Chapter Text
You wake up to silence. That’s the strangest part: how quiet the world has become since it ended.
They call it peace. You call it pretending.
It’s been nearly two years since the heroes lost. The League of Villains calls themselves the New Order now. They run the cities, each carving out their kingdoms from what’s left. The old government buildings still stand, but the flags are different, and the people inside bow to new names.
Shigaraki Tomura rules from the ruins he made. He doesn’t speak often; he doesn’t need to. His word moves armies; his silence kills faster than his hand ever did. You’ve only seen him through static screens, a pale figure, lean and restless, the kind of presence that bends a room even through a broadcast.
They call him the architect of peace, though the word tastes wrong. People whisper that he doesn’t kill much anymore, that he’s learnt restraint. But restraint from someone like him is just another kind of cruelty: slower, quieter, and efficient.
The powerful take prizes. People, mostly. Former heroes, civilians, anyone unlucky enough to catch their attention. They’re branded 'pets' now, collared and leashed, jewels or restraints digging into necks as reminders of their fall. Auctions hum in the undercity, where bids climb for the prettiest screams or the strongest wills to break.
Training them is a game, a sick thrill. Kicking and screaming turns to sobbing, sobbing to whimpering. Fear turns to confusion, confusion to submission. It's all about control, about bending them to their masters' will. Sex is a weapon, pain an aphrodisiac. They use their bodies, their mouths, their holes until pleasure and agony become one. Cruelty and carnal bliss entwine, creating a perverse feedback loop that drives them to the brink of madness and beyond.
Corruption’s the air you breathe, thick and choking. Villains don’t just rule; they infest everything. Drugs pour from black-market labs, quirk-boosters cut with hallucinogens that hook users in neon-drenched clubs where bodies grind under strobe lights, highs crashing into orgies of sweat and cum. Shops that sold bread and books now peddle collars etched with owners’ marks, aphrodisiacs promising endless stamina, or vials of sedatives for the unruly pets. Streets pulse with the trade dealers hawking fixes in broad daylight, guarded by patrols of ex-heroes who’ve traded capes for spiked armbands.
You work instead. You sit at a desk under a half-broken ceiling fan, the air thick with dust and recycled fear. You stamp forms, file names, check lists. The city runs on paper and lies. It’s safer that way.
The heroes who survived work beside you or what’s left of them. You recognise faces that used to be on billboards, now hollow-eyed and silent. None of them talk about the war. None of them look each other in the eye.
You try to be invisible. You keep your head down, you don’t ask questions, and you remind yourself how lucky you are. You weren’t taken. You weren’t chosen. You were left alone.
You don’t have a quirk. That’s what you tell yourself, the one thing that’s kept you off anyone’s radar. Power draws attention; invisibility keeps you breathing. You’re lucky at least that’s the lie that helps you sleep.
Sometimes, though, weird feelings creep in random flashes of light behind your eyes, like sparks in the dark, gone as quick as they come. You’ve never thought anything of it, just chalked it up to stress or the flickering bulbs overhead – nothing worth noticing in this endless grind.
Days blur until you can’t tell where one ends and the next begins, each one bleeding into the next like ink on damp paper. You clock in at the same cracked door, nod to the same guards, and settle into your cubicle as the fluorescent lights buzz to life overhead.
Nothing out of the ordinary today, no sirens wailing closer than usual, no fresh rumours of raids filtering through the vents. Just the steady rhythm of paperwork: stamping approvals for shipments of quirk suppressants, logging transfers of broken heroes to patrol units along the borders. Your hands move without thought, the lie of normalcy fitting over you like a coat that’s long since lost its warmth.
You've crossed paths with Kirishima before: brief exchanges in the break room, a shared glance over the coffee machine that's more sludge than sustenance. He's one of the rarities: a high-ranking hero who didn't shatter or sell out completely, still striding the halls in his armoured gear, permitted to operate in the open because his unyielding front makes him useful to the New Order. Red hair spiked defiantly, shark-toothed grin masking the cracks, he enforces the rules with a brutality that echoes the villains' own. But you've caught the flicker in his eyes sometimes, a ghost of the old world peeking through.
He approaches mid-morning, his boots thudding softly against the worn linoleum as he weaves between desks. No fanfare, no drawing eyes he knows better than to make a scene. You look up from your stack of manifests, heart stuttering just a fraction when he leans against your partition, arms crossed over his broad chest.
"Hey," he mutters, voice low enough that it doesn't carry to the next cubicle.
You glance up. His eyes are sharp, focused in a way that makes your pulse stutter. “Need a favour,” he says, quieter still. “Off the books.”
Your stomach twists. Favours in this place never end well; they're threads that unravel everything if pulled too hard. But he doesn’t leave. He scans the room, then tilts closer, the smell of metal and exhaustion clinging to him.
“'Confiscated stuff in the archives. Vials of serum, hidden deep in the restricted logs. If it got out... to the right people... it could hit the villains where it hurts. Weaken their grip, maybe even the big ones.” His words hang heavy, laced with a desperation that doesn't fit his hardened shell, the raw edge of someone clinging to a fading spark.
You want to say no. You don’t have a quirk, you don’t have training, you don’t have anything but a desk and the habit of keeping quiet. You’ve spent years perfecting invisibility, and now he’s asking you to rip it off in one reckless gesture. One wrong move, and you're the one collared, dragged into the underbelly where the real monsters play.
But the way he watches you, that plea cracking through his tough facade, stirs something buried deep, a quiet ache to matter, to fit into this fractured world without just fading away. You've got no strength for the fight, no power to swing the tide, but maybe this... maybe helping him scratches that itch, makes you feel like you're not entirely adrift.
Your throat tightens, but you nod, the motion small and reluctant. “Alright. Tell me what you need.” His shoulders sag just a touch, relief flashing before he masks it, already sketching out the details in hushed tones. The fan whirs on, oblivious, as the weight of your choice settles like dust on your skin.
After work, the city’s already folding in on itself, curfews buzzing overhead, patrol drones blinking red against the haze. You shouldn’t be out. Everyone knows what happens to people who get caught past their shifts. But you follow the coordinates anyway, screen light ghosting your face as the map leads you deeper underground.
The Registry’s lower levels descend into rot itself, stairs spiralling down into damp concrete warrens that reek of mildew, rust, and the faint, acrid tang of forgotten chemicals. Every step echoes too loud. You tell yourself it’s fine, it’s nothing, just a favour. A stupid, harmless favour.
Your flashlight cuts across cracked tiles, peeling paint, and a door marked Restricted Access. Inside, the air hums with the faint electric buzz of dying lights.
And there they are.
Thin glass vials, lined in steel racks like soldiers waiting for orders. The liquid inside glows faintly blue, wrong, chemical, alive. You swallow hard and start taking pictures, fast. A few more for insurance. Your hands won’t stop shaking. You pocket two vials before you can think about what that means.
A voice slices through the stale air from behind, rough and laced with mocking amusement. “The fuck you doing here, whore?'
You spin, heart slamming into your throat, the words choking out before your brain catches up. “I—I got lost. Wrong level. Just... looking for the exit.” It's a pathetic scramble, your voice cracking like dry earth, eyes darting to the figure blocking the doorway. He's built like a thug from the undercity patrols scrawny frame under a patched jacket, quirk probably something petty like enhanced hearing or a weak acid spit, the kind of low-level scum the New Order uses to watch the cracks in their empire. His grin splits wide, yellow teeth flashing, eyes raking down your body hungrily.
No time to think. Instinct kicks in, raw and feral. Your hand snatches the nearest thing, a rusted pipe fragment leaning against the wall, and you hurl it with all the desperate force in your arms. It cracks against his knee with a sickening thud. He shouts, folding over, fingers clawing for balance as he hits the ground.
You move. No plan, just instinct. You spin toward the door, slam into it shoulder-first hard enough to see stars, then stumble through. The impact steals your breath, but your legs keep going, heels hammering against the floor. Your phone slips from your pocket, clattering across the tiles behind you, screen splintering as it slides into the dark. You don’t stop. You just run.
Tomura Shigaraki slouched in the back of the armoured transport, fingers itching to wrap around a controller instead of this bullshit. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows like smeared blood, but he barely registered them. His mind was already back in the dim glow of his gaming setup, grinding levels in some forgotten raid while the world burnt outside.
Who the fuck cared about a tip-off from some snivelling informant? He had empires to tweak, alliances to decay at the edges, and a stack of reports piling up like corpses. This serum crap? Probably nothing. A rival's feint or a hero remnant's wet dream. He could've sent Dabi or Toga to handle it, let them torch the place and drag back whatever scraps survived.
But the call had come straight to his line. 'Boss, it's the real deal. Blue Glow, Quirk-Stripper strain. One leak and it could unravel everything we've built.' Unravel him. The New Order wasn't just power; it was his rot woven into every street, every collar, every broken spine. If this shit could eat through quirks like acid through flesh... no. He wasn't risking some underling's fuck-up. Not when the stakes clawed this close.
The transport screeched to a halt outside the registry's lower entrance, gravel crunching under tires. Tomura scratched at his neck, the familiar itch of irritation flaring as he kicked the door open. The air hit him wet and sour, with the smell of old mold and metal filings. Perfect. His kingdom’s underbelly, crawling with pests that needed reminding who fed them.
“Move,” he rasped, voice shredded by disuse and disinterest. The two men flanking him jumped, stumbling into motion like dogs kicked awake. Their quirks were weak, irrelevant, but they’d serve as shields if someone was stupid enough to test him tonight.
Tomura’s boots echoed on the cracked floor as he entered the corridor, each step a deliberate drag against the grit-slick metal. Red eyes scanned the shadows. The air buzzed faintly with leftover electricity, that same faint hum he’d felt too many times before something went wrong.
The goons trailed behind, but he waved them off with a rasp. “Stay. I'll handle the crawlspace myself.” No point letting their twitchy hands and nosy eyes fumble through what was his territory.
A sound cut through the drip of leaking pipes: heels clicking frantically against the concrete, too fast, too uneven, like a rat scrambling from the light. Breathing hitched sharp and quick, ragged pulls of air that echoed up the steps. Tomura's eyes narrowed, lips curling in irritation. Who the fuck was down here playing tag in his underbelly? He quickened his pace, decayed fingers flexing at his sides, ready to dust whatever pests thought they could scurry through his domain.
You burst around the corner before he could pinpoint the noise, barreling straight into him, all frantic limbs and wide-eyed panic. No time to sidestep; your body slammed against his chest, soft curves jolting against the hard lines of his frame. Tomura's arm shot out on instinct, decayed fingers digging into your throat in a suffocating vice grip that stole the air from your lungs. He pinned you back against the wall, the cold metal biting into your shoulders as your heels scraped uselessly against the floor.
Your heart pounded erratically under his hold, adrenaline surging through your veins; he could feel it, the wild thrum against his palm. You stared up at him, eyes wide and terrified, a mix of defiance flickering in their depths that made his curiosity spike like a glitch in the system. This nobody, this quirkless scrap in the New Order's grind, should've crumbled to dust the second his skin met yours. Four fingers and a thumb, the lethal combo that had felled heroes and rivals alike. But you stood there, shaking but whole, skin flushed and unbroken under his grasp. Flesh intact, no rot creeping in. How the fuck?
His grip tightened, a deliberate squeeze testing the limits, his thumb pressing cruelly into the hollow of your throat, the other fingers digging into the tendons at the sides of your neck. Bruising force, meant to obliterate, to reduce you to ash and scatter the remnants. You couldn't speak, voice strangled silent, reduced to ragged, silent gasps as black spots danced at the edges of your sight. Panic raw in your eyes, staring up at his twisted face, the cracked smile pulling wider at the corners of his mouth.
Tomura's mind raced, a frantic loop of disbelief cutting through the haze of annoyance. No quirk, or so the files said, just a bureaucratic drone, shuffling papers in the shadows, invisible in the decay. But here you were, a defiant spark burning in those terrified eyes, a challenge he hadn't expected. This wasn't some glitch; it was a threat. Or a toy. The hunger stirred low in his gut, darkening his gaze as he leaned in closer, breath ghosting hot against her ear. Everyone knew he was the monster, the destroyer who revelled in ruin. And now, with your pulse hammering under his fingers like a trapped bird, he wondered how far he could push before you broke or begged.
How the fuck did you not die? The thought screams in your mind, a frantic loop of disbelief. You don't have a quirk, or so you thought. No power, no defence, just a nobody caught in the villains' takeover. But here you are, fucking alive.
A low, rough sound rumbles in his chest. It isn’t a laugh. It is something far darker, far more possessive.
You choke out a whimper, your hands instinctively clawing at his wrist, nails digging into the flaky skin there. It doesn't faze him; if anything, it spurs him on. His hips grind forward, the hard bulge in his pants rubbing against your thigh, insistent and demanding. The surprise morphs into arousal, raw and unfiltered, his cock twitching at the thought of breaking something that won't break so easily. "You're not decaying,” he mutters, his thumb pressing into the pulse point under your jaw, feeling the frantic beat of your heart.
His red eyes bore into yours, unblinking, stripping away layers as if he's already clawing into the core of your defiance. You hold that gaze, breath shallow and ragged, refusing to let the fear swallow you whole. Shigaraki tilts his head slightly, the cracked edges of his lips twisting into a predatory grin that crawls under your skin. He senses it, the stubborn fire flickering behind your terror, and it amuses him stirs that sadistic hunger deeper.
"Well, well," he rasps, the words slithering out in a low, gravelly purr that vibrates against your pinned body. "Got ourselves a little firecracker here. Question is, how long before I snuff out that pretty spark?"
His fingers clamp down harder on your throat, the pressure building like a vice, squeezing until fresh black spots bloom across your vision. Your chest heaves in futile pulls for oxygen, lungs screaming in protest, but you don't thrash, don't beg. Instead, you lock eyes with him, jaw set, channelling every ounce of that hidden resolve into a stare that dares him to push further.
"Oh, you're gonna be a treat to break." Shigaraki breathes, the murmur laced with dark promise, meant for his own twisted thoughts as much as for you. "Gonna savor every second, peel you apart layer by layer until all that's left is the empty vessel I mould. My perfect little fucktoy."
He eases the chokehold just enough for air to rush back in a dizzying gasp, but his body stays pressed against yours, the rigid length of his cock grinding slow and deliberate into your hip, a blatant claim amid the threat. His free hand roams down, decayed fingers brushing your sides before dipping into your pockets with invasive precision. You tense, but there's no escape. His grip on your neck keeps you anchored, helpless as he rummages through the fabric.
His touch grazes the cool glass of the serum vial you've tucked away, and he pulls it free, holding it up to the dim lab light. The blue liquid swirls inside, glowing faintly like a forbidden secret. A sharp whistle cuts the air, followed by a low, mocking chuckle that rumbles from his chest. "Look what the rat dragged in," he sneers, twisting the vial between his fingers, eyes gleaming with wicked delight. "This the shit you've been sniffing around for? Bold move, pet. Stupid, but bold."
He doesn't release you; instead, he barks over his shoulder, voice echoing off the damp walls. "Oi, get your asses in here! We've got a thief with balls."
Footsteps pound closer, heavy and urgent, as his goons spill into the corridor, hulking shadows with scarred faces and cruel smirks. They swarm you in seconds, rough hands clamping down on your arms, wrenching them behind your back while another pair pins your legs. You buck once, a surge of panic-fuelled resistance, but it's futile; their grips bruise your skin, holding you splayed and exposed against the wall like a caught animal.
Shigaraki steps back just enough to watch, vial still clutched in one hand, the other scratching idly at his neck. He nods to the nearest thug, a burly bastard with a syringe already prepped, the needle glinting under the flickering bulbs. "Dose her. Make sure she knows her place."
The prick comes swift and sharp into your arm, the burn of the injection spreading like liquid fire through your veins. It's not the serum you stole; this is something else, a cocktail of their making, a vicious compliance serum, the kind that floods your system with forced calm, unravelling your edges until resistance feels like a distant dream. Your vision blurs at the corners, limbs growing heavy and lax as the drug takes hold, pulling you toward a hazy surrender. But even as your body slackens in their hold, that core spark lingers, defiant beneath the fog.
Shigaraki leans in close again, breath hot against your cheek, his voice a possessive growl that seals your fate. "You're mine now, pet. My personal little plaything to use and abuse as I see fit. No more running. No more hiding. Just you, collared and crawling for the New Order." His fingers trail down your collarbone, a teasing promise of the torments to come, as the world tilts and fades into drugged submission.