Hey everyone,
I'm writing this fanfiction as a way to cope with (SPOILER) the death of my favorite character Toya Todoroki.
This story is primarily for my own healing, but I wanted to share it with anyone else who might be feeling the same way. Let's support each other through this
I created a new original character (OC) specifically for this story to ensure a smoother narrative. I found it challenging to leave gaps for your own characters (Y/N) without disrupting the plot, so if you don't like the OC's appearance or quirk, feel free to imagine her differently. I'm also not a fan of quirkless characters because it often leads to an imbalance of power, and I prefer to avoid helpless characters. This isn't a "I can fix him" story; It's about two flawed individuals who are both poison and cure to each other.
As you know, Dabi is mentally unstable, and so is this OC, they are both lovely and terrible in their own way.
Please be aware that this story contains dark themes including death, blood, verbal and physical abuse, self-harm, mental disorders, nsfw/explicit content (smut), insults, and other potentially triggering elements. It begins relatively mild but will grow darker as the story progresses.
This is also a slow-burn story, so don't expect sexy time in the first chapters (I know, I'm so sorry!) T.T
Character description:
Aya Kogarashi (Crimson Blade) is a pro hero in the world of My Hero Academia, known for her diabolic quirk and enigmatic presence. At age 24, standing at 164 cm (5'4") with a slim, almost frail build, Aya's appearance is both striking and unsettling. She has long, wavy black hair that cascades down her back, contrasting with her pale skin and deep, dark eyes that turn a vivid red when her quirk is activated. Her slim face, adorned with dark under-eye circles, gives her a hauntingly attractive look that adds to her mystique.
Aya's quirk, „Cursed Blood", is as powerful as it is dangerous. It allows her to manifest her blood outside her body, shaping it into various forms of force or attack. More ominously, by mixing a drop of her blood with an opponent's, Aya can use up to seven peoples blood simultaneously for up to 23 minutes. This control is signaled by a single, strong heartbeat that her opponents feel when they fall under her influence. However, the quirk comes with significant risks—Aya must continuously mix her blood with her opponent's, leading to substantial blood loss for both parties. She cannot manipulate her opponent from within and must focus on managing the external effects, making each use of her quirk a taxing experience. Bla, bla, bla I know, she's a bit of an edgelord, but what can I say? I've got a soft spot for emo girls.
Enjoy!
Aya's POV
Standing on the edge of a tall building, I gazed down at the city's neon veins pulsing in a chaotic symphony below. The night wrapped around me like an like an unwelcome embrace, its shadowy tendrils closing in, a sensation akin to a dozen hands reaching out, each touch an unwelcome reminder of closeness—be it from a person or the oppressive darkness itself.
Below, Tokyo's streets churned with their usual blend of filth and festivity, blissfully unaware of the fragile thread separating them from calamity. They danced in ignorance, while I looked down at the real scum—those arrogant beasts, villains reveling in their own grotesque theater of suffering. Their motives were as hollow as their heads.
For a brief moment, the overwhelming weight of existence threatened to pull me under. My footing slipped, the abyss below seemed to whisper sweet, dark promises. Just as I teetered on the brink, Best Jeanist appeared, his quirk unfurling with the precision of a maestro, weaving threads that pulled me back from the void. Our cloaks intertwined, a complex web of destiny binding us in the stifling night. This bond was more than fabric; it was a silent pact—a reminder that our lives were tangled in the shadows we inhabited.
"Watch it. You're getting sloppy," he murmured, his voice a velvet blade slicing through the stillness. With a gentle tug, he reeled me away from the yawning darkness, my legs wobbling beneath me like a marionette with cut strings. Fragility gripped me, an insidious foe, and nausea crept in like a thief in the night.
"Your braid's a disaster again," he continued, his tone barely above a whisper yet heavy with judgment. Best Jeanist had a knack for turning the trivial into a mortal sin, his gaze stripping away all pretense, leaving only raw, unfiltered critique. "Did no one teach you how to braid properly?"
His nagging grated on my nerves, but what could I do? He was my boss, and rent was due. "No," I replied, flatly defiant.
He stepped closer, fingers dancing toward my unruly braid, delicate yet firm, as though he were unraveling the very essence of chaos. He was everything a hero should be: strong, noble, and a little too perfect for this world marred by shadows. "You could've mentioned it earlier," he muttered, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice as he worked. "I always thought it was just another sign of your lack of discipline."
Before he could delve deeper into this absurdity, an urgent buzz shattered the moment—a call to arms, villain attack in Ginza. Oh Ginza—the district where wealth masked decay, where beauty was but a thin veneer over rot. Best Jeanist's displeasure was palpable, his lips tightening at the thought of me, a chaotic mess, prancing around in his pristine territory.
"I suppose my hair can wait," I muttered, feigning nonchalance. He sighed, contemplating whether to send me at all. I wasn't exactly a refined lady in combat. My quirk was brutal, almost diabolic—each victory left behind a trail of suffering. For that reason alone I preferred to avoid the spotlight, shunning the fame other Pro Heroes chased like desperate moths to a flame. Privacy was my sanctuary.
"You'll probably embarrass me to no end if I send you to Ginza now," he began, pinching the bridge of his nose, clearly at war with his own instincts.
"Absolutely," I nodded, my agreement laced with mischief.
"Just try not to be awful, okay?" he added, more a threat than a suggestion.
"Can't promise," I pouted, then sprang into action. The night became my canvas, splashes of my own blood manifesting as I leapt through the air, each jump defying gravity and logic. Tokyo sprawled beneath me, a shimmering sea of lights, alive and mocking the late hour. It didn't take long to find the villains—chaos reigned in the heart of Ginza, a grim backdrop of neon advertisements and towering skyscrapers. Some onlookers froze, wide-eyed, praying for a pro hero to save them, while others fled, their screams swallowed by the chaos. The villains chose this stage, a reckless display of audacity. Just then, a news crew appeared, cameras primed to capture the carnage. How did they always beat the pro heroes to the scene?
I descended from the sky, landing on my feet with a fleeting grace. The reporter, eyes gleaming with excitement, began her breathless proclamation: "Crimson Blade, the phantom of the night, the beast from the depths of the underworld, has once again arisen! Beware, villains!"
I blinked, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. "You'll be the next ones I shut up!" I shot back, sharper than I intended. How dare they label me? "Phantom of the night"? "Beast from the depths"? Had she lost her mind?
The crowd's screams swelled, and I realized I'd become the cause of their fear. Maybe Best Jeanist was right—I needed to be more careful with my words.
"Crimson Blade, the villainess among heroes!" Brawn Breaker sneered, his voice a pathetic whine. He was a failure of a villain, a nameless rat scurrying through the grimy depths of the Tokyo underworld. His Quirk was something about guzzling alcohol to become superhumanly strong for five minutes, or so the rumour went. A trash quirk, barely worth noting. Next to him was Sausage Man, his head shaped like a sausage, a tragic joke all on its own. The longer I stared at him, the more absurdity bloomed in my mind. I wanted to question how evolution had allowed such a thing to exist, but that was a mystery for another day.
"Who do you call a villainess?" I snapped at the less repugnant of the two. Villains had audacity in spades.
"Have you—looked at yourself? With your skull mask and sword," Sausage Man stammered, struggling for coherence through his disfigured visage. "You look like the worst of us villains." His speech impediment was as pathetic as his appearance. Some quirks were less superpowers, more disabilities masquerading as strengths. Before I could pity him, I drew my blade-less sword—a mere hilt, but it was intimidating enough. Activating my Quirk, 'Cursed Blood,' a blade of my blood materialized, gleaming ominously.
"Hey, she's pulled out her sword! Now it's getting serious!" Brawn Breaker yelled, panic driving him to lift a car and hurl it at me. With a swift slash, I sliced the vehicle in half, the halves crashing down, splattering my blood onto the villain's open wounds. My blood mingled with theirs, igniting my quirk's true power. I could now use their blood as weapons.
The crowd screamed again. "An extravagant move by Crimson Blade, sending shivers down your spine!" the reporter shouted, her voice trembling with excitement. "I pissed myself!" the cameraman added, panic radiating from him. The reporter now pointed directly at me. "A bad girl!"
I bit down on my fist, the dark leather rough against my teeth. The urge to hit this woman grew with each passing moment. But violence against her would only lead to more absurd labels, probably something along the lines of "Crimson Blade, the Sadomasochistic Freak". It was bad enough that despite all my efforts, I was continually compared to society's lowest. It gnawed at my pride and honour, eating away the thin skin of respect I tried so hard to preserve.
Dabi's POV
Another dreary evening weighed on Tokyo, draped in the kind of lethargy only a city grown sick with itself could muster. Crime slithered through the streets, though "crime" felt generous. Pathetic quirk abuse, scuffles between drunks who thought they had something to prove, and assassination attempts so amateurish they'd be forgotten before the sun rose again. After Stain's grand proclamation, was this the best the underworld could muster? It almost felt insulting. Shigaraki's constant griping about All Might and Endeavor seemed more justified with each passing day. As long as those self-righteous icons kept breathing, people like us would remain dismissed as irrelevant.
My body, running on fumes and spite, dragged itself to the Villain Café. Sleep? A myth for someone like me. Hatred burned too hot in my veins, demanding more than rest could ever offer. Tossing and turning in a bed like some slaughterhouse hog just didn't sit right. At least at the Villain Café, I could drown in the company of those who understood, in their own miserable way. Not friends. Not even allies, really. Just others who shared that cold, bitter feeling of being forgotten by a world that couldn't care less.
The café was dimly lit, a mockery of any real refuge. The usual rejects were scattered about: Shigaraki scratching his neck like it owed him money, Twice muttering to himself in that way he does, Spinner sulking, and Toga… well, Toga was being Toga. Compress was lounging in his chair, unnervingly still, while Kurogiri, ever the loyal bartender, cleaned glasses with methodical precision, as if it was some ritual to keep himself grounded.
The place was more freak show than hideout.
I slumped onto a stool at the bar, eyes drifting to the TV. The news was on - an annoyance I normally avoided. But since meeting Shigaraki, it had become something of an unintentional pleasure. His rage when a Pro Hero was shown live made it too entertaining to ignore. His rage was almost theatrical, more exaggerated than anything I'd ever seen. All Might, in particular, drove him to the edge. I suppressed a chuckle each time.
The broadcast shifted to some incident in Ginza—two lowlifes causing chaos, though it was mostly one who knew what they were doing, the other was just an eyesore. We watched, half-bored, half-curious, to see which hero would roll in and claim the glory this time. And then she showed up—a new face, the supposed angel of death.
"She's new, isn't she?" Spinner muttered, eyebrow twitching with mild interest.
Shigaraki scratched his neck, the irritation coming on fast. "I hate her," he spat. Predictable.
"I think she's kind of cute," Toga giggled, leaning forward with childlike fascination.
Kurogiri sighed, as if explaining to children. "Not new. Just... noticed since Stain. She's garnered a lot of attention."
"Why?" I asked, my eyes locked on the screen as the name "Crimson Blade" blared across the bottom. She swung her blood sword, slicing a car in half with casual brutality.
"Her quirk resembles Stain's," Kurogiri explained, his voice a dry hum. "A convenient piece of propaganda. She's the answer to Stain's influence—a heroine who mimics a villain in style. Clever."
It clicked. Of course, Shigaraki hated her. I leaned my chin on my hand, watching the chaos she was causing. "The hero-society getting desperate, huh?"
Crimson Blade, cloaked in her silver skull mask and draped in darkness, moved like a nightmare made flesh. Her blood sword struck the ground, sending shards of asphalt flying, narrowly missing her targets—just enough to ensure they'd survive. There was nothing heroic about her. She was a walking contradiction—brutally taking down villains but leaving them alive just enough to avoid backlash. Calculated. Malicious. Her quirk wasn't flashy, but it was brutal. Standing amidst the dust cloud she had stirred up, she stared down at the beaten criminals as if they were beneath her notice, less than human.
"You disgusting pests," she declared, "You scream for your lives now, but when you struck down the innocent, it was righteousness in your eyes, wasn't it?" Her voice was chilling, slicing through the chaos with eerie calm. "Tell me, is suffering only then justified when it spills from those who have already bled?"
"Is she gonna kill them?" Spinner asked, voice cracking with alarm.
"Shut up and watch," Shigaraki hissed, leaning forward, eyes hungry for the outcome.
Crimson Blade dragged the battered villains into the light, dumping them in front of the camera like discarded trash. Her red eyes gleamed under her silver skull mask, locking onto the lens with unsettling intensity.
Whatever the reason might be—I'm not here to judge you," she said, raising her blood-soaked blade. "I'm here to end the madness."
The screen cut to black, leaving us in the sudden quiet. I leaned back, my mind running with the implications. So this was where the Pro Heroes were now—putting on a show, using fear to manipulate the masses.
"What a circus," Twice muttered, torn between laughter and something darker. His personality flickered, the jester slipping into something more unnerving.
Shigaraki sneered, his voice sharp, venomous. "And they call us villains. She's no different—just another hypocrite slicing through the broken and calling it justice."
Toga, bouncing in her seat, chimed in. "I think she's awesome! I wanna be her friend!"
A dangerous allure clung to Crimson Blade.
Terrifying, yes, but to the world? She was justice.
To us? She was a monster we could understand.
"She's got something. I think I like her," I muttered, sinking further into my seat, a grin tugging at my lips.
Shigaraki's irritation spilled out like an overflowing trash can. His arms flailed with an almost manic energy as he snapped, "What?! Have you both lost your minds?!" He was pacing, like a rat trapped in a maze, desperation tainting his voice.
„She's made a mockery of everything we stand for! She didn't just beat those guys—she humiliated them. Questioned their motives, exposed their weaknesses, and tossed them aside like garbage."
"She killed them." The last words were laced with venom, but beneath the anger, there was something else—something dangerously close to fear.
I leaned back, letting his tantrum wash over me like background noise. "Doesn't that make her one of us?" My voice was deliberately casual, a spark thrown into the powder keg. Shigaraki hadn't reached his daily frustration quota, and it was starting to feel... off.
Shigaraki froze, eyes narrowing. "What are you trying to say, Dabi?" His question was sharper than expected, loaded with more weight than I'd intended.
I shrugged, a smirk curling at the edge of my lips. "If we're thinking of recruiting from the other side, why not her? She's got the kind of bloodlust we could use."
The thought of someone that twisted on our team sent a flicker of excitement through me. Her unhinged nature, her disregard for the line between hero and villain—yeah, we could work with that.
"They're not so different, Bakugo and her," I continued, my words rolling out slowly, deliberate.
"It's worth considering," Kurogiri's voice broke through, smooth and measured as always. He polished a glass with deliberate care, as though discussing dinner plans rather than potential murderers.
Shigaraki let out a sharp sigh, fingers twitching against the counter in a way that told me he was holding back his usual temper tantrum. "Didn't you hear her?" His voice cracked with something close to frustration, maybe even desperation. "Bakugo's still a kid. We can mold him, twist him. But her?" His voice dropped, almost a whisper. "She's too far gone, buried under that self-righteous garbage she calls a morality."
Compress chimed in, detached as always, his mask betraying nothing. "But she's hardly stable, is she? People like her… they crack eventually. No real friends, no solid ties. We could exploit that."
Toga grinned, her eyes lighting up. "I'd love to play with her!"
Shigaraki hesitated, his fingers drumming on the counter. He turned to me, his voice taking on a strange edge, a curiosity I rarely heard from him. "Hey Dabi... your quirk should be able to counter hers, right?"
I paused, letting the question hang in the air. Blood and fire—primal forces. My flames could vaporize liquids, but if her attacks were dense enough, maybe she could snuff me out.
"Possibly," I answered, sparking a small blue flame in my palm, watching its light flicker ominously across my face. "But in the worst case, her blood could choke out my flames."
I let the flame dance for a second longer, a subtle show of confidence. "But that's not going to happen. I trust my fire to burn through anything," I added with a grin, letting the flame die out.
Shigaraki's gaze sharpened, as if I'd confirmed something for him. "Then you'll bring her to us," he said, his voice final.
My smirk widened. The thought of facing off against that little bloodthirsty freak... thrilling.
"Consider it done," I said, already picturing the chaos she'd bring with her. This was going to be fun.
Thanks for reading! The best is yet to come!
