#until afo finally declares torino fit to fly

[shih-coulda-had-it]

#10 for the first list, afohiko if you’re still taking prompts

anon, there's four number 10s on that list, so i took the liberty of choosing which.

10. hiding their face in the other's neck | afohiko | wc: 805

a/n: honestly, you could read this as an alternate scene from dfohiko verse set during the years Toshinori was off in the States. tw for mentions of human trafficking and off-screen abuse of a captive?

//

The disapproving click of a tongue has Sorahiko stirring from his half-conscious state. He knows that sound; he associates it with long-distant memories about running the nascent League of Villains for an asshole he used to call husband. When a base-level villain inevitably overstepped or showed delusions of grandeur, Sorahiko heard that little ‘tsk’ and arranged for a body-drop.

“Sensei!” cries an eager, youthful voice. “I’m so honored you came!”

“Well,” says All for One silkily, “how could I resist the offer of a flight Quirk?”

Sorahiko tries to calculate how long he’d been held captive. There’d been four of them, all equipped with Quirks tailored for capture: netting, some kind of knockout gas, magnetism, and an aerial ace in the hole that Gran Torino had mistaken for a landlocked racer.

He’s woken up sitting in this coffin of a closet… twice now.

Accessories confiscated, limbs bound, and after he’d mouthed off (and gotten unceremoniously roughed up for it), gagged--Sorahiko still can’t consider this a professional attempt at Quirk trafficking. It used to be so much more violent. More humiliating too, since they’ve left him in his jumpsuit.

Kids.

“It’s an old-timer,” says the magnetism guy, who seems to be aiming for a clinical tone. They always want to impress All for One with a calm and collected face. “Dressed like a pro-hero, but we didn’t see him on any media outlets.”

“Hits like a bastard, though.” Voice number three. Sorahiko doesn’t recognize it, and he can’t make a guess as to which idiot it belongs to. His head hurts. His ribs hurt. They’ve somehow missed the fact that Jet pumps the air out of his lungs via the plates on his shins; Sorahiko can feel that air circulating.

“Did anyone in this clever group find out his name?”

Voice number four. “He had that belt buckle…” A quick snapping of ungloved fingers. “That English letter! ‘G’! For, uh… [gramps], maybe?”

“Maybe you’d prefer to take a look for yourself, sensei?” asks the first voice. Footsteps. Sorahiko braces himself, shoulders against the closet’s walls. The metal click of a padlock undone, the rattle of a chain--

“Such a spectacle made for one inconsequential--”

As the doors open, All for One’s dry comment disappears altogether. The flood of white fluorescent light has Sorahiko slamming his eyes shut, his breath hitching in pain, a rolling wave of it that elicits a pathetic Jet. He’s grateful that Toshinori is blissfully ignorant and happy in the States right now.

One of them ought to be.

All for One says, soft, “Well, now.”

“It’s a strong Quirk,” the first voice tempts. “Worth a lot, right?”

Footsteps. The sense of a shadow falling over Sorahiko, possibly blocking out the room’s light. He flinches at the careful touch to his cheek, fingers skimming a bruise, but All for One--and it has to be All for One--simply slides his hand to the nape of Sorahiko’s neck.

He cracks a bleary eye open.

All for One’s red eyes gleam with something like triumph. He says, not to Sorahiko, “A priceless catch. Tell me something… Which Quirks were essential to catching him?”

There is a tense silence. Sorahiko wonders if the wannabe villains understand what’s at stake here. How close are they? Will they sell each other out, or volunteer themselves like fools, thinking they can earn All for One’s favor?

“It was a group effort,” voice number three tests, and Sorahiko lets his vision go dark again, sighing through the gag. Morons.

“How inefficient,” says All for One, and squeezes Sorahiko’s neck in reassurance before letting go. A rustle of fabric as his husband straightens to his full height. “I remember none of your Quirks are capable of dealing physical harm. There’s no reward for damaged goods.”

He moves swiftly. There are certainly times when All for One makes a show of gifting or retrieving Quirks, but when time is of the essence, it only takes a sweep of the palm.

Choked-off screams. Thumps of limp bodies hitting the floor.

And after all of it, the return of All for One’s hand on Sorahiko’s neck ushering him forward, gentle, until his face is pressed up against All for One’s neck. It’s warm. Enticingly so. Sorahiko stutters on an exhale and feels first the gag loosening, then himself being carefully scooped up into a bridal carry.

“My things,” he rasps.

“Easily replaceable.”

Sorahiko snorts. “By you? Unlikely.”

“I’m a generous man,” All for One says, faking hurt. “And what could they cost? They’re hardly top-of-the-line products, Gran Torino.”

Fine. Why not pull out his trump card. This is already a hellish situation. Sorahiko pretends that he isn’t hiding his face by shoving it further against All for One’s neck, and he mutters, “They took my ring.”

“... I’ll make sure the cleaners comb this safehouse thoroughly.”