then you think about it. “Probably Keigo or Aizawa. And probably Aizawa. He’s got a gun.”

“Spinner would. And Jin.” Tomura speaks with a lot more certainty than you’d expect. He sees the way you’re looking at him. “What?”

“Nothing.” The electric teakettle hisses and you pour hot water into your travel mug before dropping in a tea bag. “Usually you aren’t nice about them.”

“They came over while you were gone. For games.” Tomura crouches down to pet Phantom, who’s come over with her favorite toy. “Himiko, too. It wasn’t bad.”

You didn’t expect that. You didn’t think he’d do anything but hang out with Phantom while you were gone, and you suddenly feel guilty for not asking. But you’ll ask more when you get home from work, or text him about it on your lunch break. Right now you have to get moving. “So, the plan?”

“I haven’t said yes yet.”

“We’re not doing it today,” you say. “Just think about it. If you’ve got ideas, we could use them. Your last plan was pretty good.”

Tomura looks pleased with himself. You gather up your work backpack, plus all the research you’re bringing to Mr. Yagi in exchange for his and Izuku’s notes on his master’s journal, and head for the door. Phantom follows you. So does Tomura. “Get more plants on the way home.”

You say goodbye to Phantom and feed her a treat. “Plants are expensive.”

“They’re everywhere outside. Those don’t cost anything.”

He wants you to go out, dig up random plants, put them in pots, and bring them home so the two of you can have more sex. “I’m not stealing plants in my work clothes,” you say. “Maybe after dinner.”

Tomura grins. He dematerializes from behind you and reappears in front of you, leaning against the front door and blocking your path. “I want a kiss first.”

“I was going to kiss you anyway.” Your hands are full, but you step forward anyway and press your lips against his.

You haven’t kissed him since last night. The two of you don’t usually kiss unless someone’s trying to start something, and kissing him goodbye on your way out the door to work has always felt a little too intimate, a little too serious for whatever the two of you are. Except now the two of you have said you love each other. You defined the relationship. You went all the way, to the degree that you’re having to make an effort not to walk funny. You can be serious, because it is serious. A goodbye kiss is something you’re allowed to have.

You’re five minutes late by the time you stagger out the door, and as you push the speed limit to get to work on time, you find yourself wishing you had someone you could tell about all of this. Maybe not the sex part. Probably not about that. Definitely not about that – but the rest of it. The part where you’ve got a boyfriend who loves you in whatever way ghosts love humans. It’s the kind of thing you’d talk to your old friends about, but they’ve found their own lives and pulled away, just like you did. There’s got to be somebody else. As you cruise the courthouse parking lot looking for a parking place, your usual spot long since snagged by somebody who got here early, you’re horrified to find yourself considering telling Nakayama.

The spot you find is way back in the corner of the lot, almost out of sight of the doors. If it was dark there’s no way you’d think about parking here, but it’s broad daylight, and you’ve got pepper spray somewhere in your backpack for the walk back after work. You take a second to get yourself organized, then grab your backpack and get out of the car, walking around to the passenger side to lift your research folder off the seat.

You don’t see a shadow fall across you. You don’t hear footsteps. The first thing you notice is something touching your shoulder, and the last thing you see is an enormous hand swathed in a wet, stinking handkerchief coming down over your nose and mouth. You have time to identify the smell – not alcohol, something stronger, chloroform? – before the world starts to blur at the edges. Somewhere in your head, alarm bells are ringing. You’re in danger. You’re being kidnapped. Something’s gone really wrong.

By the time the realization settles over you fully, it’s too late. All you can do is throw your elbow backwards, connecting weakly with something solid, before everything goes black.

You come to with a splitting headache and all the adrenaline and terror you didn’t have time to feel before flooding through your veins. As soon as your eyes are open, you’re fighting, but there’s no point – your arms and legs have been shackled down at the wrists and ankles, and there’s a restraint pinning you to the table at the waist. You’re trapped. It’s not even funny how trapped you are.

When you look up, all you can see is the bright glare of a fluorescent light, the kind that gets shined on your face at the dentist’s office. When you turn your head to the right, there’s nothing. When you look left, you see a rolling cart with a tray on top of it. The tray is covered in sharp, shiny metal implements. Surgical implements.

This can’t be happening. You thrash, trying to find any give in your restraints, but there’s nothing. It’s around then that you realize you’ve been stripped of your shoes, socks, shirt, pants – you’re down to your bra and underwear, like some parody of a kidnapping in a movie. But this isn’t a parody or a movie. It’s real. Whoever brought you here is planning to hurt you badly. Maybe kill you. Probably kill you.

“Don’t worry. I don’t plan to kill you.” The voice issues from somewhere behind you, and it rings a distant bell in your head. Too distant, when the rest of you is worried about whether your kidnapper can read your mind. “In fact, my plan hinges on your survival. I have great things in mind for Tomura, and the death of his human at my hands will not improve his listening skills.”

“Shigaraki Akira,” you say, and Tomura’s conjurer laughs. “I know who you are. We all do.”

“Yes, you made it quite far in your investigation! Tomura certainly chose his human well,” the conjurer says. He sounds delighted by it, which is the opposite of how you expected him to sound. “It’s quite unusual to see a human so bent on protecting a ghost – and terribly unfortunate that Tomura wasn’t quite so careful when it came to you. So full of ghostly power – you were all too easy to spot.”

You have the incredibly stupid thought that this wouldn’t be happening if the condom hadn’t broken, then push it aside. The conjurer’s voice is familiar. You’ve met him before. When? Where? “Where did you find me?”

“You don’t remember?” The conjurer sounds surprised. Then he laughs at himself. “Of course. You can’t see me. My apologies.”

Footsteps behind you. A shadow falls over you, and although it’s hard to see the conjurer’s face, you know exactly who you’re looking at. “My fellow gardener,” the man who gave you his handkerchief the day Garaki died says. His smile sends a bolt of pure terror down your spine. “We meet again.”

All this time you’ve been plotting against Tomura’s conjurer, and he’s known where you are. He’s known where you are for more than a month. You thrash against the restraints harder than before, watching as Shigaraki picks his way around the table you’re strapped to and reaches the cart with the instruments. He pulls on a pair of gloves, and somewhere behind you, a door opens. More footsteps. Shadowy figures come to stand along the walls, and Shigaraki continues to talk.

“It’s quite a strange existence your neighborhood has carved out,” he remarks, lifting one tool after another to the light and studying them. “So many beings who once held immense power, leading such quiet, mundane lives. I must say, I’ve never understood the appeal of humanity, of mortality. Why should we settle for one life, one world, when we could have so much more?”

Silence falls, and stretches. Tomura’s conjurer glances at you. “This isn’t a rhetorical question. I’m interested in your answer. What is so wonderful about mortality?”

“It’s not wonderful,” you say. Shigaraki Akira arches an eyebrow. “The world between is worse.”

“Ah, I understand. You’ve stared into the abyss, and you don’t like what you saw.” Shigaraki raises one hand and beckons, and eight shadowy figures converge on the table, holding down your arms and legs even tighter. If you couldn’t get out before, you’ve got no hope of it now. “Perhaps you simply need to look a little longer. You will get the chance.”

When he speaks again, he’s not speaking to you. “Hold her down tightly. We must remove all traces, or our plan will be spoiled before it can begin.”

“What plan?” you ask desperately. “What are you going to do to me?”

“For all your impressive qualities, you’re only human,” Shigaraki Akira says, almost indulgently. “In order for you to properly partner Tomura, I must make you into something more.”

There’s something about that you should understand. Something you should know. But then the blade of a knife meets your skin, carving deep through its layers and down to the fat beneath it, and your ability to understand anything at all vanishes into a helpless howl of pain.

It’s terrible enough to drive you into unconsciousness, but Tomura’s conjurer doesn’t let you stay there. When you pass out, the knife lifts, and the process doesn’t begin again until you wake. You don’t know why you have to be awake for this, unless he’s trying to torture you, but he sets the knife down every so often to assure you it isn’t personal. How could it not be personal? He’s carving into your skin, peeling back long strips of it with agonizing slowness, stopping only when you fall unconscious or when his hands grow too slick with your blood to hold the blade. There’s no rhyme or reason to where he’s cutting you. Your left shoulder. Your right forearm. A spot on the side of your torso that feels like it takes hours upon hours to peel back. Every time you black out, you pray that you won’t wake up, that the conjurer won’t be able to rouse you. And every time, your eyes open again.

It's been quiet in the room, save for the conjurer’s voice and your unheeded screams, but after some endless amount of time, you hear another voice. “Too much blood loss,” it says, low and rumbling. “We’re running out of excisions.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. I expected her to be strong-willed, and we have plenty of excisions left for my purposes,” Shigaraki Akira says. “When we exhaust our options on the anterior, we’ll turn her to expose the rest. The one on her back is quite fresh.”

What’s on your back? You know Tomura left scratches there last night – and then you understand what the conjurer’s doing, what he’s spent the last interminable hours carving out of your skin. He’s removing the marks Tomura left on you. All of them, one by one.

You don’t know why he thinks Tomura will be happy with this. Seeing what’s been done to you will enrage him. You wonder what time it is, whether anyone’s noticed you’re missing, whether anyone’s asked where you are. How long will it take Tomura to realize you aren’t coming home? How long is he going to be angry at you before he realizes that something’s gone wrong? You think of him pacing inside the house, Phantom following him, anxious because he is. You wish you were anywhere but here, but more than anything, you wish you were home with them. You’re never going to see them again. Your throat, raw from screaming, closes off. Tears begin to drip down your cheeks, and the next time the knife cuts into your skin, you endure it in sobs instead of screams.

Your other arm. Your opposite shoulder. The other side of your waist. At some point the conjurer inserts an IV, and fresh blood begins to flow drop by drop into your veins. He wants you alive. Why? You try to make yourself listen to what he’s saying, to learn anything that might help you survive, but there’s nothing. Just the friendly exterior, the friendly voice, and the hands cutting you apart piece by piece.

“I can’t call this failure Tomura’s,” he muses as he carves a piece of flesh out of your upper arm. “He doesn’t know any better. Toshinori, on the other hand – the fact that I snatched you from under his nose will haunt him for the rest of his pathetic human life.”

You want to defend Mr. Yagi, but there’s nothing left of your voice. It’s almost as raspy as Tomura’s, and you’ve barely used it for anything but sobs and weak whimpers of pain. The conjurer’s voice takes on a dangerous note. “Nothing to say? Your stubbornness was charming at first. Now it’s getting excessive.” He jabs the knife into your skin, peels a strip back, and you wail like a wounded animal. “There’s no point in resisting. No one is coming for you. No one knows where you are. No one even knows you’re gone. The longer you resist, the worse it will be.”

No one knows you’re gone. That means it’s still the same day, because if he’s been watching you, he knows what time you’d be expected home. How is it the same day? It feels like it’s been forever. “That’s right,” the conjurer continues. “The longer you hold out, the more painful this will be. When it ends is entirely up to you.”

When it ends? Your mind is too hazy with blood loss and pain to come up with an answer, and before you can even come close, the knife bites into your skin again. You pass out almost instantly. He revives you just as quickly. It begins all over again.

You can tell the conjurer is growing frustrated with your unwillingness to do whatever it is he wants you to do. You also have a feeling he’s running out of marks to carve away, and sure enough, he orders for you to be uncuffed and rolled over, so he can reach the marks on your back. They uncuff your legs first. Nobody’s trying too hard to prevent you from running, which makes sense. You can’t run. You don’t even know that you could stand.

When your right hand’s uncuffed, the conjurer takes one look and bursts out laughing. “How did I miss this?” he asks, pulling the bracelet from your wrist. “Shimura’s work. Of course she’d continue to plague me from beyond the grave.”

Conjurers can’t touch the souls of the dead. If you die, you’ll be free of this. Free from him. The thought comes to you, settles around you, comforting and cold. You don’t have to survive this. It can end. You can go.

Shigaraki Akira laughs. “So this token was the underpinning of your resolve. Moonfish, retrieve the ghost. We’re ready.”

His voice is benevolent again, almost cooing, with a sickly undertone that makes you want to tear off the rest of your skin. He uncuffs your other wrist without looking, without spotting the bracelet there, covered in blood and practically glued to your skin. “I imagine Tomura will be very fond of my gift. Once your binding is complete, he’ll have no need to embody himself again.”

A ghost. He called for a ghost, and he’s talking about binding – a Nomu. Tomura’s conjurer is planning to turn you into a Nomu. He tortured you until you lost your will to go on, and as if you needed proof that he succeeded, you’re lying completely unrestrained on the table without even the faintest urge to run. “As for this,” Shigaraki continues, “it’s only fitting that I break Shimura’s last trinket on the day I break her ghost’s will.”

He raises the bracelet and slams it down on the table. You hear it crack. A sheet of white light blasts through the room.

You don’t understand what’s happening. It feels like it happens too fast, and at the same time, you see it in slow motion. Shigaraki’s blown backwards, clawing at his face and howling. The table you were tied to tips and overturns. There’s a sharp sting as the IV comes out of your arm, and pain explodes through your body as you hit the ground and sprawl out. Your mind’s a second or two behind the times. You’re sprawled out on the ground. Your arms and legs are free. You could get up, if you wanted to. You could run.

You struggle to your knees, try to stand, and realize that crawling’s your best bet. In the wreckage of the laboratory, nobody’s paying attention to you – they’re all trying to aid Tomura’s conjurer, who’s still howling in pain. You gather your strength and what’s left of your resolve and crawl for the door.

The operating room was clean and pitilessly bright, but the hallway outside is dingy, and crawling through it feels like it’s going to give you twenty kinds of diseases. It’s that thought that forces you to your feet, and not a second too soon. One of the conjurer’s minions is hurrying down the hallway towards you, carrying a matte-black box that’s rattling in his grip. You don’t even think before you act. You reach out and swat it from his hands, and the instant it strikes the floor, the ghost inside it bursts free.

The ghost could kill you. You see her thinking about it, but then the conjurer’s servant lunges through her, towards you, and she materializes all at once. You’ve never seen a ghost trap someone else with its own body before, and it’s hideous. So is what’s happening to the minion – massive dents are appearing in his body, like the way a car looks after a few rounds in a demolition derby. His eyes are blank as his body deforms, but the ghost looks at you. She has dark skin and pale hair and a look of unrestrained fury in her red eyes. “Run.”

You don’t need to be told more than once. You set off down the hall as fast as you can go, stumbling on almost every step. If anyone catches you, you’re doomed, but if you can get out of the building, maybe – you think about your home, Phantom. Tomura. But even if you make it out of here, you don’t know where you are. You don’t have money or your phone or your ID. You don’t even have clothes. When you hit the street, you’ll be doing it bloodstained and in your underwear, and there’s no guarantee that you’ll make it that far. You remind yourself again. Phantom. Tomura. You have to.

Something seizes you from behind, and your destroyed vocal cords shudder around a scream – but it’s only the ghost from the box. She begins to drag you down the hall, much faster than you were able to move on your own. “I’ll get you out, but that’s it,” she says through clenched teeth. “Whatever you did in there, do it again as soon as we’re outside.”

You still have the other bracelet. You nod and struggle to pick up speed, but the ghost makes an irritated sound and yanks you completely off your feet. It’s faster this way. Still, you’d give almost anything not to see the long smear of blood your body is leaving on the ground, and of course being dragged around like this hurts. Everything hurts. You’ve never felt pain like this before. All you want is for it to stop.

No, that’s not all you want. You want to go home. You think of Phantom, think of Tomura, and hold on tight as the ghost kicks down a door and drags you through onto the street.

It’s almost full dark. The air smells sooty and metallic, which tells you that you’re in the old manufacturing district, a long way from anybody who could have heard you scream. The ghost drops you next to the building and gestures impatiently. “Do it. You’ll need every second of a head start.”

You raise your left hand and bang your wrist against the wall of the building. Not hard enough. You throw yourself against the wall, hoping your body weight will do the trick, but there’s no luck there, either. “We’re too close,” the ghost says suddenly. “Give me that.”

She pries the bracelet off your wrist, drags you five feet, ten feet, twenty feet away, then hurls the bracelet against the wall from a distance. The blast of light takes a chunk out of the side of the building, and the entire thing begins to collapse – but that’s all you see of it. The ghost drags you away from the damaged building, towards the more populated downtown. As bad as being dragged across the floor in the warehouse was, being dragged across concrete is worse. You black out after about three seconds, and this time, there’s no conjurer trying to wake you up.

The next time you come to, you’re huddled in an alleyway, limbs flopping uselessly as the ghost tries to stuff you into a set of clothes that smell freshly stolen. “Go out there,” she snaps at you once she sees you’re awake. “Someone will see this and help you. This is as far as I go.”

“Thank you,” you mumble. “You got me out –”

“We got each other out. He dropped my box because of you.” The ghost straightens your shirt, then hauls you upright by the front of it. “Good luck, human.”

“Wait,” you say, and the ghost glances at you again. “What’s your name?”

“Rumi.” The ghost dematerializes and vanishes completely.

Rumi’s saved your life, and now she’s saving her own. The rest is up to you. You lean against the wall for a moment, fighting off the urge to lay down and give up, then start down the alleyway and into the street.

It’s a street you recognize. You lived near here, in the last apartment you had before you bought your house. It’s been almost two years. You don’t know anyone here you can ask for help, so you struggle down the sidewalk, pausing at one of the city’s few remaining payphones before realizing that you don’t have anyone’s number memorized. You could look through the phone book – Mr. Yagi’s almost certainly listed – but that would take money and time, and you’re getting unsteadier on your feet by the second. You spot the sign for the train station up ahead and aim for it. The train will take you out of the city, and maybe you can sit down.

Hopping the turnstiles is something you’re familiar with, but your muscles are desperately weak. You get one leg over, then get stuck, and sprawl out hard on the tiles on the far side. You know you leave smears of blood when you get to your feet, but the clothes Rumi stole for you don’t show it except in slick, dark spots, and there are so many of them that it probably looks like a pattern in the fabric. You leave the bloody outline of your body on the floor and pick yourself up again, dragging yourself onto the first train that pulls into the station. You hope it’s the right one.

On board, you huddle in your seat, shivering. You’ve always liked the cold, but you’re used to being cold on the outside – from air or water or wind or from Tomura wrapping himself around you, visible or not. This cold is crawling up from inside you, cold like the world between, hollowing you out one cell at a time. No matter how tightly you curl up, you can’t shake it. It hurts so badly. Everything hurts, and there’s no one to help you, and you’re so far from home. And even if you make it, you’re a mess. You’ll have scars, horrible ones, and enough nightmares to keep you awake for the rest of your life. Imagining going back to work, back to your life, feels impossible. What’s the point?

The point is Phantom, who loves you. The point is Tomura, who loves you too, who will never forgive you if you leave him like this, or at all. You have to keep it together for them. At least long enough to see them one more time.

By some miracle you got on the right train, the one that runs all the way out of the city proper to reach your stop. When you hear your stop called, you haul yourself upright and stagger off the train, leaving another bloodstain on the seat you were in. You almost make it down the stairs from the platform, but you miss a step and fall down three more, sprawling out headfirst on the concrete. You barely bring your arms up in time to shield your face. And then you’re stuck. You don’t have the energy to pick yourself back up again, and even if you could, it’s still miles between you and home. Instead of trying to rise again, you curl up, whimpering when the movement breaks the few scabs that have managed to form over your wounds. You have a hard time imagining you have any blood left to lose.

This is it. This is how you die, then – in a bloody heap on the sidewalk, because you could escape but you couldn’t make it home. You’re going to leave him. It’s the last thing you want, but you can’t help it. Maybe you can find some way to stick around, just like Yoichi did, but deep in your heart you know you’re not that strong. You’ll leave Tomura, go where humans go, and you’ll never see each other again.

The thought makes you cry, but crying hurts your throat, and the horrible raspy sounds you’re making do a great job of covering up the sound of a car pulling over. Then the sound of footsteps. But there’s no way you can miss the sound of your own name, shouted in a familiar voice. “Hey, where have you been?” Spinner demands. “If you don’t get back soon, Tomura’s going to – wait, are you okay? Did you fall?”

“I knew I smelled blood!” Himiko’s here, too. You hear a car door slam shut, and more footsteps darting towards you. “A lot of blood. Not all of it’s hers.”

“Did she kill somebody?” A hand reaches out and shakes your shoulder, then recoils – just like you’re doing, because their hand came down over one of your wounds. “Fuck, look at this. She didn’t try to kill somebody, they tried to kill her. Get her up.”

Hands seize you – at least three sets of hands, three people pulling you upright. “Careful,” Spinner is pleading. “Don’t touch the blood –”

“I can’t do shit about that. It’s everywhere.” Now you can place the third voice – it’s Dabi. What is Dabi doing out here? “Something fucked her up bad.”

You force your eyes open and see that you’re being carried towards the dark shape of the Buibaigawara family’s minivan. Jin is in the driver’s seat, and you see him grinning at you. “Hey, there you are! We gotta get – Himiko, shit, is that blood? Did you do that?”

“I wouldn’t,” Himiko snaps at him, sounding more than a little hurt. “Somebody cut Tomura’s human. We have to take her to the hospital.”

“No.” The voice from the passenger seat sounds more like Kurogiri than Shirakumo right now. “We must return to the neighborhood.”

“You’re not the one with her blood all over your hands. She could be dying!” Spinner protests. “If we get her to the hospital –”

“She’s vulnerable to the conjurer,” Kurogiri says. Dabi, Spinner, and Himiko dump you into the middle row of seats in the van and he twists around to look at you. “He’s the one who did this.”

“I got away.” You cringe from the sound of your own voice. “He got hurt. Maybe dead.”

“Did you see the body?” Dabi asks. You shake your head. “If you didn’t see it, he’s not dead.”

“He’s right. If Tomura wasn’t materialized when it happened, the conduit was still open, and he could have used Tomura’s power to survive.” Spinner looks miserable. “We can’t know for sure.”

“We have to go back,” Kurogiri repeats. “Jin, drive.”

The minivan lurches into motion. Himiko and Spinner are trying to figure out what to do about your injuries, while Dabi gets on the phone. “We’ve got her. Pull everybody back,” he says. You can’t hear the other person’s response, but you hear Dabi’s answer. “She looks like something mauled her.”

“It’s not that bad,” Spinner says hastily, trying to reassure you. It’s – sweet. “You’re going to be fine. I bet they’re not as bad as they – holy shit –”

Himiko’s just pulled up your shirt. Spinner rolls down the window in a hurry and sticks his head out, gagging, while Himiko stares for a moment with her jaw dropped. Then her pupils narrow to slits, sheer rage settling over her face. “He cut out Tomura’s marks,” she says. Dabi swears into the phone, then swears again as the person on the other end of the line barks at him in response. “I’ll cut him.”

You always thought Tomura’s thing about not touching other ghosts’ humans was just a weird Tomura thing, given how much time Dabi and Hizashi spend lowkey threatening you, but apparently it’s not. The idea of someone removing a ghost’s marks on their human is enough to seriously piss off Dabi, Himiko, and Kurogiri at once, until the car is crackling with their fury. “Can you guys cool it?” Jin asks anxiously. “I’m a nervous driver.”

“You sped the whole way here!”

“I was nervous about finding her. Now I’m nervous about you guys blowing up my mom’s car,” Jin says. “What’s going on is fucked. I want to kill something! But if even I can pick up on what all of you are doing, Tomura will, too.”

“We can’t let that happen,” Spinner says at once. “If he finds out about this he’ll go ballistic. There’s no way he’ll stick to the plan.”

“You can’t just hide it. I could smell her blood from down the street.” Himiko peers at you, her pupils dilating again. “And her soul’s not right. It’s unstuck, kind of. It’s wrong. He’ll know. He’ll know his marks are gone, too.”

Dabi hangs up the phone, then dials another number. He speaks while it’s ringing. “I’m letting the humans know. He can’t read them like he reads us. When we get back, you all get on her and stay there. You too, Kurogiri. As long as she smells like the neighborhood he might not notice.”

“She’s still bleeding,” Spinner says loudly. “If we bring her back and she dies –”

“Keigo knows doctor shit. He can help her.” Whoever Dabi’s calling picks up the phone, and Dabi starts talking. “Yeah, we’ve got her. She’s fucked up. Here’s what we’ll do –”

You’re among friends now. People who will help you, whether it’s out of obligation or because they care, and now that you know you’re not going to die alone, it’s somehow harder to hang on. The drive back to the neighborhood goes by in a long, slow blink, punctuated by Himiko and Spinner repeatedly shaking you awake. “Come on,” Spinner says, still sounding sort of like he wants to throw up. “You have to make it through this. Tomura’s naming his Pokémon all kinds of stupid shit and you’re the only one who can talk him out of it.”

“Stay awake,” Himiko tells you. She’s been patting your cheek lightly, which you don’t mind. Your face and neck are the only parts of you that the conjuror left untouched. “You’re my only human girl neighbor. I’ll be sad if you die. Tomura will be so sad if you die. You don’t want him to be sad, do you? You love him. Humans don’t want the people they love to be sad.”

“Ghosts don’t, either,” Dabi mutters. Then, to Jin: “Park at the top of the street, across the street. Everybody’s falling back to my house and the idiot’s. We could use the extra barricade.”

Jin skids to a stop at the top of the street, and Spinner opens the door. You see people hurrying up the street towards you and identify them distantly – Keigo, Hizashi. They reach you just as everyone else is hauling you out of the car. Hizashi takes one look at you and swears, his pupils narrowing to slits just like Himiko’s did. The embodied ghosts never look more inhuman than when they’re angry. “When he gets here, I’ll kill him myself.”

“Calm down,” Spinner begs. “If he figures it out –”

“He knows she’s back. If you’re any good at lying, Spinner, get down there and tell him we’re hiding her in my house so the conjurer won’t find her when he comes looking for him.” Hizashi’s a good liar, and it’s a logical plan, but you absolutely don’t want to be left alone with Hizashi right now. “Keigo, Dabi, with us. Everybody else, battle stations. Shigaraki’s on his way here, and he’s not happy.”

The group splits, Himiko bolting down the street while the others follow at a slower pace. You’ve had enough of a rest that you think you can maybe walk a few feet, past Atsuhiro’s house and up Aizawa’s front steps, if only so Tomura doesn’t spot you being carried and catch on to what’s really happening. Keigo hovers next to you, ready to catch you if you stumble, while Dabi and Hizashi trail behind you. “What are you doing up here?” Dabi asks Hizashi. “He trusts you about as far as he could throw your rotting corpse.”

“So, pretty far, then.” Hizashi ignores the disgusted noise Dabi makes. “He trusts my human more than me, and my human can lie to him better than I can. And since he’s got my human right now, he’s got all the leverage on me he needs to make sure I’m right here to take the hit against his asshole conjurer.”

“Fucking asshole. And I thought ours was bad.”

“Ours didn’t need us like his needs him.” Hizashi snarls low under his breath. “Cutting out the marks is a new low. It would have been better if he’d just killed her.”

“Don’t say that,” Keigo snaps at him. You push open the front door, then stumble over the threshold into the house. Keigo catches you, guiding you towards the kitchen, and – “Hey, calm down! I just need to get a look at your injuries!”

You can’t look at the kitchen table without feeling sick. “I’m not laying there.”

“Fine. The living room. Get on the floor.”

The floor is fine. It has a carpet, and Keigo yanks a pillow off the couch for you to prop your head on before he pulls out a pair of scissors and starts cutting away your bloody clothes. He studies you and sucks in a breath. “Okay, cleaning these out and bandaging them is the best I can do, but it’s not going to be enough. The skin’s the biggest organ in the body and right now it’s got a bunch of holes in it. You need antibiotics and some of that fake skin as soon as we can get it, or sepsis will set in and kill you.”

“You can’t just stitch it up?” Dabi asks. “That’s what you did for me.”

You wonder what the story was there. “These are too wide for me to do it with what I’ve got here,” Keigo says. He looks down at you. “The cleaning part is going to suck. Can you keep quiet?”

You nod. He doesn’t look convinced, so you clear your throat and try to talk. “I can take it. It won’t be as bad as when it happened.”

“What happened, exactly?” Hizashi asks. He’s at the front window, while Dabi leans with his back to the door. “We’ve been careful. You had those bracelets. When did we get made?”

“Same day –” The cleaning process starts in earnest, and you hiss in pain. “Same day we killed Garaki. I left to get the plants. I met him at the nursery.”

Dabi makes a skeptical noise. “You had the bracelets. Those things work. He shouldn’t have been able to tell.”

“He could.” You bite the inside of your cheek and try not to howl. What was it that Shigaraki said? “He said I had ghostly energy. That I was full of it.”

“Ugh. Don’t tell me shit like that. I don’t want to know.”

“That’s not what he meant,” Hizashi says suddenly. He turns to look at you, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he looks like he’d seen a ghost. “When did you meet him? Before Tomura’s lesson or after?”

The fact that Keigo’s helping you instead of hurting you on purpose doesn’t make what he’s doing hurt even less. You squeeze your eyes shut. “After.”

“Fuck,” Hizashi mumbles. “It’s my fault.”

“Huh?” Keigo sounds puzzled. “It sounds like bad luck.”

“It’s not. I made Tomura practice discharging power before the fight, and I made him practice on her.” Hizashi’s voice is full of venom. “He’s got the self-control of an elephant on an acid trip, so of course he overdid it. The bracelets wouldn’t have done shit to hide her after that. Anybody who was looking could have seen her from space.”

You remember something he said that day: She’ll glow in the dark until it wears off. Hizashi was trying to make you leave, but all he did was turn you into a walking signpost pointed directly at the neighborhood. Is it his fault? Blaming him would feel good, maybe, if none of the rest of this had happened. You don’t want to think about it. All you want is not to hurt anymore.

It’s cold, and getting colder. You think some of that could be the blood loss, and the fact that your clothes are partially in tatters once again, but when you exhale, you can see your breath. Keigo notices, too, and you watch the blood drain from his face. “Guys –”

Hizashi and Dabi are huddled by the window. “These can’t all be his,” Hizashi is hissing.

“They’re not. I’ve seen some of them before,” Dabi hisses. “They’re like you. They came here on purpose, and now they’re free.”

“And they’re following him?” Keigo says, incredulous. “Why?”

“For kicks? I don’t know.” Hizashi shrugs uselessly. “I’m a little out of touch these days.”

You can hear low whispering from outside the house, and the air is getting colder by the second. If everybody else is down at the other end of the street – “Call them. Warn them –”

“They know already,” Hizashi says grimly. “Trust me.”

Just like Garaki before him, Tomura’s conjurer speaks first. The mirror sound of his voice makes you cringe and curl in on yourself. “Good evening, Tomura,” Shigaraki Akira says. “What a quiet life you’ve led since we last saw each other.”

Dabi and Hizashi rose to the bait instantly when Garaki called out to them. Tomura stays silent. “Not even a greeting?” Shigaraki asks, and clucks his tongue. “I suppose I never taught you manners.”

“You’re trespassing.” Tomura’s voice rings out, vibrating with power. “This is my neighborhood. Get out.”

Shigaraki clucks his tongue again. “Poor thing. I see now that I’ve been neglectful. I should never have left you with the impression that this was your home.”

“How many are out there?” Keigo asks, keeping his voice low.

“Hundreds,” Dabi says, and the floor feels as though it’s fallen out beneath you. “Nomus. Embodied ghosts. Live ones.”

“None of them are his,” Hizashi says. There’s a savage note in his voice. “He’s only got one.”

Tomura hasn’t responded to his conjurer’s latest taunt. His conjurer speaks again. “You’ve built quite a comfortable existence for yourself, haven’t you? A secluded kingdom. Servants who bend to your whims. Even a human of your own.”

“What human?” Tomura scoffs. “I don’t have a human.”

Even knowing he’s trying to protect you, even knowing that he’s lying, your heart sinks. “You know better than to lie to me,” the conjurer says. That almost-indulgent note is back in his voice. You roll to one side and dry-heave onto Aizawa’s carpets. “Where is the human girl? Has she failed to return home?”

“She’s home,” Tomura snaps. “Safe from you.”

“Have you seen her?” Shigaraki inquires. He sounds honestly concerned. “Who told you that she’s home? The others? The ones who fear your wrath so deeply that they have every reason to lie?”

“She’s here.” This time, it’s Shirakumo who answers – Shirakumo, not Kurogiri. “You know I’m telling the truth, Tomura. So is Himiko.”

“Yes, your human is home,” the conjurer agrees. “But safe? I think not. Dabi, Hizashi, Keigo – come out. Bring Tomura’s human to him.”

“No,” Tomura says, but there’s an uncertain note in his voice. “Stay where you are.”

“Come out,” the conjurer repeats. “No one will harm you on your way. Tomura’s human is in a delicate condition. I won’t risk anyone dropping her.”

He’s pretending like he’s not the one who did this to you. Like he really cares about making sure you get back to Tomura safely. “Stay where you are,” Tomura orders again. “You can’t trust him.”

“I’m the only one here who’s telling you the truth,” Shigaraki says. “Hizashi, Dabi, Keigo. Bring the human out. If you won’t, I’ll be forced to send my friends to retrieve her – and unlike me, they don’t much care about preserving your lives.”

You lift your head with an effort and see Dabi and Hizashi trade a glance. Then they turn from the window and come towards you. “It’s strategy,” Hizashi insists as he drops a coat over you, as Dabi hoists you upright. “If they come get us here, we’re all dead. Your house is a lot easier to defend.”

But he wouldn’t let you go back unless he thought it wouldn’t matter. He’s playing all of you, and you’re too weak and exhausted to see what his endgame is. You’re semiconscious as Keigo, Dabi, and Hizashi carry you down the front steps, but you keep your eyes open with an effort, and you see the conjurer’s army parting the way to make a path, one that runs straight as an arrow down the street until it reaches your house. Hizashi sets a brisk pace, just below a jog, and you jostle along between he and the others. You don’t see where the conjurer is, but you hear his voice. “Very good,” he says, encouraging. “A wise choice. I’m sure Tomura will be merciful in turn.”

You hear the others’ voices as you get closer to the house, all of them trying for damage control. You start agitating to be set down. You can’t risk Tomura losing his temper on the others, and the worse off he thinks you are, the angrier he’ll be. He needs to see that you’re fine. You’ll be fine. Keigo sets you down carefully, then steps in close, arm around you to hold you upright. You survive the step up onto the sidewalk and shuffle along until you’re walking parallel to your own fenced yard. You have to keep walking. You have to keep walking long enough for Tomura to let Hizashi and Dabi in, or he’ll strand them outside.

The gate swings open as you reach it, and Tomura’s voice drifts in from nowhere. “She wasn’t wearing that when she left,” he says. Dabi steps through, then Hizashi, and he shuts the gate behind him. You have time to register that every last one of your neighbors is inside the property line before your vision begins to blur. It’s not blurry enough to block out Tomura as he materializes at the top of the front steps. His next question is for you. “Why were you late?”

You can’t talk. Talking will give it away. You climb the first step, then the next, and it’s not until you’re just outside the warm glow of the porch light that your legs give out.

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