Toga Himiko - LOV

The rain had mostly stopped by the time Toga shouldered open the rusted side door of the bar.

Warm, stale air hit her first—cigarette smoke, spilled sake, old leather, and the faint metallic bite of everyone else’s bloodlust hanging in the room like perfume. The League’s hideout never changed, dim amber bulbs, mismatched stools, the jukebox in the corner that only played songs from twenty years ago, and the low murmur of villains.

She stepped inside still carrying you bridal-style, your head tucked under her chin, blood long since soaked through both your clothes and hers until the red looked almost intentional. Like matching outfits.

The room went quiet in stages.

First Shigaraki’s game paused. Then Dabi’s lighter clicked shut. Spinner’s claws stopped tapping the bar. Compress froze with a card halfway to his sleeve. Twice’s overlapping voices cut off like someone hit mute.

Toga didn’t look at any of them yet.

She just kicked the door shut behind her with one heel, water sluicing off her shoes in dirty rivers, and carried you straight toward the ratty couch in the back corner.

“Move,” she said—voice flat, no singsong, no baby-voice. The kind of tone that reminded the room exactly whose knife collection was currently the longest.

Shigaraki tilted his head, red eyes narrowing, “The fuck is this, Toga?”

“They’re hurt,” Toga answered without stopping. “Bad.”

Dabi exhaled smoke in a slow, deliberate stream. “That’s a hero scent. Fresh hero. Bleeding hero.”

“I know what they smell like,” Toga snapped, finally looking up. Her pupils were blown wide, cheeks flushed from cold and adrenaline and something dangerously close to devotion. “They’re mine. So they get the couch.”

Twice bounced forward immediately. “Holy shit they’re cute even half-dead—NO THEY’RE NOT, DON’T LOOK AT THEM LIKE THAT YOU FREAKS—they need bandages, right? I got some—THEY’RE PROBABLY EXPIRED BUT LOVE IS ETERNAL—”

“Twice,” Compress sighed, already rising and snapping his fingers so his coat flared dramatically. “Fetch the medical kit. The good one. Not the one you keep sewing plushies with.”

Spinner slid off his barstool without a word, grabbed a mostly-clean towel from behind the counter, and tossed it toward Toga. She caught it one-handed.

Toga sank to her knees beside the couch and laid you down as gently as someone who’d never practiced gentleness could manage. Your head lolled sideways, she immediately cupped it, fingers sliding into wet hair so you wouldn’t roll off.

Shigaraki scratched at his neck. “This is gonna bite us in the ass.”

“Then bite harder,” Toga said sweetly, finally sounding like herself again. She pressed the towel to the worst of the bleeding at your side. “They’re not dying here. Not after I carried them six blocks in the rain.”

Dabi snorted, leaning back against the wall with arms crossed. Blue flames flickered lazily at his fingertips. “Romantic. You gonna play nurse all night, or are we voting on whether they wake up in a cage?”

Toga’s head snapped toward him so fast her pigtails whipped. “Touch them and I’ll wear your skin next, Dabi.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Whatever.”

“Children,” Compress interrupted, gliding over with the kit already open. “Let’s not ruin the upholstery more than necessary.” He knelt on your other side, long fingers deft as he peeled back sodden fabric to assess the damage. “Deep laceration. Possible cracked ribs. Concussion probable. No exit wound—so the blade’s still inside or it was a through-and-through that clotted. Sloppy work. Amateur villains, I’d wager.”

Toga’s lip curled. “I’ll find them later.”

“I want in,” Twice chirped, dumping gauze and antiseptic beside Compress. “We’ll make it a party—NO FUNERAL PARTIES, THAT’S DEPRESSING—”

Shigaraki finally pushed off the wall and drifted closer, peering down at your face like you were a glitch in his game. “Why them?”

Toga didn’t answer right away. She just kept pressure on the wound, thumb stroking absently along your jaw while Compress worked.

Then, quiet,

“Because when I look at them, I don’t want to cut them up just to keep them.”

The room stilled again.

Even Dabi’s smirk slipped for half a second.

Shigaraki stared at Toga for a long beat. Then he huffed something that might’ve been a laugh.

“Fine. Fix them. But if they wake up swinging, I’m not saving your ass from your own partner.”

“They’re not—” Toga started, then stopped. Her cheeks went pink under the drying blood. “…yet.”

Compress chuckled under his mask while he threaded a needle. “Young love. How tragic.”

Spinner hovered awkwardly nearby, claws flexing. “Uh… should I get water? Or… blankets? They’re shivering.”

Toga glanced up at him—actually looked—and her expression softened just a fraction. “Yeah. Blankets. The soft ones. From my stash.”

Spinner blinked, surprised she’d answered nicely, then bolted toward the back room like he’d been given a sacred quest.

Twice plopped down cross-legged on the floor beside the couch, chin in hands, staring at your face with open fascination. “They got really pretty eyelashes—STOP STARING, YOU’RE GONNA CREEP THEM OUT WHEN THEY WAKE UP—they’re gonna think we’re all weirdos—WE ARE WEIRDOS, THAT’S OUR BRAND—”

Toga reached over without looking and patted Twice on the head like a dog. “You can stay. Just don’t try to touch them.”

“No promises,” Twice sighed happily.

Dabi stayed leaning against the wall, watching the whole scene with half-lidded eyes. After a minute he muttered, “You’re so fucked, Toga.”

Toga smiled—small, sharp, genuine.

“Yeah,” she whispered, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead again. “But they’re warm. And breathing. And here.”

Compress tied off the last stitch, wiped his hands, and stood. “They’ll live. Probably. Rest, fluids, no sudden movements. And someone should stay with them in case they wake disoriented and tries to murder us all.”

“I’ve got it,” Toga said immediately. No negotiation.

Shigaraki gave one last long look at your prone form, then shrugged. “Whatever. Don’t bleed on my console.”

He shuffled back toward his game.

One by one the others drifted—Spinner with an armful of mismatched blankets, Twice still babbling, Compress humming as he put the kit away, Dabi lighting another cigarette and pretending he didn’t care.

Until it was just Toga, the low buzz of the jukebox, and you.

She dragged a stool over, sat so her knees touched the couch edge, and pulled the softest blanket.

Then she leaned down until her lips brushed your ear.

“You’re safe,” she breathed. “Even if they’re all watching. Even if the whole world wants you dead. You’re mine now, okay? So wake up soon. I wanna see your eyes when you realize where you are.”

She pressed the smallest, softest kiss to your temple—right over the bruise.

And settled in to wait.

The League’s bar had never felt less like a graveyard and more like a heartbeat.