#this is specifically NOT dfo if you couldn't tell

[grimalkinmessor]

afofa+horror+doll please <3

Your warnings are in the tags :)

AFOFA/Horror/Doll

———

Tomura isn't the most careful person in the world. He doesn't look both ways before crossing the street, and he walks around the shady parts of town with both headphones in and blaring. Sue him.

But to be fair, neither of those things are what leads to him being drugged and tied up in some freak's basement.

Tomura blinks his eyes open blearily, wincing when a bright fluorescent light sears right into his corneas. He hisses, shaking his head like a dog, and hears something metal clatter quietly somewhere in front of him. He turns his wrists and feels metal bite into his skin. Whatever's he's sitting on is metal too, cold and oddly shaped.

"Oh? You seem to have a mild natural resistance to sedatives. How unfortunate," a deep, jovial voice muses. It sounds vaguely familiar. "I would've preferred you to be unconscious for this."

A hand—latex-gloved, hell on his skin—skims over Tomura's forehead and pushes his hair back. Tomura jerks his head away, skin crawling, hands flexing. The person in front of him laughs.

Memories comes back to him in flashes. Tomura grits his teeth as he tries to parse through them. A bar, with Spinner. They went to celebrate, to get high and maybe laid if they were lucky. Tomura remembers a drink he didn't order, a sly smile from a well-dressed man in the corner. He remembers feeling flattered, flustered at the bold way the man came up to him and start to chat him up. Complimenting him, tangling gentle, considering fingers in his hair.

Everything after the third drink is blurry.

"Oh well. I suppose I'll just have to be careful. Wouldn't want to ruin the parts."

"What...the fuck," Tomura grits out, cutting his eyes open once again, ignoring the pain it brings to take in his surroundings.

He's cuffed into a steel chair, bolted to a clean concrete floor. Fancy dress shoes lead up pressed slacks to a white doctor's apron. Tomura notes, with a growing numbness, that the apron is stained rusty pink in places. Like whatever sunk into it just couldn't be washed all the way out. Tomura drags his gaze up to see rolled up sleeves, red eyes, curly white hair, and a mild smile.

It's the man he'd spoken to last night (tonight? today? yesterday?). Behind him is a black table covered in wicked looking surgical tools.

And behind that...

Tomura might be sick.

In a softer chair than the one Tomura is currently restrained in, a grisly corpse sits. It's a patchwork quilt of flesh, with several parts missing and more sewn carefully in place, the chest cavity open with a heart being mechanically beaten within. Mismatched hands, empty eye sockets, notched knees and elbows—and a blanket tucked over its lap, like it might get cold.

"You don't know how long I've been looking for the perfect shade," the man before him sighs, plucking up a lock of Tomura's hair and twirling it idly around his gloved fingers. "A bit more wavy than I'd like, but I doubt he'll mind. It's very soft, after all."

"What the fuck," Tomura repeats, his voice a wheeze. It grows in volume as he works himself into a panic, hands jerking in the clasps as he shouts, "What the fuck!"

To Tomura's growing horror, the corpse moves, as if stirred by the sound of his voice. The man glances back at it, expression blackening as he turns back on Tomura. Clicking his tongue, he sweeps up behind Tomura's chair, fiddling with something on the head. A second later, a leather strap is yanked between Tomura's teeth and buckled around his face, effectively gagging him.

"Look what you've done," the man chides irritably. "He's not ready yet, and here you are waking him up before I have him all the way assembled. Do you know how disorienting that is? How painful? And right when I'm about to put in a new part, oh—" He cuts himself off with a hiss, yanking Tomura's head back against the chair and locking another metal cuff around his neck. Tomura thrashes, but it does nothing but bruise him.

Both of them freeze when a low whine escapes the corpse's mouth, agonized. Then, in an anxious flurry, the fucking psychopath abandons Tomura to stride over to the horrible amalgamation in front of him. Gloved hands carefully raise the thing's jaw, a low, despairing moan gusting out of its mouth.

"No," it gurgles out. "Nno, Tak—d-on't..."

"Sshh," the madman soothes, picking up a cloudy glass of water and raising it gently to the thing's lips, urging it to drink. "Hush, Yoichi, hush. Go back to sleep."

The corpse—the monster—the doll, has no strength to protest. It swallows down the cloudy liquid with a whimper, and the man cradles its bared skull to his chest with a soft croon, stroking down the doll's neck as if soothing a frightened bird. Tomura can do nothing but watch as the whimpers trail off to nothing and the thing goes limp once more.

Creation safely asleep, the man whirls on Tomura with a scowl. He plucks up a scalpel from the black table, as well as a few other things before stalking back over to Tomura. "Of course one of the last pieces I need would be difficult," he says scathingly. Tomura struggles anew, screaming behind the leather strap as he tries to wrench his hands out of their restraints. A hand fists in his hair and yanks his head back, one large hand pressed ruthlessly against Tomura's forehead as the man glares down at him from above. "Unruly thing. No anesthesia, if this is how you're going to be."

He raises the scalpel and sets it to Tomura hairline, slicing in without hesitation. Tomura shrieks, muffled, as pain strikes across his brow and blood begins to spill into his eyes. The pain only spreads as the blade cuts across his skull, down his temple, and behind his ear.

Humming, the man above him smiles, as if the sight of blood is calming to him.

"Best pray that your heart gives out soon," he muses conversationally as Tomura's vision blurs, his mind nothing but a mirage of red hot agony. "If you're still alive by the time I'm done, well. Let's just say it won't be pleasant for you."

Tomura isn't religious. He doesn't believe in gods or goddesses, or even the inherent balance of the universe.

But now, he prays to whatever is listening. Prays that this bastard dies. Prays for the pain to stop. Prays that the thing in the corner, whatever it is, never has the chance to wake again.

But nothing answers him.

•°•

Izuku stands before Tomura's apartment, checking his watch. He frowns. Knocks again.

"Tomura-san? It's time for your appointment! You asked me to remind you, remember? You're going to be late!" Izuku calls, bouncing up on his tiptoes to try and peer through the peephole, even though he knows it won't work.

Huffing, Izuku rocks back on his heels and considers going down to the land lord for Tomura's second key. It's not like Tomura to ignore him completely—he didn't even shout at him to fuck off like he usually does. This silence isn't like him at all.

Brow furrowed with concern, Izuku turns to go back down the stairs, intending to get Ujiko-san to open Tomura's door—only to ram right into someone. Izuku yelps, staggering back, and looks up to see a tall, well-dressed man standing before him. "Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't see you," Izuku sputters, embarrassed. He takes a quick step back, but relaxes when the man laughs.

"No harm done. I just came by to drop off Shimura-kun's jacket." The man holds up an arm, and Izuku jolts when he sees that Tomura's hoodie is folded over it. "He left it at the bar last night. Is he in?"

"Ah—no," Izuku says after a moment, his concern growing. "You said he was at a bar last night? He's not supposed to be drinking..."

The man blinks. "Oh dear, that would explain some things. I suppose I'll leave this at the front desk for him."

"I'll come with you," Izuku blurts, hastily racing after the man as he walks away. "I was going to ask Ujiko-san to bring up his room key..."

"He's a friend of yours?"

"Tomura is...Tomura," Izuku sighs. "But I care about him. I'm really worried."

"I'm sure he'll turn up soon, there's a—" the man cuts off suddenly, and Izuku is startled to find the man staring directly at him when he looks up.

"What?"

His eyes widen, bewildered and a little flustered, when the man steps closer, a hand reaching up to brush careful fingers against Izuku's cheek. A brilliant grin curls the man's lips.

"Has anyone ever told you that you have the loveliest eyes?"