Hey everyone!
I had this idea for a new fanfiction today and just couldn't resist diving in and writing it down! Don't worry, I'll definitely continue working on my other story, but I was so excited to start something fresh that I had to give it a go.
Ships: Dabi / Toya Todoroki x Reader/OC & Tomura Shigaraki x Reader/OC ( ͡ ͜ʖ ͡ )
In this fanfiction, the Reader/OC takes on the role of the missing "Healer" that Tomura Shigaraki mentioned in the original My Hero Academia.
Let me introduce you to the OC:
Name: Rin Sakurai
Rin is 23 years old, a med student, and the League of Villains' go-to for patching up injuries. For her "Healer" role, I imagined her as more of a "Moe-character," though "Chill-character" might describe her better.
Her Quirk: Ghost Hands
While her quirk isn't related to healing, it's useful. Rin can manifest six arms made of white energy/light from her body. These arms can shift between solid (to grab, catch, or punch) and intangible, similar to Mirio's quirk (allowing them to phase through walls or objects). However, the intangibility does not extend to anything or anyone the arms are holding—those remain solid. The arms themselves are indestructible since they're pure energy and can be re-manifested if needed. However, if Rin herself is injured, her quirk can temporarily deactivate. She can control the arms' length, extending them up to 8 meters, but to keep her from being overpowered, she has some nerfs. Rin is physically weak, chronically tired (mostly due to her grueling studies), and struggles with depression. She's not a skilled fighter but knows the basics.
Personality:
Rin is mostly a sweetheart but can also be provocative and unintentionally mean. She usually has a gentle smile and speaks in a calm, slow tone. She's perpetually sleepy and often seems lost in her own dreamy world. Rin can nap anytime, anywhere—even crawling along the floor to avoid standing up.
She's touchy and loves physical closeness, sometimes crossing boundaries unintentionally—especially when treating or operating on someone. She's not fully aware of this herself, as it's tied to her work and studies. Rin adores the people around her and gives them cute nicknames. I know "Moe-character" or "Chill-character" tropes can easily come off as cringy, but I'll try my best to avoid that. (Though, let's be real—I'm cringy myself ﹏ ).
Appearance (Feel free to imagine her however you like if this doesn't vibe with you!):
Rin is petite, around 5'3" (160 cm), with a thin build. She has shoulder-length black hair with a side-swept fringe. Her eyes are a pale pink/sakura pink, matching the soft tone of her lips. Her skin is pale, with dark under-eye circles, and her smoky eye makeup is perpetually messy (from constantly working, studying, or napping in random places).
Note:
I've written this as a Reader/OC story, but I know those are different things and can even be a dealbreaker for some. But as I said, you're free to imagine or name the character however you prefer! Personally, I find it a bit tedious to write "Y/N" all the time, and from my own experience (and my friends'), it can be tiring to mentally swap the placeholder for a name anyway. Most people give up halfway through and just become "Y/N." So, I like to use a "pretty" name instead, but you get the idea! Feel free to adjust it however you like. Enough from me—happy reading!
Tomura's POV
The sky stretched above me, black and hollow, like a wound that never healed. The late-night air clung to the narrow alleys of Tokyo's slums, stale yet cutting, carrying a peculiar blend of rot and cold. I stood outside the makeshift excuse of a hideout, arms crossed, waiting. Giran was late—not surprising, but still irritating.
The attack on All Might the other day was a disaster. No, worse than that—it was a comedy sketch, and I was the punchline. The memory lingered like a bad taste, the kind you can't wash out no matter how many times you rinse. Giran had been the one to suggest I gather reinforcements, claiming he had a knack for sniffing out "like-minded individuals." I wasn't sure whether to be grateful or insulted by the lineup he'd dragged in last time. Half of them looked like they belonged in a morgue, the other half in an asylum.
Kurogiri had his own thoughts on the matter. "Give them a chance," he'd said, his voice always just a shade too calm for my liking. "Failures are a resource, if you know how to use them." His logic wasn't entirely flawed, though that didn't make it any less annoying. A few, he argued, might prove useful. And, as much as it pained me to admit, he wasn't entirely wrong.
My current group… Well, let's just say they were tolerable. Not good, mind you. Just… not immediately disposable. A low bar, but in this business, you take what you get. Still, there was friction. Dabi and I spent more time arguing than agreeing, which wasn't surprising. He had this way of smiling like he'd already won—like the universe itself was some twisted joke only he understood. We managed to find common ground eventually, though calling it "peace" would be generous. It was more like a ceasefire built on mutual disdain. That was fine. I didn't need friends; I needed weapons.
Then a cold wind cut through the air, its fingers snaking around my neck with all the warmth of a corpse's grip. It jolted me from my spiraling thoughts, a sharp slap in the face delivered by nature itself. I shuddered once, letting the chill seep in—another uninvited guest to the growing list.
Then came the pain, no longer content to wait politely in the wings. It surged forward, a symphony of aches and sharp stabs. The gunshot wound in my abdomen burned with a fresh insistence, as though someone had just twisted the bullet. My left shoulder blade joined the chorus, and my right leg throbbed in protest. And of course, there were the bruises—Eraserhead's little parting gifts. It was almost endearing how thorough he'd been.
Pain has a way of sharpening the mind, though. A cruel teacher, but effective. It reminded me of why I was standing out here, bleeding and freezing in the middle of a city that couldn't care less. It reminded me of the gap in our team, the piece that needed filling: a healer.
"I need someone who can fix me when I break." That's what I'd told Giran.
He hadn't laughed, but I could tell he wanted to. That's the kind of request that gets a look—half pity, half amusement. Because everyone knows finding a doctor willing to patch up villains is like trying to find a priest at a poker game and risking a hospital visit was a one-way ticket to a prison cell—or worse. Sure, you could kidnap someone, drag them kicking and screaming into this mess. But what would that get you? A half-hearted stitch job and a syringe full of god-knows-what? A dose of anesthesia, and who knew what kind of mess we'd wake up to. If we woke up at all. No, thanks. I'd rather let the infection take me.
No, they had to join willingly. A healer or doctor who wanted to be here, who saw us and didn't flinch. Someone who could look at the League and not see villains but people. The needle in a haystack cliché didn't begin to cover it. Most doctors shared the same sanctimonious philosophy as the heroes they patched up. A hypocritical desire to "save lives." Translation: save the lives they deemed worth saving. We didn't fit the profile.
I pressed a hand against my abdomen, wincing as my palm found the tender wound. Giran's candidate would have to prove themselves quickly. I didn't have the luxury of patience.
A sharp slap on my back sent a bolt of agony shooting up my spine, like someone had just whacked an already-cracked vase. The bandages constricted painfully, like a cruel reminder that I was one bad step away from unraveling—literally. "Hey, Shigaraki. Well-rested?" The voice was unmistakable. Giran. I twisted my head to the right, wincing at the effort, and glared at the smirking bastard. He stood there, cigarette balanced perfectly between his lips. Had he forgotten I was practically held together with tape and spite? I glanced down at my crutch and the maze of bandages wrapped around me. Subtle, I know. "As you can clearly see, no," I deadpanned, my voice dripping with venom.
He chuckled, taking a long drag like my suffering was part of his entertainment package. "Don't worry, buddy. I've got someone for you." He winked, as though this revelation deserved a round of applause.
"You actually found someone?" The surprise leaked into my voice before I could stop it.
"Of course. I told you I'd take care of it."
"Where is he?" I scanned the alley, expecting someone to step out of the shadows. "And where the hell did you come from? I didn't even see you."
"We've been upstairs in the bar for half an hour. Kurogiri's not here either, by the way."
"He's busy. It's just me today. The others might show up later," I muttered, shifting my weight onto the crutch. The stupid thing felt more like a prop than a tool. We made our way inside. The entrance was as welcoming as ever, meaning it wasn't. The light was out—again—and every step up the narrow staircase felt like a small battle against my crutch, gravity, and my own body. "Now, about this 'healer,'" Giran began as we reached the second floor. He paused in front of the door, scratching the back of his head. "Don't get your hopes up too much."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Your new recruit can explain it better than me," he replied with a nonchalance that felt deliberate. "I'm just the delivery guy." He pushed open the door to the bar.
The room was dimly lit, bathed in a yellowish glow that made everything look sticky. At the counter sat our supposed savior—or at least, someone pretending to fit the role. A figure slumped over the bar, head buried in crossed arms, black hair spilling like ink onto the counter. Asleep, apparently. Her outfit didn't scream "doctor." A tight white blouse, a black skirt that barely covered anything, and fishnet tights. If this was a healer, she was the kind you found in the bargain bin at a red-light district. Maybe she was a junkie who'd learned how to patch people up between hits. Either way, my expectations were taking a nosedive.
"Are you serious?" I hissed, glaring at Giran. "Look, I know—first impressions aren't great. But hey, you don't have a lot of options, and this is the best you're getting right now." He started backing toward the door, clearly itching to leave before things got worse.
"Giran!" My voice was sharper now. "At least introduce us!"
But he was already halfway out. "Rin Sakurai. Med student. Occasionally patches up the Yakuza for beer money. The rest? Up to you." And with that, he slipped out, letting the door slam shut behind him. I turned back to the figure at the bar, suppressing the growing urge to scream. This was my healer? She looked like she'd passed out halfway through a shift at some sketchy nightclub.
I approached her cautiously, fingers brushing against the fabric of her shoulder, giving her a light shake. Her head lifted slowly, like a marionette pulled by unseen strings. She shifted on the barstool, her composure almost annoyingly casual, then she blinked, disoriented. Her gaze met mine, confused at first, then calmly calculating, as though she were slotting puzzle pieces together in her mind. I wasn't expecting her to be this... attractive. That fact irritated me for reasons I didn't care to unpack.
"Are you Tomura Shigaraki?" Her tone was soft, bordering on gentle. It was unsettling, the way someone might speak to a child holding a sharp object.
"Yeah."
Her lips quirked into a smile that wasn't the kind people gave when they were actually happy to meet you. It had layers, and none of them felt right. "Nice to meet you, I'm Rin Saku—"
"I know who you are," I cut in, my voice flat. "Get to the point. What's your quirk?" She tilted her head, pausing just long enough to make the silence uncomfortable. Her expression didn't shift—no surprise, no irritation. Just something I couldn't pin down. It wasn't indifference, but it was close. Like she was studying me, dissecting me, and enjoying it a little too much. "Why don't you take a seat first?" she said, tapping the barstool next to her. "Standing there with that crutch must be exhausting." Her words slithered under my skin. The politeness, the syrupy concern—it felt fake. Or worse, it wasn't. Either way, it made me want to throw up.
"Just spit it out," I snapped. "What's your quirk?"
She sighed, her patience evidently thinning. "I don't like your attitude. Patients like you are more trouble than they're worth."
I froze, caught between surprise and the very real urge to turn her into dust where she sat, but the more calculating part of me knew better. I needed her. "Fine," I muttered, dragging myself onto the stool. My movement was careless, and pain ripped through my abdomen, sharp and unforgiving. I clenched my teeth, my hand instinctively clutching at the wound, but I didn't let the groan slip past my lips. She noticed anyway. My fingers drummed impatiently on the bar, the sound filling the space between us. "So? Your quirk?"
In response, six glowing arms unfurled from her back, as if she were some kind of grotesque angel. Their luminescence was hypnotic, shifting and fluid. "I assume those arms can heal?" I asked, forcing myself to sound detached. If I let even a shred of hope slip through, she'd use it against me. People like her always did. She chuckled—a sound so quiet it was almost a whisper. "No. They're just practical." She stuck out her tongue like a child mocking an adult. "Sorry to disappoint."
"So you're just a support character with medical knowledge, then?"
"I have no idea what you just said, but I can do more than just patch people up—if that's what you're asking."
"Sure," I muttered, more to myself than her. "You take what you can get." I locked eyes with her, the pale pink of her irises unsettlingly clear, "why do you want to join us?" Her gaze didn't falter, didn't waver. It stared back at me with the same unreadable intent as before. I hated it. I hated not knowing what she was thinking. She didn't answer. Instead, her hand moved toward the hem of my shirt, the movement too quick for my liking. Instinctively, I grabbed her wrist before she could touch me. "What the hell are you doing?"
Her eyes dropped to my hand holding her wrist. Then she smiled—a faint blush coloring her cheeks like some kind of sick joke. "I just wanted to check your injury. You're in bad shape—I can see it in your eyes." Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, I didn't know if I wanted to pull away or squeeze harder.
"Shut up!" I snapped, tightening my grip on her wrist. "First, we settle what you're doing here before I let you anywhere near me." The spectral hands moved faster than I could react. In an instant, they slammed me back against the edge of the bar, pinning me in place. I hissed, instinctively reaching out to activate my quirk, Decay, ready to reduce those glowing hands to dust. But nothing happened. My fingers scraped uselessly at the ghostly forms, as if clawing at air. What the hell was this? Why wasn't my quirk working? Before I could process the shock, my wrists were slammed down onto the bar counter, held fast by those eerie, glowing appendages. "What the fuck?! Let me go!" My voice was sharper now, edged with a panic I hated.
Ignoring me entirely, the spectral hands moved, picking up a black suitcase from the floor and setting it neatly on the bar next to her. The latch clicked open with a metallic snap, revealing rows of medical tools and vials, pristine and cold.
"Every wasted minute could mean your end, dear Tomura." Her voice was even, almost sweet, and infuriatingly steady. "Let's skip the interview and get straight to the point." She began disinfecting her hands, her movements unnervingly serene. I thrashed against the spectral hands, but they were absurdly strong, holding me in place with ease. What kind of quirk was this? Every second that passed ratcheted up my panic, the helplessness gnawing at me like acid. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. Damn Giran. What kind of psycho had he brought here? All I could do was hope one of the others would walk in—anyone. Dabi, Toga, Twice. Hell, even Spinner would do.
She reached for my shirt, her real hand brushing my skin as she carefully lifted the fabric up tp my throat. I flinched at the touch, a strange mix of embarrassment and anger sparking in my chest. Her fingers were steady but delicate, like she wasn't here to cause harm. It was disarming in the worst way. The ghostly hands took over, holding the shirt in place as one rested on my shoulder with now surprising gentleness. For a moment, she said nothing, her eyes tracing the mess of scars, bruises, and wounds marking my body. Heat rose to my face, unfamiliar and unwelcome. I clenched my jaw, refusing to meet her gaze. Finally, she sighed. "You're really lucky, dear Tomura," she murmured, her voice softer now. She tied her hair back into a loose ponytail, a practical move that somehow made her look even more composed. "If that bullet had hit just a few centimeters lower..." She didn't finish the sentence, and... I didn't push her to. Rin began peeling back the stained bandage, her hands were deft and steady. She didn't flinch at the sight of the wound, didn't recoil. Instead, she leaned closer, inspecting it with quiet intensity. I followed her gaze to the inflamed mess of a wound. Even I had to admit it looked bad. Neglect had a way of showing itself in the ugliest ways.
"Shot anywhere else?"
"Yeah," I muttered. "Shoulder. Same side. And the lower leg. Right."
Her hand touched my cheek suddenly, startling me. "You've got a fever," she murmured, tilting my head gently to one side, Rin's fingers were cold against my overheated skin. But her touch was unexpectedly tender, and for a moment, I didn't pull away. "You're not doing well." The way she said it—simple, matter-of-fact—made my chest tighten. Her thumb was brushing against my jaw as she examined me. It wasn't patronizing, but it wasn't clinical either. It felt… human.
And that was the worst part.
She let go, her hand retreating, and I exhaled shakily. The ghostly arms still held me down, but I felt their grip loosen slightly. My face still burned—not from fever, I realized, but something I couldn't name. Something I didn't want to name. I swallowed hard and looked away, grateful she wasn't watching me. I kept silent. For once, I didn't have anything to say.
Rin slipped on a medical mask and snapped on rubber gloves, her movements precise yet oddly casual. She reached for the disinfectant, spraying the inflamed wound with a cold, stinging mist. The pain prickled sharply, but I didn't flinch. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing me react. "So, back to your question," she began, voice muffled by the mask as she grabbed a clean cloth and started wiping the wound. The pressure was firm, almost rough, scraping at the edges of the injury. "I don't think much of this pathetic hero society either." Her tone was conversational, as if we were discussing the weather. "And besides…" She pressed harder, a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes as she saw me stiffen, "I've got a little issue with the Hero Public Safety Commission."
A little issue? Her words dripped with venom that didn't match her calm demeanor. Before I could ask, she leaned in closer, surgical scissors and tweezers gleaming in her hands like something out of a nightmare. The debridement began.
I braced myself as she began cutting away necrotic tissue and pulling it out piece by piece. Each tug sent a ripple of pain through me, cold sweat collecting on my forehead. My breathing grew shallow, teeth biting down hard enough on my lip that I tasted blood. The specter-like hands still pinned me, as if mocking my helplessness.
"I assume the HPSC will become a problem for you sooner or later, too," she continued, her tone unnervingly casual, like she wasn't pulling rotten pieces of my flesh out in a rundown bar. "So why not team up and put an end to the madness together?" Her words felt oddly disarming, like an ice pack pressed against a bruise. At least now I was fairly certain she wasn't planning to harvest my organs and bolt. I could trust her—for now. I glanced down at her, her posture catching my attention.
From my vantage point, her body was arched in a way that felt almost too deliberate—like she had no idea, or worse, did and didn't care. Her position was both functional and absurdly suggestive: Rin was leaned so far into my abdomen that her body stretched out in a way that was impossible to ignore. Her back arched slightly as she worked, her hips tilted upward, the curve of her figure exaggerated by the unnatural angle. Reminded me of a cat stretching lazily after a long nap. Then my brain decided to supply the worst interpretations possible, and for a moment, I couldn't stop it. The images were sickening and invasive, and it rooted itself in my mind before I could push it away.
The barstool creaked under me as I shifted, and my gaze faltered, lingering where it shouldn't. Focus. I forced myself to look away before the thoughts manifested physically, leaning my head back and staring at the ceiling to will it all into nothingness. "Makes sense," I muttered through gritted teeth, ignoring the heat crawling up my face. There was nothing more pathetic than letting my mind wander while she sliced at my infected wound. The pain in my abdomen was a welcome distraction.
The cold burn of antiseptic snapped me back to reality. "I think so too, dear Tomura," she replied, her voice disturbingly soft. 'Dear Tomura.' What was that supposed to mean? It was too familiar, too saccharine. The words churned in my head like an itch I couldn't scratch. Was she mocking me? Testing me? Or was it worse—pity? The possibilities made my blood boil, but I forced myself to stay silent. What could I do, anyway, pinned like this?
The sudden creak of the door broke the moment like a snapped string. I turned my head, desperate for a distraction. It wasn't much of a relief.
Dabi stood in the doorway, frozen mid-step. His eyes traveled over the scene—me, half-naked and bleeding on a stool, this random woman bent over my abdomen with surgical tools in hand, while her spectral arms busy pinning me to the bar counter.
His expression twisted into something between disgust and secondhand embarrassment, like he'd just walked in on something unspeakably awkward.
"What the fuck?" he muttered, his voice flat but dripping with incredulity.
I didn't blame him.