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The body is Oboro’s (was Oboro’s) autopsied, tagged, bagged, and then stolen from the morgue slab by AFO’s people before the cremation order could go through. It was in cold storage for weeks, maybe months, while they rebuilt the neural lattice with Nomu-grade grafts and layered Kurogiri’s consciousness over the top like a new OS on corrupted hardware. No heartbeat. No baseline body temp. Skin like chilled porcelain, veins mapped in faint purple under the surface because circulation is simulated, not natural. The quirk keeps the tissues viable, but it’s not life, it’s closer to maintenance.
And Tomura notices, because there's no way he couldn't.
He notices the way Kurogiri doesn’t flinch when Decay dusts the edge of a table and the wood flakes away like ash. Notices how the man’s fingers don’t warm when they brush his wrist during a warp. Notices, most of all, that Kurogiri can still get hard (blood vessels still dilate, nerves still fire) but the pathways are wrong.
A human would’ve responded to a slow drag of lips down the neck, a grind of hips, heat and friction. Kurogiri? Kurogiri needs pressure. Needs structure. Needs the kind of stimulus that bypasses the fried pleasure centers and goes straight to the spinal relays the quirk is piggybacking on. So Tomura experiments. He’s always been hands-on.
It starts clinical.
Tomura's gloved fingers pressing along the seam where mist meets skin, watching the way Kurogiri’s pupils dilate with pressure. He maps it; the base of the skull where the grafts anchor, the hollow of the throat where the brace sits, the sharp jut of hipbones that never quite filled out again after rigor mortis first settled in.
He learns that if he digs his thumbs here (just under the jaw, compressing the carotid sheath) the body jerks, a full-system twitch that makes the mist flare violet. Learns that Kurogiri’s cock fills slow, almost reluctant, like the nerves have to reroute the signal through three layers of override before it reaches the tissue.
And Kurogiri lets him. Not because he wants it (want is a human luxury, after all) but because he is Tomura's, and the directive is obey. But there’s a glitch in the code: the longer Tomura touches, the more the Oboro-fragments surface. A hitch in the breath that isn’t programmed. A tremor in the thighs that isn’t from cold. Tomura feels the moment the corpse remembers it used to be a person who laughed too loud and flew too high and he loves it, he loves breaking his Master's toys given to him; it's a special kind of sadism that has nothing to do with Kurogiri and everything to do with his need to ruin everything given to him by AFO.
He fucks Kurogiri against the bar counter, because the height difference means he has to lift the body, and pin it with Decay-threatened hands so the mist can’t warp away. No lube, but that's fine. Kurogiri doesn’t need it, doesn’t feel the burn the way a living thing would. Just cold, slick friction and the wet click of hips meeting unyielding flesh.
Tomura bites down on his shoulder and tastes formaldehyde-sweet nothing, but the body clenches around him anyway, muscle memory overriding the quirk for one stuttering second.
After, Kurogiri straightens his vest, adjusts his tie, and asks in that perfectly modulated voice: “Was that to your satisfaction, Young Master?” And Tomura, panting, decay-dust under his nails, laughs until it scratches his throat raw, because the corpse just asked for a performance review while cum drips down its thigh and its pulse is still zero.