Your voice felt heavy, weighted by all the unsaid things that had been piling up between you two.

He did this often— finding reasons to blame you for the tiniest things.

You didn’t know which part of him urged it. Was he stressed about his hero work? Upset over something you had missed? Or did he just… like to push your buttons? You didn’t know. And you probably never would, because every time you tried to get him to open up, he reminded you of how sensitive you were, how “fragile” your feelings could be and how you were the one pushing him.

“If I don’t deal with it now, I’ll just have to hear you complain about it later. Spare me,” he grumbled, finally taking the turn towards his house.

You stayed quiet.

His voice wasn’t harsh this time, but it carried a certain fatigue, like he was tired of everything— including you.

His words lingered in your mind, cutting you like ice. Your voice barely above a whisper, you asked, “Am… Am I a nuisance for you, Katsuki?”

“What? I never said that.” He stole a quick glance at you, but your head stayed turned towards the window, tracing the blurred city lights as they rushed past.

“You don’t need to say that. It’s just… obvious you think like that,” you murmured, almost too quietly for him to hear.

“Hey, don’t put words in my mouth—”

“If I can’t even tell my partner about my worries, or my day, or anything that happens to me… then what is even this? A relationship is based on communication, Katsuki.”

You paused.

A shudder ran through your chest.

“…Sure, I tell my friends stuff, we keep in touch, but I want you to know too. I want you to know what I’m feeling… what I do… but you… you clearly see it as tiring. Like me talking your ear off,” your voice cracked on the last words, sharp and high-pitched, the knot in your throat growing heavier.

“You don’t really need to tell me every small thing—”

“I don’t need to do this, do that, you’re never happy with what I do!” you snapped, and the words hung in the air, jagged and raw.

“It’s just—”

“Take me home,” you cut him off, your voice trembling.

He exhaled sharply, jaw clenching.

After a few moments, he took another turn, changing the course.

“I don’t even have any damn clothes at yours,” he muttered, voice low and annoyed.

His comment got under your skin.

“You don’t need to stay. You can go back to your place,” you said quietly.

“The fuck?” His confusion was quick, but there was a pause, like the words had hit him harder than he wanted to admit.

“I need to be alone,” you clarified, swallowing hard, the words scraping your throat on the way out.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeve, nails digging in like you needed the pain to ground yourself.

“Because of some bullshit?” Katsuki scoffed, a sharp, humorless sound. His grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as he leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Come on. Since when did you become so sensitive? This is literally why we fight every fuckin’ minute.”

He frowned, jaw working like he was chewing on the rest of his words, eyes flicking towards you— searching — but you kept your gaze locked on the window, watching your reflection blur and disappear between passing streetlights.

“You think I like this?” he continued, voice rising despite himself. He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging at it in frustration before letting it fall back to the wheel with a dull thud.

“I’m tired too. I’m not used to this—” his breath stuttered, anger slipping into something rougher, rawer, “—but you want so much from me. All the time. It’s makin’ me fuckin’ crazy.”

The car filled with the sound of his breathing, uneven now, chest lifting hard under his shirt. He glanced at you again, a bit longer this time, irritation mixing with something he didn’t have the words for.

“Hey—” His voice dropped, losing some of its bite, rough around the edges. “Would you look at me at least?”

You still don't answer.

His jaw tightens, loosens, tightens again. His thumb taps against the steering wheel once. Twice. The engine hums steadily, streetlights flashing across his face in harsh, uneven intervals.

The tapping turns into a sharp flex of his fingers. He exhales through his nose, annoyed, restless. Silence— your silence— has always done this to him. He doesn’t know how to fight it. Doesn’t know where to aim.

“Tch,” he clicks his tongue, glancing at you again. “You gonna say somethin’ or just keep starin’ at the fuckin’ window?”

You don’t answer. Your lips stay pressed together, breath shallow, eyes unfocused on the blur of asphalt and neon signs outside.

That does it.

“Fuck—” He jerks the wheel slightly, irritation flashing hot and sudden.

Without warning, he signals and veers off the road, like his life depended on it. He quickly pulled the car into the closest parking lot. The tires crunch softly against gravel as he parks too hard, the car rocking once before going still.

The engine keeps running.

You blink, confused, your body lurching forward slightly with the stop. Your head turns towards him instinctively, brows knitting together. “What—?”

Katsuki kills the engine.

He turns to face you fully now, one arm slung over the steering wheel, the other clenched tight against his thigh. His expression is sharp, eyes burning, chest rising faster than before.

“No. We’re not doin’ this shit,” he says, voice low and strained. “We’re gonna talk about this.”

For a second, you just stare at him.

Then you laugh.

It slips out broken and breathless, halfway between a sob and something hysterical. Your shoulders shake as tears finally spill over, hot and unstoppable, blurring your vision as you lift a hand to your face.

“Oh,” you choke, laughing through tears, disbelief cutting deep. “Oh— now you want to talk?”

The laugh collapses in on itself, turning sharp, breath hitching painfully in your chest. You scrub at your face with the heel of your palm, like you can wipe the moment away, but the tears keep coming anyway— spilling, burning, relentless.

“What about all the times I wanted to talk?” you demand, your voice climbing despite your attempt to rein it in. Your hands come up, fingers splayed, shaking in front of you like you don’t know where to put them. “The times I begged you to listen to me?”

Katsuki stiffens, shoulders pulling tight, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

“What about the times I asked you to open up?” Your chest heaves as you lean forward, the seatbelt biting into you. “I was right there. I waited. I tried to be patient, tried to understand, tried not to push—”

Your hand curls into a fist and comes down against your thigh, once, hard. The sting barely registers.

“But now,” you laugh again, wet and broken, shaking your head in disbelief, “now you suddenly want to talk because you feel like it?”

You turn to him fully then, eyes red and shining, tears clinging to your lashes. “Now it’s important to you?” Your voice cracks on the word, splintering. “What about when it was important to me?”

Silence slams back into the car.

Katsuki’s jaw clenches so hard it looks like it might break. His hand tightens on the steering wheel again, leather creaking under his grip. He drags in a breath through his nose, sharp and shaky, like he’s trying to keep himself from exploding.

You shake your head slowly, shoulders curling inward now, the anger draining into something rawer. Smaller. “You don’t get to decide when this matters,” you whisper, the words landing heavier than the shouting did. “You don’t get to ignore me until I stop talking and then act like that’s the problem.”

Your hands fall back into your lap, trembling, fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes as if holding onto yourself is the only thing keeping you upright.

Katsuki opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

For once, it’s him who doesn’t know what to say— and the realization hits him hard, settling heavy in his chest as he stares at you, finally seeing just how long you’ve been screaming into the void.

And this time… he can’t pretend he didn’t hear it.

Katsuki doesn’t snap back this time.

He just… stops.

The anger drains out of his face slowly, like someone pulled the plug on it.

His jaw works once, then stills. He stares at the dashboard instead of you, eyes fixed somewhere just past the speedometer, like if he looks at you any longer something in him might give way.

Your words replay in his head, ugly and unavoidable.

What about when it was important to me?

His grip on the steering wheel loosens, fingers trembling before he clenches them again— harder this time, nails digging into the leather like he’s trying to punish himself. His chest feels tight. Too tight. He drags in a breath, but it sticks halfway, sharp and unsteady.

Fuck.

He swallows, throat burning. There’s a pressure behind his eyes he doesn’t recognize at first— until he does, and the realization makes his teeth grit together in panic. He blinks once. Twice. Like that’ll make it go away.

It doesn’t.

He turns his head slightly, just enough to look at you from the corner of his eye. You’re curled in on yourself now, shoulders hunched, hands clenched in your lap like you’re holding something together that’s already splintering. And it hits him— harder than anything you said.

You look tired.

Not angry. Not dramatic. Just… worn down.

And that’s on him.

“Fuck…” he mutters under his breath, the word coming out rough, wrecked. His hand leaves the steering wheel, dropping uselessly to his thigh. He rubs at it once, like he doesn’t know what to do with it, then stills.

You were right.

About all of it.

He had been a jerk. Short-tempered. Self-centered. Acting like your patience was infinite, like you’d always be there no matter how often he brushed you off, snapped at you, made you feel like you were asking for too much just by wanting to be heard.

Like you were the problem.

His vision blurs for half a second and he sucks in a sharp breath, jaw tightening as he leans back in his seat, staring up at the dark ceiling of the car. He presses the heel of his hand into his eyes, hard— too hard— like he can physically force the feeling back down.

Saying sorry feels useless now.

So he doesn’t.

He reaches for the key instead.

The engine turns over, loud in the cramped space, the sound filling the gap where words should be. He grips the steering wheel again, tighter than before, knuckles pale.

“I’ll take you home,” he says at last.

His voice is flat. Controlled. Too controlled. Like if he lets even one more thing slip, the whole damn thing might come apart.

He pulls out of the parking lot without waiting for a response, eyes fixed on the road, jaw set hard. The streetlights streak across his face again, but now they catch the tight line of his mouth, the tension in his brow.

It’s not dismissal.

It’s retreat.

And you feel it— that this is all he can give you right now. Not an apology. Not reassurance. Just the act of getting you where you asked to be, because staying here any longer might force him to admit something he’s not ready to face.

The car moves forward.

But something between you has already shifted, cracked open— and both of you know what will happen once your ways part.

The ride home is silent.

Not the sharp, tensed kind that follows a fight— but something emptier. Like the air itself has been scooped out of the car, leaving behind only the low hum of the engine and the steady slide of the city passing by.

Katsuki drives with both hands locked on the steering wheel, posture rigid, eyes fixed forward. He doesn’t look at you. Not once. Streetlights streak across his face in pale flashes, catching the tight line of his mouth, the tension pulled hard across his shoulders.

You sit still, hands resting limply in your lap.

Your chest aches, but it’s a distant pain now— muted, like your body already knows there’s no point in reacting anymore. Somewhere between a red light and the familiar turn onto your street, the truth settles in with a quiet finality.

This is the end.

Not because of tonight alone. Tonight was just the moment you stopped holding it together by yourself. You think of all the times you fought for this— how often you explained, waited, softened yourself, carried the weight of both of you just to keep things from falling apart.

You were tired. Just like him.

You wanted too much, but he could only offer so little.

Your building comes into view, grey and familiar, and your stomach drops anyway. Katsuki slows the car and pulls up to the curb. The engine idles.

He says nothing.

So do you.

You reach for the door handle. The click sounds louder than it should. Cold air brushes your face as you step out, grounding and cruel all at once. You shut the door quietly— too quietly. Like you don’t want to disturb something that’s already dead.

You take a step towards the entrance.

Then another.

You don’t hear his door open. No footsteps behind you. No voice calling your name.

You don’t look back.

Inside the building, the door closes behind you with a soft, final thud. The sound echoes down the empty hallway and your legs give out, your back pressing against the door as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Your breath breaks.

The sob comes out of you all at once— sharp and ugly, tearing through your chest as your hand flies to your mouth, trying and failing to keep it quiet. Your shoulders shake, knees weak, tears spilling faster now that there’s no one to hold them back for.

There’s no one left to fight for this.

The realization hurts more than anything else.

You fought enough. You waited. You bent. You carried patience like a burden and called it love. And when you finally put it down— when you went quiet, when you stopped trying to fix what wasn’t yours to fix—

Everything ended.

Because you were the one holding it together.

And without you carrying the weight, there was nothing left to save.

You slide down the door slowly, curling in on yourself as the crying takes over, the hallway empty, the night outside still moving on without you.

And somewhere, a few streets away, Katsuki is still sitting in his car—

but you don’t know that.

Every muscle seizes at once, like his nerves have been hijacked, like someone flipped a switch inside him and turned him off. His boots scrape uselessly against the pavement as dizziness slams into him hard enough to make his vision tilt. 

What type of fucking quirk was he hit with?

Paralysis? Poison? Some kind of suppression quirk?

Fuck.

The main villain has a quirk that tears through defenses, the other with a reverse gravity quirk but there was one still lurking—one with an unknown ability that just struck him—and he has absolutely no fucking idea what it’s doing to his body. 

He only knows his muscles have locked, his limbs won’t obey, and he cannot spark his quirk no matter how hard he tries. Panic claws up his spine, ugly and feral, because he knows what this battlefield is like and he knows what villains do when they spot a weakness. And right now, he’s a liability.

What if they notice he’s down? What if the others—especially the unknown one that just hit him—go for you next? What if he’s stuck here, frozen and useless, while someone lays a hand on you? 

The thought makes his vision blur white around the edges, rage and terror boiling so violently it almost cuts through the pain, because he can feel himself being broken from the inside and all he can think is you, you, you.

A high pitched ringing floods Bakugo’s head, drowning out explosions, shouting, everything but the sound of his own pulse. His head tips back without his permission, teeth clenched so hard his jaw throbs. He refuses to fall, refuses to give them that.

No.

Not like this.

He might feel like he’s dying right now, body betraying him, but he’ll be fucking damned if he lets that be the end.

He clenches his fists so hard his nails split skin, sharp pain blooming in his palms as he tries to force his quirk to answer him. Anything. A spark. A flicker. He thinks of you like a prayer he is screaming into the void, again and again, your name beating against his skull in time with his heart. He thinks of surviving. He thinks of standing up. He thinks of getting back to you.

Please. Please. Please.

Time stretches until it feels wrong, thick and suffocating, like he is drowning upright. His lungs burn. His vision swims. And then something snaps.

The screaming starts.

It’s a raw sound tearing itself apart on the way out, and Bakugo knows that sound before his brain can catch up. His eyes fly open so hard it hurts, tears stinging instantly as his body is fucking finally wrenched free from whatever trance it was locked inside.

The battlefield reforms around him.

The villain stands a few feet away.

And you are in his arms.

For a split second, Bakugo’s mind flat out rejects it as he desperately tries to rearrange the image into something that makes sense, he tries to fix the picture or even swap you for someone else. Anyone else. 

Except it’s really you. The villain has you in his arms and Bakugo can do nothing about it.

The villain’s fingers dig into your jaw, cruel and possessive, forcing your head back. Your hands claw weakly at his wrist, boots scraping uselessly against the pavement.

“No,” Bakugo says, or tries to. It comes out shredded, swallowed by the ringing still screaming inside his skull. “Put her down,” he chokes. “Put her the fuck down.”

He tries to move. His legs buckle. His quirk sputters uselessly, a dead thing in his veins. Panic detonates in his chest so violently he thinks it might split him in half.

The blade starts dragging.

Bakugo watches it happen in slow, merciless detail. The metal presses in, dimpling skin for half a second before dragging. Blood spills immediately, hot and dark, soaking through your costume, pouring down your chest, splattering onto the ground in thick, obscene drops that look impossibly loud.

“No,” he gasps, stumbling forward on useless legs. “No no no no—wait—wait—fuck, please—”

Your mouth opens like you are trying to say his name.

Nothing comes out.

“Don’t,” he begs, panic slurring his words. “Please don’t. I’m right here. I’m right fuckin’ here! Take me, not her!”

The villain lets you drop like discarded trash, your body hitting the ground with a loud thud, your head rolling away into the dirt like it never belonged there in the first place. Bakugo can’t stop staring at how still you are, how your chest doesn’t rise, how there’s so much blood.

He lunges.

Or tries to, except nothing happens.

His legs lock up completely, knees shaking so hard they almost give out. His hands jerk at his sides, sparks sputtering uselessly, his quirk dead and silent like it abandoned him too. His heart slams against his ribs so violently it hurts.

“Move,” he snarls at himself, teeth clenched so tight his jaw aches. “Move, you piece of shit. Fuckin’ move!”

The villain laughs loudly at him. 

“Too late,” he says, already fading, his body dissolving into black smoke. 

“No!” Bakugo screams, the sound cracking straight down the middle. “Get back here. Get the fuck back here. I’ll kill you. I’ll tear you apart. I swear to god I’ll rip you fuckin’ limb from limb.”

The villain disappears completely.

Bakugo barely registers it as he runs towards your fallen body and drops to the ground.

The scream that tears out of him does not sound human. It rips straight from his chest, raw and ruined. He slams to his knees beside you so hard it rattles his bones, gravel biting into his skin as his hands hover uselessly over your body.

His hands press to you, frantic and clumsy, smearing blood everywhere. His palms come away slick and red and there is so much of it that his vision swims.

So much red.

“Oh god,” he sobs, breath shuddering violently. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. There’s so much blood. Why is there so much fuckin’ blood?!”

He presses harder, hands trembling as if pressure alone might undo what just happened, like he can shove life back into you by force.

“Breathe—shit, please,” he begs, forehead dropping to your chest. “Please breathe. C’mon. C’mon, baby. You’re strong. You always get up. You always get back up, okay. Please.”

He sparks again, desperately, blindly, explosions popping uselessly around his palms.

“I’ll blow the whole fucking field apart,” he cries. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll quit. I’ll stay home. I won’t fight anymore. Just wake up, baby.”

His hands come away slick and red and he loses it.

A broken, hysterical sound tears out of his chest as he collapses over you, gripping your uniform in his fists like he’s drowning.

“Please,” he sobs into the dirt. “I can’t lose you. I can’t fucking do this again.”

His forehead presses into the ground beside your shoulder, body shaking uncontrollably.

“You can’t fucking die on me, you brat,” he whispers frantically. “I swear I’ll protect you. I won’t hesitate. I’ll kill anyone who looks at you wrong. Just don’t be gone.”

His voice drops to a hoarse, broken whisper.

“Don’t leave me alone,” he begs. “Please.”

***

The battlefield is chaotic when it happens.

Smoke, fire, ice splintering the ground, pros shouting orders you can barely hear over the roar in your ears. You spot Katsuki across the street just in time to see him stiffen, eyes rolling back as his body goes eerily still.

“Katsuki!” you yell, already moving.

You sprint for him, dodging debris, heart slamming against your ribs hard enough it hurts. Shoto and Midoriya surge past you toward the villain, Aizawa snapping his capture weapon through the air as he shouts something you don’t catch.

You grab Katsuki by the arms.

He is rigid and completely unresponsive.

“Katsuki?” you say again, panic clawing up your throat as you shake him. “Hey—hey, look at me. What’s happening to you? Katsuki, please.”

His eyes are open but empty, staring straight through you like you are not even there.

Your grip tightens as your vision blurs. “Please wake up,” you sob, words tumbling over each other. “Please. Oh my god, please. Bakugo, look at me. You’re scaring me! Please.”

He doesn’t move.

Behind you, someone screams.

You turn just in time to see the villain tear free of Shoto’s ice, black mist already curling up his arm as he looks straight at you. Your stomach drops. You barely have time to shove yourself in front of Katsuki before he raises his hand.

The mist engulfs you.

It is cold and burning all at once, sinking into your skin like ink, and the world tilts violently as the sound cuts out.

Your last thought before everything goes dark is his name, tearing through you as you’re suddenly locked out in a trance.

-

-

-

Your eyes open to silence.

You suck in a sharp breath and push yourself upright, heart already racing as your gaze snaps around in frantic, searching sweeps.

“Bakugo!” you call, voice echoing too loudly. 

Nothing answers.

A cold dread slides down your spine as you stagger to your feet. Just moments ago the street had been alive with motion, heroes shouting, quirks detonating, concrete shattering beneath ice and smoke. Now the city looks abandoned, buildings gutted and split open, cars overturned and burning low, ash drifting through the air like dirty snow.

“Katsuki?” you try again, louder now using his name, desperation creeping into your voice. “Where are you?”

Your breath fogs in front of you, the air suddenly icy against your skin. That is when you hear it.

At the far end of the street, the wreckage rises like a burial mound, concrete slabs crushed together and metal spears jutting at every angle, cars folded into themselves, smoke drifting through the air, and your body moves before your mind can argue, boots slipping on glass and oil and blood as you run, lungs screaming, heart hammering so violently it makes your vision pulse.

The smell hits you halfway there.

Blood, sharp and metallic, layered over burned fabric and scorched flesh, and bile floods your throat as you stumble to a stop.

Bodies are everywhere.

They are crushed beneath rubble, impaled through the torso by twisted rebar, half buried with limbs sticking out at angles that make your head swim, fingers broken backward, bone split through skin, faces frozen mid terror and half erased by debris, and your hands curl uselessly at your sides as your breath starts to come too fast and too shallow.

A familiar strip of fabric catches your eye and your knees nearly give out.

Aizawa’s capture scarf is tangled around a broken beam, stretched tight like it tried to drag him free, soaked so thoroughly with blood it looks black.

“No,” you whisper, the word barely surviving your throat. “No, no, no.”

Your gaze keeps moving no matter how hard you try to stop it.

Shoto’s hero suit peeks out from beneath cracked concrete, white fabric stained dark red and brown, his arm bent wrong at the elbow, fingers curled like they froze mid reach. 

Farther back you see green fabric burned and shredded beyond recognition. Midoriya’s costume scattered in pieces, his mask warped and melted, a single glove lying empty on the street like something discarded without thought.

Everyone you’ve ever loved lies there dead in a pile.

Your gaze keeps moving, frantic and unwilling, until it lands on him.

Katsuki lies a few feet away from the pile, his body twisted on the asphalt like he was thrown there without a second thought. He is still breathing, shallow and wet, soft whimpers slipping past his lips with each broken inhale.

You don’t remember hitting the ground. You just know you are suddenly there, knees slamming into the street so hard it hurts, hands shaking as they hover uselessly over him.

He is covered in blood.

Too much blood.

Stab wounds tear across his torso and arms, fabric shredded and stuck to skin, some shallow and angry, others deep enough that you can see muscle split open beneath them, and bullet holes pepper his side and stomach, dark and leaking steadily, the blood pooling beneath him and spreading outward, soaking into the cracked pavement.

Your hands shake violently as cold creeps into your fingers.

You don’t want to touch him.

You have to touch him.

Then you see it.

A thick metal rod juts straight through the center of his chest, driven clean through him, pinning him to the ground like an insect. Blood bubbles weakly around the entry wound every time he tries to breathe.

“Oh my god,” you sob, hands finally finding him, pressing uselessly against his chest, his shoulders, anywhere you can reach. 

“Help is coming,” you sob even as the street stretches empty around you. “I promise, I promise it is, just don’t let go, just stay, okay.”

His eyes flutter open, unfocused and glassy, struggling to find you. His mouth moves, blood staining his teeth as he drags in a rattling breath. 

“Quit—quit cryin’.” he rasps, the words barely there. “M’right here.” 

You shake your head violently, tears spilling down your face as your hands clutch his, fingers numb with cold and fear. “Don’t talk, don’t move, please, Katsuki, please don’t leave me, I can’t— can’t do this without you, I can’t.”

His fingers twitch weakly around yours, grip faltering. “Always… makin’ a mess.”  he breathes, a ghost of his usual bite slipping through. 

His breathing stutters. His eyes lose focus, staring past you into nothing.

“Katsuki…” you choke, shaking him gently, then harder. “No. No, look at me. Look at me!”

His hand slips from yours.

You press two fingers to his neck, panic screaming through your veins as you search for a pulse that never comes. His chest goes still. The whimpers stop.

He is gone.

Your scream tears through the empty street, raw and animal, ripping itself out of your throat until your voice breaks. You cling to his body, rocking back and forth as sobs wrack you, blood soaking into your clothes as you cling to him like you can somehow force him back into existence.

Footsteps crunch behind you.

You whirl around, vision blurred with tears, fury igniting through the grief as the villain approaches, black mist coiling around his limbs like a living thing. You snarl and try to rise, ready to throw yourself at him with everything you have left.

The mist slams into you, pinning you in place, crushing your chest until you can barely breathe.

You scream and thrash uselessly as he laughs, the sound echoing and cruel.

“Look at you,” he taunts, circling slowly. “So helpless. Everyone you love is dead, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

Darkness takes you hard and fast.

You barely have time to register the movement before pain explodes at the side of your head, white and blinding, and the world cuts out like a switch flipped.

***

When you wake up, the light is the first thing that hits you.

It is painfully bright, glaring straight down from above, bleaching your vision until tears sting behind your eyes and you have to squeeze them shut again. Your head throbs in time with your heartbeat, every pulse sharp and insistent, and for a few seconds all you can do is lie there and breathe through the ache.

Then the sound reaches you.

A steady, rhythmic mechanical beeping cutting through the fog in your head.

You turn your head slowly, neck stiff and sore, and your eyes land on the heart monitor beside the bed, green lines spiking and dipping in an even pattern. Tubes snake from your arm, an IV taped in place, and the sterile smell finally clicks; you’re in the hospital.

The realization settles in your chest, and then everything else crashes back in all at once.

The bodies. The blood. Katsuki in your arms, broken and bleeding, his eyes going empty while you begged him not to leave. The villain’s laughter ringing in your ears as the world ended around you.

You gasp sharply and jerk upright with a broken cry, hands flying to your chest as the monitor explodes into frantic, rapid beeping. Panic floods you, hot and suffocating, and you claw at the IV lines without thinking, yanking at the tape as tears spill down your face.

“No, no, no,” you sob, fingers shaking violently as they fumble for the IV, ripping at the tape without thinking. “I survived. I survived and everyone’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead, he’s—”

Your breath stutters and catches completely, chest heaving uselessly as black spots swarm the edges of your vision.

The door slams open.

“Hey, stop, stop, easy,” a voice snaps urgently as two nurses rush in, hands closing around your wrists, trying to keep you from tearing the lines free. You thrash weakly, panic lending you strength and stealing it at the same time, tears streaming down your face as your lungs refuse to work right.

“I have to go,” you choke, words tumbling over each other. “Please, I have to see him, I have to, he can’t be alone, I can’t—I can’t breathe—”

A familiar hand settles on your shoulder.

“Look at me,” Aizawa says, his voice low and steady in a way that refuses to bend to your panic. “You’re in a hospital. You’re safe right now.”

The nurses work quickly, reattaching the IV, adjusting the monitor as you shake beneath their hands. You sob uncontrollably, fingers curling into the sheets as the panic slowly loosens its grip enough for you to actually see him.

Really see him.

You stare at Aizawa, mouth parted, chest hitching. He is standing there. Breathing and uninjured except for bandages and exhaustion etched deep into his face.

“You,” you whisper hoarsely. “You’re… alive?”

He pauses, glancing briefly at the nurses before looking back at you. “Yes,” he says quietly. “I am.”

Your hands won’t stop shaking.

The blanket is twisted tight in your fists, knuckles white, chest hitching like you forgot how to breathe properly. Your eyes burn. Your throat feels raw, scraped empty from screaming yourself awake.

“How,” you choke out. “How is this possible? I saw you. I saw everyone. You were all there and then you were all…”  Your voice breaks completely. You swallow hard, trying again. “You were all dead.”

He pulls a chair closer and sits, resting his elbows on his knees. “It wasn’t real,” he says, voice low and steady. “None of it was.”

You shake your head immediately, too fast, too desperate. “No. Don’t lie to me. I felt it. I felt his blood on my hands. I felt his pulse stop.”

“I know,” Aizawa replies gently. “That’s exactly why the quirk is so dangerous.”

Your stomach twists, nausea rolling through you as he continues.

“The villain you encountered has a hallucinatory quirk,” he explains. “When activated, it forces the target to experience their deepest fear. Not just see it, but also live it. Your brain doesn’t know the difference, so it fills in every detail; sound, touch, pain, even loss.”

Your breathing comes in broken gasps, each inhale sharp and shaky, your body trembling like it does not trust his words.

“You need to breathe with me,” he tries to calm your panic, unflinching. “In through your nose. Slow. Out through your mouth. You’re spiraling.”

You try, even as your chest rebels, breath stuttering and uneven, tears dripping down onto the sheets.

“I can’t,” you whisper hoarsely. “I can’t stop seeing it.”

“I know,” he repeats, softer now. “But you’re not there anymore.”

The door opens again, more carefully this time, and a familiar, hesitant voice slips into the room.

“Um,” Midoriya says, and your head snaps toward the sound like you’ve been struck.

He stands just inside the doorway, arm in a sling, face pale and drawn, eyes red-rimmed like he has been crying for hours, but very much alive. He freezes when he sees you sitting up, shaking and surrounded by nurses.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he says, voice breaking slightly. “I-I was worried I missed it.”

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out at first. Your chest tightens again, panic threatening to surge back, and a strangled noise slips out of you.

“You’re not..?”

Midoriya shakes his head quickly, stepping closer. “N-no. I am okay! We all are. Bakugo, too. He’s hurt, but he’s alive, I promise. He kept asking about you.”

Alive.

Your hands clutch the blanket as your shoulders fold inward, a sob tearing out of you so violently it makes your whole body shake. The nurses ease their grip as your panic shifts into something rawer, grief and relief crashing together until you can barely stay upright.

Aizawa steadies you again. “There it is,” he murmurs. “That’s the truth.”

Midoriya hovers awkwardly at the side of the bed, eyes shining. “I thought… I thought we lost you,” he admits quietly. “When they brought you in, you weren’t waking up and I just—”

You shake your head weakly, tears still falling as your breathing finally starts to slow, uneven but real. “I thought you were all gone,” you whisper. “I watched it happen.”

Aizawa exhales slowly. “We’re all okay, no one is hurt, and you’re safe,” he says. “That’s what matters right now.”

You nod faintly, exhaustion crashing over you as the adrenaline drains, your body finally realizing it is no longer in danger, even if your mind is still catching up.

“I need to see him,” you say, voice shaking but fierce, the words scraping their way out of your throat. “Right now. I need to see him breathing. I need to see him.”

Before anyone can stop you, you swing your legs over the side of the bed, heart slamming wildly against your ribs as dizziness washes over you.

Aizawa’s hand comes out immediately, firm but careful as he stops you. “You can’t.”

You snap your head up, panic flaring sharp and sudden. “Why?” you demand, breath hitching. “Why not?”

Midoriya stiffens beside the bed, eyes flicking to Aizawa, then back to you, his hands twisting together nervously. “Bakugo woke up before you.”

Your stomach drops.

“And the first thing he saw,” Aizawa continues, “was an empty bed.”

Your chest tightens painfully, the air feeling too thin again.

“We told him you were in surgery,” he says. “But the quirk hadn’t fully worn off yet. He thought…” Aizawa pauses, jaw tightening. “He thought you were dead.”

Midoriya steps closer without thinking, voice cracking as he adds quietly, “He was really scared. I’ve never seen him like that. He kept asking where you were, and he even exploded the heart monitor when the nurses tried to calm him down.”

Your vision blurs, tears burning hot and fast.

“He panicked,” Aizawa says. “Tried to use his quirk. Tore his stitches and nearly reopened internal injuries. We had to restrain him before he hurt himself worse.”

You shake your head helplessly, a soft, shattered sound slipping out of you. “He thought I was gone?” you whisper, the words barely holding together.

“He didn’t believe us when we said you were alive. He just kept screaming that we were lying.” Midoriya says, swallowing hard.

Your throat closes completely.

“So we sedated him,” Aizawa finishes. “For his safety. And yours.”

Tears spill freely now, silent and unstoppable as they track down your cheeks and into your hair. “I should be with him,” you whisper. “He shouldn’t wake up alone. He shouldn’t ever think I left him like that.”

“You won’t,” Aizawa says immediately. “He’s in the room next to yours. Medical staff are with him at all times.”

Midoriya nods quickly. “I stayed until they made me leave,” he adds. “He’s not alone. I promise.”

“When he wakes up,” Aizawa says, stepping back toward the door, “we’ll explain everything. And then you can see him.”

You nod shakily, wiping at your face with the back of your hand, your voice barely holding steady. “Okay. Okay. I can wait.”

Then, quieter, almost breaking, “Please don’t let him wake up thinking I’m gone.”

Aizawa pauses with his hand on the door. “I won’t,” he says. “I promise.”

You sink back against the pillows, body trembling as the weight of it all finally settles. Katsuki is alive. You are alive. The nightmare is over, even if the fear still clings to you like smoke.

Sleep takes you before you realize it has, exhaustion pulling you under like a tide you no longer have the strength to fight.

***

You do not know how long you have been out when the sound hits.

An explosion cracks through the air somewhere down the hall, rattling the walls hard enough to jolt you awake with a gasp. Your heart leaps straight into your throat as the echo fades, replaced almost immediately by shouting. Nurses calling for help. Footsteps running. Alarms begin to scream.

Aizawa jerks awake in the chair beside your bed, already on his feet.

“Stay here!” he says sharply, already moving for the door. “Do not get up.”

The door swings shut behind him.

Your chest is tight, breath coming fast and shallow as you sit there, staring at the wall. The sound of the blast is still ringing in your ears, familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop.

That sounded like him.

He is alive. He is okay. He is not hurt. Nothing is wrong. 

You repeat it to yourself like a mantra, but the noise outside only grows louder, more frantic. Someone yells Bakugo’s name and the word hits you like a punch to the ribs.

Your hands shake as you throw the blanket aside.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed and stand, dizziness washing over you hard enough that you have to grab the rail. You barely notice the pull of the IV as you start ripping the tubes from your arm, panic drowning out the sting.

“I have to see him,” you whisper, fingers fumbling clumsily with the tape. “I have to. Please.”

The door opens again and you spin around, heart hammering wildly, only to find Aizawa stepping back inside with Kirishima and Midoriya right behind him.

Kirishima looks tense, jaw clenched, eyes wide with worry, but it is Midoriya’s face that makes something cold twist in your chest. He looks shaken, eyes rimmed red, hands curled tightly into the fabric of his sleeves.

“What’s going on?” you blurt, voice cracking despite your effort to keep it steady. 

Kirishima glances at Aizawa, clearly unsure how to answer, while Midoriya opens his mouth and then closes it again, swallowing hard.

Aizawa sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Bakugo woke up.”

You shake your head immediately, tears welling before you can stop them. “I need to see him. Please. I need to see him.”

Midoriya steps forward without thinking, his voice tight but earnest. “He’s really upset,” he admits softly. “He thought… he thought something happened to you.”

Aizawa nods. “The doctors think it’s best he sees you. Proof that you’re alive.”

Relief and fear crash into each other inside your chest so hard it almost knocks the breath out of you.

“But,” Aizawa adds firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument, “you both need to take it easy. No arguing, no yelling, and no talking about what you saw in the hallucination. If either of you starts spiraling, this visit is over. Understand?”

You nod quickly, wiping at your face with trembling hands. “I understand. I promise.”

Kirishima steps forward and offers you a steady hand, his grip warm and grounding. “C’mon,” he says gently. “He’s two doors down.”

Midoriya falls into step on your other side as you move into the hallway. Your steps are slow and unsteady, your body still shaky as adrenaline and fear churn together in your veins.

Kirishima stops just short of the door and turns to you, his voice dropping low, careful, like he is afraid to break something fragile.

“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s okay. Just… go easy on him, yeah?”

Midoriya nods beside him, eyes flicking to the door before returning to you. “He’s been really scared,” he adds quietly. “Seeing you will help. I know it will.”

You nod, throat too tight for words, fingers curling around the door handle as if it might disappear if you let go. Your hand trembles when you push it open, the hinge giving a soft, almost obscene little creak.

The room smells like antiseptic and something metallic and clean. Machines hum softly, steady and rhythmic.

And there he is.

Bakugo is sitting up in the hospital bed, back propped against stiff white pillows, hospital gown hanging loose on his shoulders. His skin looks too pale against the harsh light, bruising dark along his ribs and collarbone, bandages peeking out from beneath the fabric. His hair is a mess, flattened on one side, sticking up on the other.

And fuck.

The sight of him nearly takes your legs out from under you.

Your knees wobble, vision blurring instantly as your eyes lock onto his. In that single second, it feels like your lungs finally remember what they are meant to do, like your shoulders drop for the first time in hours, like your heart starts beating again instead of just screaming.

He is alive.

He is okay.

He is not dead.

Bakugo’s eyes widen when he notices you.

For a split second, he just stares at you like you are a mirage, as if he blinks you might disappear again. 

“…Y/N?” he croaks, voice rough and wrecked. 

“Katsuki,” you breathe, his name falling out of you like a prayer.

That is all it takes.

He makes a sharp, panicked sound in the back of his throat and immediately swings his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the protests of his body, ignoring the way his knee buckles as he tries to stand.

“You—” he starts, already limping toward you. 

He does not get another word out.

You are moving before you even realize it, crossing the space between you in a heartbeat and throwing yourself into him with everything you have. The impact knocks the breath from both of you, sending him stumbling backward as he grabs onto you on pure instinct.

He falls back onto the bed with a startled grunt, but he does not let go.

Your arms lock around him so tightly it almost hurts, fingers fisting in the fabric of his gown, face pressed hard into his shoulder as a sob tears out of you, loud and ugly. You cling to him like if you loosen your grip even a little, the universe might rip him away again.

“Oh my god,” you sob, words tripping over each other. “You’re okay. You’re really okay. You’re here.”

Bakugo’s arms come around you just as hard, crushing you against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head as he buries his face into your hair. He breathes you in like oxygen, like he has been drowning and finally broke the surface.

“I’m okay,” he rasps, voice shaking. “I’m okay. I’m right here. Fuck— fuck—”

His grip tightens, almost desperate.

“You scared the shit outta me,” he chokes. “I thought— I thought you were gone. I fuckin’ watched it. I watched—”

“Hey,” you murmur quickly, pulling back just enough to press your forehead to his, hands still clutching him like anchors. “Hey. No. Look at me. I’m here. I’m right here.”

His eyes dart over your face frantically, like he is trying to memorize you, like he is afraid he might forget what you look like if he looks away for even a second.

“You’re— you’re real?” he asks, voice barely holding together. “You’re not— this isn’t that fuckin’ quirk again?”

You shake your head immediately, smiling through tears as you lift one hand to cup his cheek, thumb brushing gently under his eye.

“I’m real,” you whisper. “I promise. I’m real.”

His breath shudders out of him, shoulders slumping as if the fight finally drains out all at once.

“Jesus christ,” he mutters, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I thought I lost you. I thought I couldn’t— I can’t—”

“You didn’t,” you interrupt softly. “You didn’t lose me.”

He pulls back suddenly, panic flaring again as his eyes rake over you, scanning every inch of you with frantic precision.

“Are you hurt?” he demands. “Where are you hurt? Tell me right now. Your head— your neck— fuck, your neck—”

You gently grab his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheeks until he is forced to look at you.

“I’m okay. Really. Just a concussion and some bruises. That’s it.” you say quietly.

His jaw clenches, eyes glassy.

“He slit your throat…” he says hoarsely. “I watched him do it. I watched you bleed out in front of me.”

Your heart twists painfully at the raw terror in his voice.

“It wasn’t real,” you say again, steady and gentle. “None of it was. That villain… it was all a hallucination. Our worst fear.”

His breath stutters. “Mine was you.”

You smile softly, eyes burning.

“I know,” you whisper. “Mine was you, too.”

Bakugo lets out a shaky laugh that sounds more like a sob.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I was losin’ my goddamn mind. Tried t’blast my way outta the bed. Thought I had t’get to you. Thought if I didn’t, you’d be—”

“I know,” you murmur, pulling him back into your arms. “I know. But I’m here now. You don’t have to fight.”

He nods against your shoulder, arms tightening around you again.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he says weakly. “Don’t ever scare me like that.”

You huff out a watery laugh. “I could say the same to you.”

Bakugo’s arms remain locked around you, his chin resting against the top of your head while your fingers curl into the fabric at his back. His heartbeat is loud against your ear, steady and alive, and every thump of it feels like proof that the nightmare is truly over.

Eventually, your breathing evens out, the shaking fading into something quieter.

You pull back just enough to look at him, still close enough that your knees brush and your foreheads nearly touch. “What… what happened out there?” you ask softly. “After everything started going wrong.”

Bakugo exhales through his nose and shrugs. “Dunno,” he admits. “I was lookin’ for you. Whole place was wrecked, villains everywhere, smoke and fire and idiots yellin’ in my ear.” His jaw tightens briefly. “Then I felt that mist hit me and next thing I knew, my body wouldn’t fuckin’ listen. When I woke up, Aizawa was tryin’ to explain that the villain was already dealt with, that the others took him down.”

You nod slowly, encouraging him to keep going.

“Said it was just you, me, and Shoto that got hit,” he continues. “Everyone else was fine. Quirk messes with your head, makes you see whatever scares you the most.” His eyes flick back to yours, quieter now. “Guess it worked.”

Your chest aches at the way he says it.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Guess it did.”

There’s a brief silence before he scoffs, shaking his head. “Y’know,” he mutters, “it really was my biggest fear.”

You lean in before he can say anything else, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, slow and sure, grounding both of you in the moment. When you pull back, your forehead rests against his.

“You’re not going to lose me, ’Suki,” you whisper.

He raises an eyebrow, that familiar spark creeping back into his expression. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You sayin’ that like it’s a fact.”

“Yup, it is a fact.” you say immediately, nodding. “Pinky promise.”

You pull your hand back just enough to hook your pinky out in front of him, eyes bright despite everything.

Bakugo snorts. “That’s stupid as hell.”

You glare at him. “We promise we won’t lose each other. Or die on each other. Deal?”

Without another word, he sighs and hooks his pinky around yours anyway, his grip firm and deliberate as he squeezes once. “There. Happy?”

You smile. “Very.”

You squeeze his hand. He clicks his tongue. “Y’know it’s real stupid to make that kinda promise when we’re both heroes.”

You shrug lightly, completely unapologetic. “Well, Bakugo Katsuki, if you break your promise, I’m gonna have to break your pinky.”

He laughs, real and warm this time, shaking his head. “Can’t break it if I’m dead, brat.”

“Heyyy!” you immediately swat his arm. “Don’t say that.”

He grins, eyes soft as he looks at you. “Relax. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

His forehead dips down to rest against yours, voice low and rough in a way that makes your chest ache.

“I’m not lettin’ anything touch you, either” he continues. “Not some villain, not some quirk, not fate, not any of that bullshit. Long as I’m breathin’, you’re safe. That’s not a promise I plan on breakin’.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I trust you.”

He exhales shakily, then mutters, “Yeah. Good. ’Cause I—” He stops, swallows hard, then forces it out. “I love you.”

You lean in and kiss him again, slow and full of everything you have been holding in, your hands cupping his face as you smile against his lips. “I love you too,” you say softly when you pull back. “More than anything.”

Bakugo lets out a breath that sounds almost like relief. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair as his other arm wraps around you, holding you like he never intends to let go.

You relax into him, exhaustion finally catching up, eyes fluttering shut as his warmth surrounds you.

“Get some rest,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I got you.”

And for the first time in a long time, you believe it completely.

my hero academia masterlist

cooking for you every time you come over. fluffing up his cushions so you don’t think he only comes to his apartment to sleep and leaves for work. cleans up, showers, resprays himself with cologne and deodorant.

with all that said, you know what to expect with katsuki, especially when you use his front door key for the first time. no need to knock and wait to hear him rush over to the door, waiting a single second to pretend to look like he didn’t just run before opening the door.

this time, you opened the door yourself and instead of seeing your boyfriend in his kitchen, mixing something in his wok, adding soy sauce somewhere and veggies somewhere else, you can’t see him anywhere. you know he’s home though, he texted you an hour ago to say he would be.

you kick off your shoes and pull off your jacket. dumping your bag on the floor, you wade your way through his apartment.

“katsuki? are you on the toilet?” you call but as soon as you enter his living room, you go silent. a smile springs up on your face instead.

“awe,” you mumble and the feeling you get when you see a cute puppy, a little tiny kitten or a chubby sweet baby, fills up inside of you. warmth and love, everything pink with the urge to squeeze.

this grown ass man was dead to the world. laid out on his cloud ivory L shaped sofa, on his back, chest softly breathing up and down, up and down. in through his nose and out through his lips.

it’s rare you witness katsuki sleeping. he’s always up before you for his work and on weekends when you get to sleep in, he’s always in that half awake stage when if you try and sneak out under him, suddenly he gains all consciousness to drag you back.

the size of him is a shock. to see a man that large resting. he feels like a lion, ready to pounce at any hint of a predator. he’s in his comfy clothes, wool hoodie and grey joggers. both his hands on his stomach, resting over each other like an old man. you coo at the sight of him with no frowns nor is he on the edge of a bark.

you kneel at the edge of the sofa, knowing that if anyone where to see you now, you’d be framed as a loving girlfriend or an utter creep.

you couldn’t care less. you brush katsuki’s damp blonde strands off his forehead, wondering whether kissing his cheek is worth it to wake him up.

until one eye snaps open. bakugou jumps out of your grasp, onto his elbows with a yelp, “fuck!”

he makes you jump too, eyes wide as you watch his cortisol slowly level back to normal.

“it’s just me!”

“shit, i wasn’t expectin’ you to be there.” he lays back on the sofa, forearm over his eyes. sleep causes his voice to be a deep growl, every word delicious. “didn’t even realise i fell asleep, was supposed to be startin’ dinner for ya.”

“it’s okay, you must have been sleepy,” you say quietly, hands back on your lap and bakugou swings his head over to look at you.

he licks his bottom lip. eyes with creases around them, skin stiff but the endearment in his eyes is undeniable.

“how are you, sweets? sorry, i’m outta it.” he reaches for your waist, urging you to sit up next to him on the sofa.

you do eagerly, flinging your body over his like he’s your life boat, head on his shoulder. bakugou wraps his arms around your back.

“i’m fine. you’re such a cute sleeper.”

bakugou scoffs, closing his eyes, “shut up.”

“you are! like a baby, one who’s eating all their meals.”

“yeah?” he entertains.

“hm,” you hum, “wanna kiss all over your sweet cheeks.”

he peels one eye open. one thing about the prohero, he loves your attention. “go on. then i’ll start cookin’.”

you sit up, hands on his shoulders, “we can always order in. you’re clearly exhausted.”

“i like cookin’ for you,” he mumbles when you press your lips onto his cheekbone.

immediately bakugou grins, hands resting on your hips.

“but you don’t have to.”

another kiss to his right cheekbone. then his chin.

“i would rather lay here with you,” he murmurs.

“nice. i’ll look for something for us.”

a kiss on his eyelids, then his forehead.

“proper kiss now.” he pushes, tilting up his chin to keep closer to your face.

With a grunt, Katsuki threw a heavy arm over your waist, turning so that his bare chest was pressed up against your back. The warmth from his skin seeped in through your shirt. He was all encompassing, enveloping you in his dizzying heat.

Swallowing, you prayed silently that you hadn't woken him.

He let out a sigh, the soft sound muffled into the nape of your neck.

You remained as still as you could, fighting to not squirm.

A beat passed, then another.

Your insides melted with quiet relief when he didn't stir, when the rise and fall of his lungs fell in sync with yours— his body giving no indication that he was awake.

With a quiet breath you picked up your phone again, going back to what you what had busied yourself with before he chose to get all cuddly. But when the brightness of the screen decided to assault you, your heart dropped to your stomach, that relief dying in an instant.

You grimaced at the light, fumbling to quickly get it back down to the lowest setting. It had been all the way down this whole time! You must've misclicked, or—

"You're a shitty fuckin' actor."

You could've swore your soul left your fucking body at the gravelly voice against your ear.

"What the fu—"

You didn't get a chance to finish. Katsuki was already reaching over you, guiding your hand with his to set your phone facedown on your nightstand before bringing it back over your middle, rough palm holding your hand over your stomach.

Your shoulders were wound tight as he spoke; voice tired, gruff as always. But, strangely, he sounded calm.

"Third night in a row. You're not sleeping right."

It was less of an accusation, more of a statement.

He gave it to you plainly, straight and simple. But you thought you had been discreet, the mere feeling of being caught was enough to have you opening your mouth, readying your defense, but his next words had it snapping back shut.

"And don't you fucking lie to me 'bout it."

You bit the inside of your lower lip, running over how you could possibly explain yourself without sounding pathetic.

The last few nights had been much the same: restless, spent tossing and turning.

Even when you did manage to fall asleep on the first try, you'd wake up at odd hours, left to stare at the ceiling with burning eyes, unable to quiet your mind, which was simultaneously ever-racing and absolutely empty.

When you thought about it too long, the corners of your eyes pricked. A quiet, defeated ache twisted in your chest.

You didn't want to cry, not over something so menial, so stupid. Not now, not with him watching— expecting an answer from you.

You swallowed back the lump building up in your throat, feeling the slow brush of his thumb over your knuckles.

"Not sleepy."

It came out tight, quiet. Like you were afraid that if you spoke too loud, your fragile attempt at keeping all of that built up frustration inside would fall apart.

You wanted him to give it up, let you be for once. But Katsuki Bakugou was nothing if not stubborn.

With a rumbling sigh, he rolled you onto your back, reaching an arm over you to pull at the chain of your bedside lamp.

You groaned at the sudden light washing over your bedroom, tugging your blanket up over the bottom half of your face as if it could protect you.

Annoyed, you zeroed your squinted eyes onto him, but that angry furrow between your brows weakened as you took in the image of him propped up on one elbow to look down at you. 

The warm, honeyed lamp-light caught the ends of his mess of blond hair. It was unrulier than usual, sticking up in odd directions from sleep.

He was still tired— blinking slowly, as if his eyelids were too heavy. The usual harsh lines of his face looked almost uncharacteristically soft, but his gaze was weighted with something unspoken.

Guilt twisted inside your chest. 

He was awake because of you. On a work night.

You looked away when he finally spoke up again.

"It's 3 AM. Don't bullshit with me." 

"I'm not bullshitting, Katsuki," you reasoned, wishing you could just sink back into the mattress and not have to deal with this. "I'm… this just happens sometimes. Go back to sleep."

You tried to turn your head the other way, but he caught you by the cheek, pushed your face towards him with a firm hand to make you look at him again.

His jaw was clenched tight as he focused in on your face, took in your sunken eyes, the quiet exhaustion dampening your expression.

You knew he hated when you got like this, all dismissive and stubborn, a mirror of him.

"Don't do that shit." He bit out, his brand of harsh concern. "Not with me."

"I'm not doing anyth—"

"Don't be a fuckin' hard ass, alright? Talk."

"I can't sleep! Okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? That I can't fucking sleep? I just can't! I close my eyes, I try... but I can't! And it's—"

You came to a stop the moment you realized the increasing volume of your voice. You reeled back into yourself, embarrassed of your own outburst.

Turning from his hold, you opted to look up at the ceiling, dragging a hand down your face with a deep, shaky sigh.

"Sorry," you murmured. "This is so stupid. But seriously, I'm good."

You didn't spare him a look before turning your back to him with finality, knowing that if you met his eyes — so focused on you, attentive as ever — it would all come pouring over. 

Your throat was tight as you spoke. You hoped he couldn’t tell.

"Sleep, Katsuki. It's late. Don't wanna keep you up, too."

Just when you thought he would give it up, let you deal with this miserable situation by yourself like you always did, he shifted— sat up, pulled back your blanket off of you with a single, harsh tug.

You groaned at the lost warmth, looking at him confused.

"Kats—?!"

He cut you off.

"You tried everything, huh?"

Something about the way he said it — rough and challenging — made your heart spike. He was up to something, but what? You were too exhausted to figure it out, so you offered him a weak answer.

"…Yes?"

"Right."

With one swift motion, he pushed your thighs apart. The outline of his broad shoulders rose from between your legs, thick biceps flexing as he brought your thighs around his waist.

Your legs tightened around him on instinct, bringing him closer as he hovered over you, supporting himself with two steady arms at your side.

You blinked up at him, wondering if he could feel the flustered heat radiating off of your face from being this close.

"W-What're you doing?"

"Helping."

When you continued to just blink back at him at that lackluster answer, a single brow raising slowly, he elaborated with a soft grunt.

"Said you're not sleepy, yeah?"

"… Yeah?"

"Cumming makes you sleepy." all blunt, matter of fact.

Your brows twisted.

"What?" The heat burning your cheeks crawled up to the tips of your ears as your eyes widened incredulously.

It was in his nature to say things as they were, crude and direct, but it still caught you off guard at times, especially over something like this. For someone who got flustered fairly easily, he sure had his moments.

"C'mon. Don't tell me you don't know it." His palm smoothed over your inner thigh, the rough callouses and scars familiar, warm against your soft skin. Careful in a way only you got to see. "Every time we fuck you're out like a light."

"Oh."

"Yeah." he murmured, a little smug. "Tried that?"

You shot him a look. "Obviously not, asshole."

He only chuckled softly, tilting your face up to meet his, kissing the glare right off of your face. His lips moved against yours, slow and intentional.

A soft warmth bloomed behind your ribs as you kissed him back tiredly, letting his movements guide you.

You brought careful hands to rest over his muscled chest, palms slowly sliding up, fingers brushing over the raised, jagged skin of the scar over his heart.

You wrapped your arms around his neck lazily, uncaring that they felt like lead, just wanting him closer to you as your fists curled into the soft hair at his nape.

He pulled back barely an inch, breathing a question against your lips, "You wanna try that?" before kissing you again.

Your brows creased, any semblance of an answer faded into a soft moan against him.

"C'mon, baby," he murmured, pulling back properly this time to kiss up your throat, mouth lingering against your skin.

Baby. He was calling you baby. Because he knew you loved it, knew it turned you to mush— hearing him, always so crude and unapologetic about it, refer to you so sweetly.

A shaky sigh slipped past you as he brought a large hand to the back of your neck, curving it toward him. His kisses turned to gently sucking soft marks and you shuddered, fighting a whine.

"Quit bein' difficult." he huffed, breathe hot against you. "Lemme take care of it."

He brought his face back to watch you like a hound, waiting for your confirmation.

Amidst catching your breath, you contemplated, pursing your lips in thought.

"I… I mean, it doesn't hurt to try?"

It was true, you hadn't tried this 'method' to sleep and part of you was curious whether it would work or not.

But, again, it was a work night, so despite your desperation and exhaustion, you knew that this whole ordeal would get in the way of and the strict schedule Katsuki kept to optimize his health and performance. 

He ate well, took part in rigid physical training; mandatory for the powerhouse of a man that stood at number 5 in the pro-hero rankings.

Like clockwork, he woke up at 6 AM, went out there and worked himself to the bone, put his body on the line, and unless the circumstances were dire (either he couldn’t sleep because of dreams of the past or he had missions that demanded later hours) he turned into bed at 8 PM sharp without fail.

From all the years of knowing, you knew that Katsuki was particular about his habits. 

But amidst your guilt, you were forgetting that he was also particular about you.

You had wormed into his heart, became something of an exception for him in many regards. But you couldn't see that now, not with worry and weariness eating away inside you.

Your half-lidded eyes searched his, a soft crease forming between your brows as you looked up at him.

"... Do you want to, though? I don't wanna keep you up, or… or like make you do thi—"

He cut you off with a scoff, cocking his head in disbelief as if that was possibly the stupidest thing you could have said to him.

"Don't be an idiot, alright?" he pushed closer, nose brushing yours. "If that's the shit you're worryin' about, don't."

His eyes darted down to your mouth, watching as you chewed on your bottom lip, voice lower; softer.

"Always fuckin' 'want to'."

You took in his words, blinking back the small sting in the corners of your eyes.

Katsuki didn't do pity, never did anything he didn't want to. And right now, he had nothing but undeniable want written all over his face.

There was something ravenous behind those irises, that fiery red sharp and determined in a way that had your stomach flipping.

"Okay," you decided with a slow nod, a small smile settling over your face. "We can try."

A self-satisfied smirk stretched across his face before he nodded back, eyes fluttering shut as he leaned down to peck your lips. His hands found your waist, sliding up your sides as he deepened the kiss. 

You gasped slightly as they wandered up under your shirt, rough hands smoothing over the curve of your breasts, feeling the weight of them in his palms— giving them a firm, testing squeeze.

He kept your mouth parted with his, slipping his tongue against yours in a careful rhythm.

You made a muffled sound against his mouth when his thumbs brushed over your nipples, back arching just enough to tell him you wanted more.

Katsuki pulled back, the small string of saliva between your lips breaking as he began to lift up the fabric of your shirt.

"Arms up."

You complied, raising your arms over your head.

Those blazing eyes were narrowed, a subtle furrow forming between his brows— you always thought he looked gorgeous when he was focused, and being the center of that unwavering attention always had your mind spinning.

With a final tug, he pulled your shirt off, watching as your nipples hardened, exposed to the chill of your room.

His eyes locked with yours as he leaned down, pressed a wet kiss to your chest.

Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist as he cupped both your breasts with his hands, took his time pecking around the soft flesh. It was only when you huffed quietly that he chuckled, giving you a long, slow lick over your nipple.

He ran his thumb back and forth over the other, pinching the taut peak between his index and thumb as he sucked one into his mouth, the subtle scrape of his teeth drawing out a small, strangled sound from you as he nipped at your chest.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, keeping him in place.

An involuntary whine slipped past you when he pulled back from your chest with a soft pop, his hot mouth switching to the other, the whole process repeating until you were breathless— gasping incoherent strings of what vaguely sounded like his name, nails raking down the expanse of his broad upper back.

He drew back at last, taking in the picture of you; soft lips parted as you panted, a glistening sheen over your chest, dazed eyes blinking up at him— silently asking for more as they darted between his face and the obvious clothed bulge pressing against your core.

You thought he’d get straight to it, tug down his boxers and give you what he knew you wanted, but it seemed he had a different idea. 

Pulling back between your legs, he lowered himself to your heat slowly, peppering sloppy kisses from your calf down to your inner thighs. When he finally pressed his lips right over your clothed clit, you groaned softly, head sinking back into your pillow.

His tongue peeked out to give your clit a little lick over your panties; warm and slow and wet.

You whimpered, thighs instinctively tightening around his head as you sighed out his name, wanting to melt.

"Katsuki…"

"You're always so pretty, y'know that?" he breathed out before kissing you over the cotton again, watching the damp spot grow darker under the soft amber lamp-light. "Shit drives me fucking crazy."

You drew in a shaky breath, ears burning.

You weren't exactly what you'd call pretty, right now. Your hair was very likely a mess, eyes red and heavy. And up until he had taken it off, all you had on was an old oversized shirt that had seen better days. Your panties weren’t much better; plain, save for the small bow at the center.

But the way he said it still made your heart flutter— as if, despite all of that, you were pretty to him.

You couldn’t gauge how your body looked, what he could see of you, and you were too tired to try and figure it out. But the uncertainty was enough to have you breathing out a small scoff.

"Don't just say that."

The corner of his lip curled back like you had just offended him to the highest degree.

"Y'know I never just say shit." he barked back.

Maybe you had, in a way. Because he really, really didn't. He never said anything he didn't mean when it mattered, especially not to you.

You bit your lip as his finger hooked under the hem of your underwear, his eyes asking you a silent question. 

You nodded slowly, lifting your hips for him. He moved swiftly, slipping off the last piece of fabric shielding you from him.  

He stared down at your bare heat shamelessly. Drank in how your wetness glistened under the soft light, the way your legs twitched slightly as if you were fighting the instinct to close them at his intense, unwavering gaze.

He traced a line down your slit with just a finger, relishing the small sound that drew out of you. His gaze met yours as he parted your folds with two fingers and leaned down, mouth hovering right over your pulsing core.

You watched with shallow breaths, eyes locked with his as he gathered spit in his mouth, letting a hot glob drop slowly onto your pussy. You groaned when he dragged the flat of his tongue over your clit, mixing it with your arousal.

He moaned into you, "Taste so fuckin' good…"

His tongue drew circles around your sensitive nub; so diligent, so thorough.

Like with everything, he gave it his all, didn't quit until he was satisfied. His method tonight was torturous, a slow pace that dragged out each sensation almost unbearably to ease you into that blissed out haze that'd surely knock you out.

He'd barely gotten started, and you were already panting, mind slowly slipping into that pleasure-drunk state.

Your fists curled around the sheets when he sucked your clit softly just to hear your breathy whines, smiling against you as you keened.

Katsuki Bakugou was known for his mouth. Snappy, explosive, unforgiving. It was what had drawn you to him in the first place, how he never held back.

But this mouth was the one only you got to know. Still relentless, unyielding, just a little mean— but it felt like devotion when he lapped at your leaking mess, fingers digging into your plush thighs to keep you in place as you squirmed.

You reached a hand down, let your fingers card through his soft hair before giving it a small tug. That earned you a groan, the deep rumble muffled against your dripping heat.

He licked a long stripe up your slit— wet, sloppy. Piercing eyes watching your face as he found your entrance, fucked you with his tongue before replacing it with two thick fingers, gathering your wetness before slowly pushing them in. 

You groaned as he worked you up to the stretch, pushed them in knuckle deep.

Savoring the stuttering rise and fall of your chest, he slowly started to pump them in and out. Your eyes fluttered shut, head sinking back into your pillow as his fingers filled you up, curling against that familiar spot— a slow, deep pleasure building each time he hit it just right.

You wanted to cave, melt, maybe sob.

You were so close— you could feel it… just a little more…

But… there was this feeling sitting heavy in your chest, winding up tight around your heart.

You made a noticeable attempt to keep your sounds down as your mind began to race again, your focus drifting away from him as a question resounded your head— you should've already finished by now, right?

Katsuki was doing everything right, touching you perfectly, like he always did. He should be done dealing with you. But you hadn't finished yet, he was still going at it.

Your lower lip trembled. Maybe you were too tired, too caught up in your own exhaustion to cum. Whatever it was, something was holding you back. And If you really couldn't finish, then this would all be pointless, wouldn't it? You'd have wasted both of your time for nothing.

Before the worry could fully cloud your head, Katsuki gave your thigh a firm pat.

You looked down with a start; eyes half-lidded, unfocused.

"There you are." He muttered. "Eyes on me, got it? Hell’s the matter?"

Even when he was concerned, his brashness clung to him.

His care was rough around the edges, imperfect, but it was all his intent. He wanted to be careful with you, you could see it in his eyes, how they were just focused and just soft enough for you to detect.

Even if he didn't know exactly how to do it just right, he tried. Because you mattered. You meant something to him.

He lifted his face just enough for you to know you had his attention, stilled his movements and gave your thigh a small squeeze, a silent prompt to tell him what was wrong.

You couldn't look away if you wanted to, even as you felt your eyes sting— not when he was looking at you like that.

You gnawed at your bottom lip; embarrassed, ashamed.

"I can't."

He raised a brow. "Can't what?"

You let out an exasperated breath. 

"Can't… can’t cum. I can't, feel like— I dunno, something's wrong with me, Katsuki, I'm—" 

"Get outta your head." he cut off your babbling sharply. You whimpered when he started moving his fingers again, tongue coming down to drag over your clit at the same time. "Nothing's fuckin' wrong with you. I know you can."

His unshaken confidence in you was enough to draw out a soft groan, but his mouth and fingers working in tandem to build up that tightening warmth inside you again was what had your back arching off the bed, eyes screwing shut as the pressure above your belly wound tighter and tighter. 

That heaviness in your shoulders slowly melted as he picked up the pace, the worry and doubt wrapped tight in your chest loosened and faded steadily, the sweet promise of eventual euphoria taking over your senses.

Quick, shallow breaths escaped your lungs as you brokenly mumbled his name, bucking your hips against his mouth, squeezing around his head with your legs. Your hands found his hair again, pulling without a care as he nearly doubled his efforts.

With a choked out sob, you finally came, the fingers curled in his hair tightening just a bit more one last time before going lax.

You could feel him smiling against your core as you came down; proud, a little cocky, but above all, happy to be lost in the taste of you.

He kissed you through it, mouth unrelenting against your pussy even as your thighs spasmed and trembled, working you down from your orgasm.

With a final kiss over your clit, he finally pulled back, wiping the mixture of his saliva and your slick off the bottom half of his face lazily, like he didn't actually care whether it was there or not.

Shifting, he hovered over you, crimson eyes locking with yours, reading you silently with the same rapt attention he had out on the battlefield.

A light sheen of sweat was cast over his muscled arms at your sides, the highs of his cheeks were flushed a soft pink, spikes of blond hanging messily over his forehead.

"Still with me?"

His voice was gravelly, a smoky rasp. Just a little breathless, but the satisfaction in his eyes told you he'd have it no other way.

You attempted a response, still panting heavily.

"Mhm…"

"Not an answer, baby."

"…Yes. Thank you."

He leaned down to kiss you, you moaned softly at the taste of yourself off of his lips.

Pulling back, he trained his serious eyes on yours. "Don't thank me for that shit."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize either." You managed a snort at how impossible he was being, but he continued. "Feelin' sleepy?" You hummed. "Yeah. A little."

He blinked once, scanning your face. Then grunted. "Not good enough."

"Katsuki, it's okay, you've done enou—"

"I told you, 'm gonna take care of it. Yeah?"

With his hands on the underside of your thighs, he pulled your legs around his waist, his hardened cock pressing over your still-drooling pussy, hot and heavy despite the single layer of fabric between you both.

Your heart picked up again; voice small, airy.

"Yeah…"

"Gonna let me, right?"

You whined. "But I just—"

"I know," he shushed you, slowly moving his hips, grinding himself against you agonizingly. "You can gimme another."

"Mh…”

Your lips pursed, brows pinched.

It could feel nice. It would feel nice.

You had warmed up to the idea, hips lifting just slightly to push against him as he moved, a quiet, nearly imperceptible motion.

He noticed, like he always did, but still, he wanted to draw it out of you.

"C'mon, gotta say it." his voice was a half-tease, low and coaxing, yet that mocking undertone never left. "Can only do it if you say it."

You groaned, embarrassed heat crawling up your neck.

He always did this—made you say it out loud, full-well knowing how it embarrassed you.

It was as though he lived to see you get heated, got something out of watching your lips curl and twitch in your attempts to fight your own discomposure.

"Can give you 'nother," you practically huffed out. "Jus' fuck me, please. Wanna feel you."

He smiled down at you, pleased with himself, and before you could even think to roll your eyes at that smug expression, he began to shuffle out of his boxers, freeing his aching cock.

He brought it to rest right over your pussy as he settled between your legs.

His eyes said look, and you did, took in his thick length, the angry flush of his leaking head, the precum dripping onto your navel.

He wanted you to see just how deep he would go, wanted you to really take it in. 

You felt yourself get wetter, feeling empty at just the sight— he reached just below your belly button. 

"You ready?"

Slowly, he dragged his tip between your folds. You let out a small, choked sound, nodding as your hips involuntarily bucked up to chase more.

"Uh huh. Please, please."

Katsuki’s abs tensed as he finally positioned himself just right, pushing into your tight warmth with gritted teeth, biting back the moan threatening to slip past.

He took his sweet time, going inch by agonizing inch, all the while your chest heaved as he stretched you out, filled the emptiness that had you aching.

When he finally bottomed out, panting, you clenched around him, whimpering slightly.

He let out a guttural sound; something low, ragged, already wrecked.

"Don't…" he breathed, voice cracking slightly. "Don't fuckin' do that."

"Sorry…"

"Told you not to do that either."

With a shaky breath, he began to move. Careful rolls of his hips, a hand splayed over your stomach as he eased himself in deep.

You stuttered out his name as that same hand moved lower, stopping right where your bodies met, the pad of his thumb slowly rubbing your clit. 

His eyes fluttered as he watched your head fall back against your pillow, panting as he eased into a languid rhythm, angling his hips with each thrust in search of that spot.

When he found it, you keened, toes curling, lips parting as you let out a moan.

"Katsuki…" you dragged out the end of his name, practically whining.

He only grunted, something like a strangled whimper managing to slip past his gritted teeth. "Yeah, I know, I fuckin' know…"

He continued to thrust slowly, pull all the way back out before pushing back in, intense scarlet eyes watching your face twist upon each intrusion.

You didn't notice his thumb had been brushing the plush of your lower lip before he tapped it.

"Open."

That was all he said. He knew he didn't need much for you to listen. You looked down at his hand, then back up, parting your lips on command, the pink of your tongue peaking out on instinct.

"There we go…" He murmured, slipping his index and middle finger into your waiting mouth slowly.

The weight of his thick digits settled over your tongue and you groaned, sucking gently.

"You like that?" He asked, watching your mouth work around his fingers softly, voice low.

He already knew you liked it, knew that it lulled you into a fuzzy, brainless haze. But he loved to see you nod back at him; that pliant, sweet look in your half-lidded eyes as you offered him soft 'mhm' around his fingers.

He fought the moan crawling up his throat, instead letting out a tight a chuckle.

"Yeah, I know you do."

When he pulled his fingers back, you whimpered, but didn't get to dwell on it for long.

He moved to cage you down, supporting himself by the forearms, groaning into your ear as he bucked his hips deeper into you, pace noticeably faster.

You threw your head back. It was so good, perfect even. But you still wanted to feel more of him.

"Closer…" You asked, a quiet whine behind your words. "Closer, please, baby. Need you closer, Katsuki…"

Katsuki loved missionary, you knew this. He loved that it meant he could get close, actually see you— watch as your face twisted from being filled by him.

But on nights when close wasn't close enough, he folded you in half, pressed himself impossibly deeper, brought you closer than you thought you could ever feel.

The second he realized what you were asking for, he pushed the backs of your thighs, pressed your knees up by your head.

You hooked your arms around his neck, he kissed the the hinge of your jaw, breathing desperate words against your neck.

“Fuck, I love you.”

You bit back a groan, feeling him trail sloppy kisses down to your collarbone.

“Y’know that, right?”

You were shaking, letting out breathy moans as he began to suck soft marks into your skin, lost in the feeling— the taste— of you.

Your hands slid to hold the back of his neck, pulling him back carefully. Your nose bumped his as you held his face, felt the sharp curve of his jaw in your palms.

You pulled a hand back to find one of his by your head, you laced your fingers with his, gave his hand a soft squeeze before softly pecking his lips.

"I love you," you murmured the words against his mouth before pulling him back feverishly, moaning into the kiss. "I love you so much."

He picked up his pace at those words, fucking into you desperately, "Can't believe you thought I didn't wanna do this shit…" He panted out.

"Always fuckin' want you, don't y'get it?" his voice was already deep. but now— rough from sleep and want, the rasp made you impossibly wetter.

The sound of your creaking bed and the soft slap of skin against skin faded into the background as he leaned down to kiss you, all messy and raw.

"Tell me you get it." the words heaved out of him, hot and breathy, his lidded eyes met yours, the blistering need behind them setting your skin ablaze.

"I get it," you managed, tugging him closer, holding him against your chest. "I get it, Katsuki, please—"

He groaned by your ear, "Fuck, I know. I got you…"

Suddenly, nothing else seemed to matter. Everything that had weighed on your heart— the frustration, the doubt, the unsureness in yourself. it dissolved to nothingness in the back of your mind— because Katsuki Bakugou loved you. You loved him.

You could feel it all around you; he was everywhere, everything. And part of you felt that was all you might ever need.

With a broken sound, you came, burying into the crook of his neck.

He breathed with you for a moment, held you close, heated sweat-slicked skin against yours. He pulled out carefully, gritting his teeth to bite back a groan.

You were caught off guard when he hooked your thighs over his shoulders, leaned down to lap up your spend— his grip was a vice, absolutely not letting go of you— his fervent mouth moving against your sensitive heat to stimulate you past what you thought was bliss.

You nudged at his face half-heartedly, too tired to even whine; shallow, broken sobs heaved out of you as your thighs twitching around his head.

It was too much, you told him as much. At least, you tried to. You weren't sure if he could make anything out of your nonsensical babbling between whimpers, but you were certain he didn't really care.

When your hands found his hair, you twisted the blond tufts in your fists, letting out a final cry as he pushed you over the edge one last time.

He lifted his head back, lingering for a beat, careful eyes taking you in. Your eyes were shut, relishing the aftershock of your own high as your lungs raced to catch onto air, but more importantly: you were completely fucked out.

With a small kiss to your inner thigh, he got up.

"Where're you going…?” you managed between breaths, feeling his presence on your bed go missing, eyes opening just enough to peek at him.

 “Clean underwear. Water."

"Oh."

"Mhm."

You felt like you might pass out in the best way possible. Your eyes were so droopy, but you tried your best to keep them open.

You traced the line of Katsuki's back as he shuffled through your drawers. Something soft and warm branched out from behind your sternum, spread through your body.

Suddenly, you wanted nothing more than to hold him in your arms. Feel his body curve against yours.

He uncapped a bottle of water from your dresser and held it out for you, watching intently as you sat up shakily and took careful sips.

You handed it back to him, wiping at your mouth as he moved back onto your bed, tugging on a clean pair of underwear over your legs. 

"You shoulda kept goin' Katsuki…" You tried to sound harsh, scolding. But it came out softer than you wanted. "You didn't… y'know…"

He pulled the blanket over your body and his quietly, settling at your side. You watched as he laid his head to rest on his pillow, taking in the familiar lines of his face.

"Don't care." He flicked your forehead. "Think too much and I might have to fuck you to sleep again."

Your lower lip jutted at that, a small flush settling over your face.

Reaching an arm out, you drew him closer to you. Your heart swelled at the familiarity of his warmth, that longing in you satiated momentarily at the feeling.

Your hand found his jaw, thumb brushing over the unscarred side of his face. You always loved that scar on his right cheek, thought it made him look handsome.

A small smile touched your face as you leaned in to press your lips over it, even though his other cheek was much easier to kiss. You liked to do that whenever you got the chance.

"Hey, Katsuki?" You hummed, brushing some of his hair back.

"What?"

Fondness curled inside your chest at his voice; it came quick because it was soft. Because he had softened himself, for you.

"Thank you."

He blinked back at you before, "Tch." then leaning forward to peck your lips.

"Told you to stop doin' that."

You could only chuckle, letting his large hand find the back of your head, pull you down to cradle you against the warm, solid planes of his chest.

"Sleep."

You yawned, smiling as you pressed your cheek closer against his skin.

"I'll make it up in the morning, 'kay?" You mumbled, the thrum of his heart easing your limbs, his strong arms curled around you tighter. "Promise."

Katsuki snorted softly, running a hand up and down your back, careful and soothing as he tucked you under his chin, adjusting the blanket around you to make sure you were properly warm.

"'M sure you will."

masterlist ★ taglist form ★ want to request?

may blabs: hellooo guys

second smut we up 😈 im still learning how to write ts so this was kiiinda stressful… (overthought a Lot) … but it ok we made it 🥹

im not even a petname bkg truther really so idk why i wrote that in but i did. playing with him like he’s my doll lalala

love me some acts of service solution oriented katsuki who’s soft in his own way ^_^ and i like emotions so this was quite fun to write! soft intimate smut… sighs dreamily

bkg not getting to nut lowk a recurring pattern now tho im dead 😭 (will he ever get to bust? stay tuned)

(btw title is from the marías song !!! #peak)

★ IMPORTANT — the amazing art in the header is not mine! unfortunately, i was not able to find the artist to give adequate credit, so this is my disclaimer !! all i did was edit the coloring.

taglist: @kamislop , @yameheartzzz , @aera-777 , @pandalover-valen , @ahallucination420 , @sparkkkyy , @talilosha , @ludic-art-k , @cupiditee , @spidermanlover3000 , @kwonminsoyeon , @lildidi , @annexblogs , @iv-vee , @sheltertoken , @starroll121 , @ipukegiltters , @keijisprettygirl , @sunnyjade4 , @blurpleuni-squid , @claymoreshaze , @chloesfinalproject , @ochaluvr , @5-st4rrr , @updownandbatty , @gaylittleboi69 , @randiiii , @marimars132 , @miminist , @everlasting-everlong , @l3viathanpup , @vr00m-vr00m , @eijiromelissa12 , @thescarlettfiles , @dizzytyrant , @ravenhood2792 , @imstressed17 , @sunnygurl713 , @cattyyyyy , @justamewithherweirdlife , @bakedbeansplease , @whimsycupid , @sleepyknight1225 , @ghoulerbeing , @cinnacai , @wolf-ish , @z444r , @swakoko , @deeplightgarden , @artistic-endchamber 𓂃˖ ࣪⊹

A groan escapes your lips when you check your phone. It's one in the morning, and all you want to do is shower. You underestimated how long you'd be helping Mina out. It always baffles you how college students seem to have no common sense when it comes to being respectful in someone else's space. Mina's place was a mess after the party.

Putting that all behind you, you unlock your door.

"Hey, baby, I'm back." Tenya's probably asleep you assume, but you call out anyways. He couldn't join you at Mina's party due to his thesis. He's been working so hard at it, and the last thing you'd want is to distract him.

"Hi, love. How was the party?" A groggy voice responds. A smile immediately takes over your face when Tenya pulls you in for a hug. He buries his face into your neck, and you can feel his lips brush against your neck.

"It was fine, the cleaning part sucked, because some people don't know how to act." As soon as you finish your sentence, the crimson eyed man kisses your neck. A gasp leaves your lips.

"Sorry... I just missed you." He pulls away enough to look you in the eyes.

"You don't need to apologize; I was just taken by surprise is all." You grab his hands and give them a little squeeze.

Without a word he scoops you up into his big, strong arms, "Well, shall we take this to bed?"

"What's the occasion? Are you ovulating or something?" You joke. You can hear his socked feet pad on the ground with purpose as he takes you to your shared bed.

"Don't joke, honey. I'm this close to ravishing you." You're at a loss for words when you hear him say that. His voice is dripping in something dangerous.

"Tenya, love, I have work at three so I need to get out of bed." You aren't exactly sure when you went to sleep, but you know for sure you fell asleep during the second round with him.

Tenya kisses your shoulder. The two of you have been a tangled mess of limbs throughout the morning.

"I don't want to keep you from your obligations, but everything about you is purely intoxicating." The man sure has a way with words, because you consider skipping work for a moment.

Another kiss is planted on your very marked up shoulder. As a matter of fact... every part of your body is marked up. You find that very unusual, as Tenya never tries to mark you up, unless you ask, of course.

"I don't think I'll be able to hide these..." You say.

Tenya smiles, "Good, maybe Kaminari will learn how to mind the business that pays him." You perk up at that, the sheets uncovering your upper body in the process. It wasn't the fact that he had used your lingo that you were confused.

It was the fact that he somehow knew about Kaminari's remarks from last night. "How'd you even know about that?"

"He drunkenly texted me early dawn, asking how I could possibly satisfy someone as beautiful as you. Let's just say... I felt the urge to prove that I could."

Your eyes widen in shock. Tenya has never been one to flaunt his bedroom skills, because he believed that it wasn't really anyone else's business. So, hearing that Kaminari provoked him enough to prove him wrong had you aghast.

You let out a small chuckle, "So that's why you were such a hornball when I got back."

His face scrunched up, "'Hornball' sounds distasteful."

"My bad- that's why you were so needy when I got back." He doesn't even indulge in your teasing.

"I'll make something to eat while you get ready." He groans as he gets out of the bed, and reaches for his glasses that he discarded last night when they started to fog up in the midst of your sexual endeavors.

"Thank you, Ten!"

After finishing your closing shift, you decide to join Mina and a few others for dinner. She and Bakugo were cooking so, of course you'd be there. Tenya asks you to bring him a plate, which you had already planned on doing anyways.

"Knock knock!" You yell out into the apartment as you walk inside.

A few 'hellos' echo throughout the place. You take off your shoes at the front door as to not track anything you've stepped on today into Mina's place.

The smell of food overwhelms you to the point that your stomach urges you to hurry along to the kitchen.

Kirishima, Kaminari, and Sero were sitting on the couch watching something, and if your ears don't deceive you, you could hear Izuku snorting in the dining area.

"Hey guys!"

Kaminari spares you a glance before his jaw drops, "What the hell happened to you?" Kirishima and Sero turn their heads to look at you too.

Sero smirks, "I'm pretty sure her boyfriend happened."

"He sure did." You agree with a chuckle.

Kaminari just stares in disbelief, "I didn't think he had it in him."

"I swear nobody believes he's freak. He is crazy about me, dude. All you did was rile him up."

Kirishima howls out in a fit of laughter, and Kaminari goes red at what you're implying.

"My condolences to your body."

"All good, I had fun." You send a smirk his way before walking into the kitchen to make small talk with Mina.

Even after your boyfriend proved he could very much satisfy you, you'd still get the question every here and there as to why you'd date him. It didn't bother you much, because you knew that he was indeed a freak like you.

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You laugh, corner of your eyes crinkling at his words.

He smiles, lips pressed against your skin.

"For a man of your big age, you certainly believe the silliest sayings."

"It's just my excuse to love you a little more." because he doesn't know another way of showing.

He plants his knee right between your knees, on hand sliding under your neck while letting his lips ghost over your jaw down to your collarbone — starting to nip and lick as if he was possessed.

"Hey... Stop that—!" you let out a shaky breath, heat rushing to your neck where his hand was.

Unfortunately, he doesn't listen. And you know your words are only a mere whisper in the back of his mind.

Too lost in the moment, too intoxicated with you, too infatuated with your bare body—Jason treats you like divinity.

As if your love is the only thing that keeps him grounded, as if you are his absolute one and only — his god, his universe. And he makes sure you feel every moment of it.

He exhales lowly and it fans against your skin, tickling it slightly. He acts as if you're his oxygen, he moves as if you've enchanted him as if he isn't only obsessed with your body but also about your entire soul.

It doesn't take long until he reaches the very end, sitting between your legs and moving his hands with fluidity.

"I feel embarrassed." you whisper, staring up to him and biting the inside of your cheek.

"Don't—please." he murmurs, planting one hand right on your waist and grasping your ankle with the other, raising it into the air.

His lips connects with the beauty mark on your ankle, his eyes never leaving your flustered expression.

"It's unfair—god." the heat getting the best of you.

"I always loved that about you." he hums smoothly.

The hand, that was placed against your hip, now slides down to your thigh and caresses it gently before using his using his other hand to place your ankle right over his shoulder.

"You get so flustered whenever I do the smallest things..." he continues to push the heat and leans down, "reacting to all sorts of acts."

"No—not at all..." you lie and suck in a sharp breath.

A tinge of shyness overcomes you as he dips down to kiss the last beauty mark right on your inner thigh—dangerously close to your most sensitive part.

"Let me get a taste of you, sweetheart."

"You act like a dog..."

"I practically am, grew up on the streets of Gotham." he secures your thigh over his shoulder and guides your hand to his hair.

"Haha, very funny." you can't help but bite back, "my favourite, nasty dog."

"Right—then treat me like that, won't ya?"

Your hand tangles itself within his dark, tousled hair, your fingers curl around the locks.

Jason stares at you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle and your stomach flutter in a funny manner.

He smiles. Not grinning, not smirking. As if he has already won.

"I love your beauty marks." his head dips down, "reminds me that I gotta be fuckin' grateful."

You whimper.

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By the time he gets to you, you’re prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driver’s side fender, his shadow stretching over the engine bay and swallowing up what little light the morning offers.

"Get in and try to crank it," he rumbles, his voice still rough from sleep.

You flinch slightly, nearly dropping your keys, as you turn to find the massive mechanic who’s just materialized out of the fog. Stumbling through a rushed, embarrassed explanation about how the dashboard lit up like a christmas tree before the steering went stiff, you slide behind the wheel, fingers trembling as you twist the key. The engine coughs out a pathetic, sluggish click-click-click before dying completely.

Sukuna leans over and scans the open engine bay with narrowed eyes. He brings his hand down to the alternator, then straightens and wipes a streak of grease off on his thigh.

"Alternator's shot," he diagnoses, pinning you with a flat stare through the windshield. “It stopped charging your battery while you were driving. That's why your steering went stiff, and all those warning lights came on. Battery's flat now."

He glances down the road toward his garage, jerks his chin in that direction, then flicks his gaze back to you, waiting. "Not fixing it out here. I can tow it in and take a look, if you want.”

You blink at him, hesitation suddenly tightening your chest. He's a huge, imposing stranger with eyes that seem to see right through you. You have no clue what his garage charges, and for all you know, he’ll tow your car a few meters and hand you a bill big enough to drain your entire savings account. Biting your lip hard, you look down the foggy road toward the distant city lights, debating whether freezing out here for your usual mechanic is worth it.

"Really?" you ask, your voice thin and cautious.

"You got a better plan?" Sukuna asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn't look like he's got the patience for a long deliberation this early in the morning.

Your eyes flick from the dead dashboard to the shutters of his garage down the road again. Waiting for your own mechanic could mean hours out here, and you’re already running late. Shoulders sagging, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh and nod. "No, not really. Okay, yeah. Please tow it."

True to his word, ten minutes later your car is hooked up to his truck and rolled right onto his hydraulic lift. He works quietly, hooking up a diagnostic scanner and testing the voltage. You stand on the side, nervously watching him work through the tangle of wires and metal, while the smell of old coolant and burnt oil fills the air.

Finally, he wipes his hands on his coveralls. He glances up, meeting your gaze with a flat, unreadable look before speaking. "Alright. It's definitely the alternator. Parts and labor, you're looking at around two hundred, maybe two-fifty if the belt snapped when it seized up."

He braces himself for the usual routine: the hesitant sigh, the defensive wince, maybe a drawn-out complaint about how expensive car parts are these days. He’s seen it all before, a thousand times over.

None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like he’s started speaking a foreign language.

"Are you..." You swallow hard, eyes darting between your car and the man in front of you. "Are you undercharging me out of pity? Did I really look that pathetic standing on the side of the road?"

Sukuna freezes, and the rag stops mid-wipe against his palm. He stares at you, his brow knitting into a dumbfounded, deep scowl, entirely derailed by the accusation. "What? No. That's the price of the part and half an hour of my time. I don't do pity discounts.”

"Seriously?" A breathless, half-disbelieving laugh escapes you, as your hand comes up to press against your forehead while you try to make sense of the numbers. "My mechanic charges me a small fortune every time I bring this thing in. Like... last year I paid almost three hundred for an oil change, so I figured something that actually stopped the car from running would be..." You trail off, your eyes wandering up to the underside of a different car on the lift. "Honestly, I have no idea. Just… more."

Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoever’s been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe you’d just hand over a small fortune for basic maintenance without so much as a second thought.

"An oil change," he repeats in a low rasp. "He charges you three hundred dollars for an oil change?"

"Well... yeah? And..." Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you wince as your sneakers squeak against the slick concrete. Your hand waves uselessly in the air when you’re trying to remember the items from the invoices you received. "Some other things? He always says there are other things."

Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the steady drip of fluid into a drainage pan nearby, each drop echoing like a ticking clock.

Sukuna tosses the rag aside, leans against the workbench and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow, studying you with a look that grows more troubled by the second, like you’re some puzzle that refuses to make sense.

"You know what those other things were?"

You frown, your shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of his intense stare. "Not really."

That stare doesn’t budge, flat and unblinking, and it makes you want to sink straight into the concrete floor.

"And you paid anyway."

It's not a question, but a flat statement, paired with a slow, disappointed shake of his head that twists your stomach.

Heat crawls up your neck, embarrassment prickling across your skin. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself defensively, trying to salvage a scrap of dignity. “He’s a mechanic, so like… why wouldn’t I trust him about… mechanic stuff?”

"So you just pay whatever he puts on the invoice?"

After a beat of hesitation, your eyes flick toward the garage exit before you force yourself to meet his gaze again. "I mean..."

The irritation in him doesn’t fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasn’t just one bad invoice. It’s a pattern.

"How long you been taking your car to this guy?"

A startled blink, caught off guard by the rapid-fire questioning. "A few years?"

A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw flexes. "Christ." His arms drop, one hand coming up to rest flat against the workbench behind him. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"

You open your mouth, ready to stammer out some flimsy defense, but he cuts you off with a sharp, impatient wave.

"No, don't answer that." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "I already know." When he lowers his hand, his expression darkens. "And he knows it too. That's the problem." He takes a slow step toward you, his towering height making the small garage feel instantly crowded. "He knows you don't know what you're looking at. He knows you won’t question the invoice. He knows you’ll just nod, pull out your card, and pay whatever number he pulls out of thin air."

His words hit with bruising accuracy, uncomfortable in their honesty. Swallowing hard, you feel the bitter reality of years of being scammed settle like a stone in your stomach. Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sharp, dismissive sound echoing off the concrete walls.

"And he's been taking advantage of it, overcharging the hell out of you.” He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."

—

The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your car’s engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until he’s sure everything is running just right. Only then does he cut the ignition and shut the hood.

At the sink, he scrubs at the thickest layer of grease on his hands and forearms, while each pass of the soap gives him a moment to stew. The whole time he’d been working on your hatchback, the audacity of your last mechanic kept simmering in the back of his mind, needling at his sense of professionalism and refusing to let go.

He dries his hands on a clean rag, then heads back to where you’re waiting by the office door. The invoice comes off the clipboard, and he holds it out to you along with your keys.

"Alright, you're good to go," he rumbles, his voice level and calm. "It was just the alternator. Parts and labor came out to two hundred, exactly like I said."

You take the keys and the paper, relief washing over you as your eyes land on the total. Exactly what he quoted. No hidden fees, no sneaky line items, no surprise charges, nothing lurking in the fine print.

Sukuna stands there, his large hands settling loosely on his hips. His gaze flicks from your face to the paperwork in your hands, brow furrowing slightly as he hesitates. Then, the words slip out before he can stop them.

“If you want, you can bring your old receipts by sometime. Dig 'em out of your glovebox or whatever." He clears his throat, the sudden offer surprising even him as it leaves his mouth. This isn’t something he does. He doesn’t take work home, and he sure as hell doesn’t do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "I’ll look through 'em and write down what you actually should have been paying for that basic stuff. That way you have a baseline reference sheet next time you go back to your guy, and you'll know if he's trying to pull a fast one."

There's no pressure behind his words. He leaves it entirely up to you, offering a casual favor simply because he despises seeing someone get taken advantage of.

You blink at him, completely caught off guard. You look up to his face, and gratitude cuts through your usual wall of caution.

"Really?" you ask, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You'd actually do that?"

Sukuna gives a short, dismissive shrug, shifting his weight like he’s trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."

"Thank you. Seriously, that’s... incredibly nice of you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. You fold the invoice carefully, tucking it into your purse. "What day would work best for you? I don't want to interrupt your business."

Sukuna rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the calendar tacked to the garage wall as he does the math in his head. "Day after tomorrow," he decides, looking back down at you. "I usually wrap up around six. Come by then. The shop's quiet after hours."

"Six on Wednesday. Perfect," you nod, your smile widening slightly. "Thank you again. I really appreciate you fixing the car so fast, and for... well, everything else. I'll see you Wednesday."

"Yeah," he mutters, his voice dropping a fraction softer as he nods back. "See you then. Drive safe."

He stands in the open bay, watching as your hatchback backs out of the driveway and pulls into the morning traffic. Only when your taillights disappear down the street does he finally let out a low breath, turning back to his tools and wondering what possessed him to volunteer his free time to look at old paperwork.

——

Just like he promised, the shop is mostly quiet when you pull up to the garage on Wednesday. With the bay doors rolled halfway down, the usual street noise is muffled, leaving only the clink of a wrench against metal to let you know he’s still inside.

Pushing open the side door, you’re greeted by the soft chime of the bell overhead. Sukuna appears from the back a moment later, dragging a clean rag over his forearms. His crimson eyes catch yours before flicking down to the stack of papers in your hand and the box tucked securely under your arm.

"You actually found 'em," he rumbles, a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his expression smooths back into that usual, unreadable mask.

"Every single one I could find." Stepping up to the high counter that separates the office from the shop floor, you set the invoices down and nudge the box toward him, careful not to jostle what’s inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."

Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesn’t reach for it. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow instantly furrows into a stubborn, defensive scowl.

"I don't need cake," he snaps, voice blunt and dismissive. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than accepting a gift. "I fixed the alternator, you paid the invoice. We're even. You don't owe me anything."

"It's not cake. It’s an apple pie. And it’s homemade," you counter softly. Before he can get another word in, you reach out and pop the lid open, letting the sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon spill into the grimy, oil-scented room. You shoot him a small, stubborn look that dares him to refuse. "And you're taking it."

For a split second, Sukuna freezes, his eyes darting from the warm pie back up to your face, looking completely out of his depth. The tension drains from his broad shoulders, and he lets out a low, grudging grunt, realizing he’s being difficult for no good reason.

"Fine," he mutters, reaching over. He grabs the box and carries it to the small, cluttered desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of part catalogs to clear a spot. Pausing, he peeks into the box again, then nudges a metal stool toward the desk for you with his boot. "Sit down. Let me wash up."

While he heads over to the sink to scrub the grit from his hands, you pull the pie out of the box. Only as you glance around the cluttered office does the realization hit you. You look down at the pie, still warm in its baking dish, then at your empty hands.

When Sukuna walks back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, he finds you perched on the stool, mortification written all over your face.

"Um," you manage, cheeks burning with embarrassment that creeps up. "I just realized... I forgot plates. And forks. I was so focused on getting the pie out of the oven and not showing up late that I didn't even think about it."

Sukuna stops, staring at your flushed face, and a slow, amused smirk tugs at his lips. He opens a filing cabinet, rummages through a plastic bin in the top drawer, and pulls out two plastic forks he clearly hoarded from a takeout order.

"Don't worry about it," he says, dragging a second stool over and settling in beside you. One fork is pressed into your hand, while he plunges his own straight into the pie, breaking off a steaming chunk. "We can eat it out of the dish. Problem solved."

A relieved laugh slips out as you take a bite for yourself. The pie is actually good—better than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert you’ve made in his own garage fills you with a sudden, unexpected warmth.

A few bites in, Sukuna reaches for the stack of invoices you brought along. He fishes a battered yellow highlighter from the drawer, uncapping it with his teeth, and drags the first sheet closer. Instantly, his whole demeanor sharpens, focus narrowing as he scans the lines of text.

"Two hundred for an air filter?" he mutters, jaw clenching so fast you can almost hear his teeth grind. Flipping the page back a little too sharply, he scans the top of the sheet, eyes narrowing. "When was this?"

"Last… three months, I think?" you offer, leaning in to peer over his elbow, the edge of his sleeve brushing your arm.

"Three months ago," he confirms, voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register. The highlighter clicks against the paper, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. "I looked at your air filter on Monday when I was checking the belt. There is absolutely no way a filter looks that bad after ninety days of city driving. He didn't even change it. He just wrote it down and charged you for the part."

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth. Staring at the highlighted line, you feel disbelief crash over you, cold and sharp, prickling along your skin.

"Wait... what? He just... left the old one in there?" You shrink down on your stool, while both embarrassment and genuine offense burn in your chest. "I actually remember sitting in his waiting room for an hour because he said he had to go fetch the specific part from the back warehouse."

Sukuna lets out a sharp, cynical grunt that cuts through the room and makes you wince. "Yeah. He was probably back there taking a nap on your dime." He flips to the next invoice and scoffs loudly. "A hundred and fifty for a 'diagnostic fee'? Your car doesn't even have a complex computer system. You plug the reader in, it takes two minutes. He's padding the numbers because he knows you’re not gonna question it.”

You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"

He’s working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure you’re following every step of his explanation on why it's a scam. He breaks down the mechanics in plain English, laying out the real labor time versus what was billed, and you find yourself keeping pace with him, asking about parts, checkup schedules, and why on earth a single fluid could ever cost that much.

Sukuna’s highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions you’re firing back at him. Whatever assumption he had about you being gullible is gone now. He sees you're not stupid or careless, just someone who did what anyone would: you trusted a professional because you didn’t have the background to know better. The way you’re sitting here, eagerly learning, determined to protect yourself, earns a flicker of respect in his eyes.

"You're tracking this fine," he says, irritation melting away into something unexpectedly gentle. "You just needed someone to actually layout the baseline for you."

"Yeah," you murmur, smiling a little self-consciously. "Nobody ever really explained it before."

Any trace of your nervousness has vanished. Settled into his office, you absentmindedly swing your legs beneath the stool, taking another bite. Eating straight from the baking tin, you instinctively leave the best pieces of crust for him. It’s a small, polite habit that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Sukuna finds it oddly endearing.

Powdered sugar dusts your thumb as you hold the dish steady while digging your fork in again, and without thinking, you lick it off while scanning an invoice. The gesture is so unselfconscious, so normal, but it catches his attention and draws his gaze to your face.

This close, he can’t help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you’re focused on the paperwork, the little smile that appears each time you taste the pie, how small you look perched beside him. For a moment, his mind just goes completely blank.

The realization hits him square in the chest—you’re beautiful. And you went out of your way to bake a pie for him.

All at once, the office starts to smell different. The sharp tang of oil and metal slips away, replaced by the sweetness of apple and cinnamon, and beneath it all, your perfume.

You point to a line on the invoice, but his attention drifts to your hand resting next to his on the desk. His own fingers are thick and calloused; yours look impossibly soft and small by comparison. The urge to see how your hand would feel in his is so distracting he nearly loses track of what you were saying.

For a moment, the usually unshakeable and confident mechanic is thrown completely off balance, his thoughts tangling so fast he almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he keeps his face neutral, handling the rest of the paperwork with a steady voice, but underneath, panic is already clawing at him. He has no clue how he’s supposed to get your number before you walk out that door.

Hesitation or tentativeness have never been his style. If he wants something, he takes it; if he likes someone, he just tells them. It’s always been that simple. But with you leaning over his desk, a crumb of crust clinging to the corner of your mouth, something unfamiliar creeps in and stiffens his limbs. It isn't shyness—he doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, and he certainly doesn't embarrass easily. Still, this strange, careful caution settles in his bones, making every movement feel intentional and new.

For once, he actually cares about the reaction he’s going to get, and that shift in the stakes makes his usual straightforwardness feel too rough, too heavy-handed for this. The thought that messing this up could mean never seeing you again roots him to the spot, every instinct to act suddenly tangled up in hesitation. His hands feel too big, his words too blunt, and the risk of screwing this up presses in until he feels almost clumsy.

Ideas tumble through his head, each one worse than the last, none of them good enough. Sliding his business card across the desk? Too impersonal, like he’s just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? That’s too aggressive, too much like he’s trying to corner you in his own shop. Even making up some excuse about needing to text you a follow-up on the alternator warranty feels cheap, and the idea of playing a game just to get your number makes him feel ridiculous.

The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, every option making him feel more foolish than the last. Frustration builds until his jaw aches from how tightly he’s been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He can’t remember the last time he was this stuck on something so simple.

At last, he forces his jaw to unclench, loosening his grip on the highlighter before setting it down. Glancing around the cramped office, something cuts straight through his frustration. Here you are, sitting in a garage after hours with a man twice your size you barely know, just because he offered to help. You trusted him enough to walk into his shop after closing, carrying a homemade pie as a thank-you that feels so genuine it almost hurts.

The last thing he wants, and the absolute last thing his pride will allow, is to make you feel like he used a professional angle just to corner you. If he pushes for your number now, after spending an hour showing you how vulnerable you’ve been to a scam, it’ll feel like an ambush. It’ll undo every bit of safety you felt sitting next to him and ruin any chance he might have had. The thought hits him like a splash of cold water, cooling his temper.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Sukuna reaches past you for a pen resting on the clipboard. He pulls the top invoice toward him and scrawls his phone number across the margin of the page.

"Look," he rumbles, his voice steady and stripped of the chaos in his head, sliding the stack of paperwork back across the desk to you. "You're gonna have to find a new shop now or keep dealing with that idiot down the road. If he—or anyone else—hands you a quote and it feels even a little bit off, you text a photo of the invoice to that number." He taps his thick thumb against the handwritten digits on the page. "That's my personal cell. I’ll look at it and tell you if they’re trying to rip you off."

Blinking down at the paper, you’re completely oblivious to the war he just waged with himself. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind that warmth blooms in your chest and a soft smile tugs at your lips as you glance back up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want to bother you any more than I already did."

"It's not a bother," he mutters, keeping his face carefully blank even as his pulse hammers a little harder against his ribs. "Just think of it as a backup plan. I can't stand watching people get scammed."

"That… actually makes me feel a lot better. I’ll make sure to save it," you murmur, glancing up to meet his unreadable gaze. The papers fold neatly beneath your fingers before you tuck them into your bag and rise from the stool. "Thank you. Seriously. For the alternator, the invoices, all the explanation and… for the company."

"Yeah," he mutters, his throat suddenly tight as he gives a single, gruff nod. "Don't sweat it."

Once your empty baking dish is tucked back into the box, you offer him one last warm smile that squeezes his chest uncomfortably tight. He pushes himself up to walk you to the door, the bell above your head chiming bright as you step out into the cool evening air.

"Goodnight, Sukuna."

"Goodnight," he calls back, standing entirely still as he watches you walk toward your car.

The warmth lingering in the office vanishes, leaving only a cold, hollow ache in its place. Through the glass, Sukuna watches your car start up, headlights slicing through the dusk as you ease out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. The instant your taillights blink out, frustration slams into him, heavy and relentless.

"Damn it," he barks into the empty shop, slamming his hand flat against the workbench.

Never in his life has he felt this powerless. Control is what he prides himself on—knowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because he’s the one steering it. But right now? He’s handed over his only leverage, left the whole gamble in your hands, and the lack of control is enough to make him want to tear his hair out.

He has no name saved in his phone, no confirmation. Nothing. He’s got no way to reach you, which means he’s stuck waiting, and everything now hangs on whether you decide to text. What if you lose that paper? What if the number gets buried in your purse and you forget about it until your car dies again months from now? What if you just think he was being polite and have no intention of ever using it?

The weight of not knowing gnaws at him, driving him to pace the shop floor, muttering curses under his breath for being so damn careful.

Two hours later, fresh from the shower, he sinks into the couch with a cold beer he hasn’t even opened yet. Usually, Sukuna finds the quiet of his apartment a relief after a day spent surrounded by noise, but tonight the silence feels heavy and irritating.

His phone lies face-up on the coffee table. By ten, he’s already picked it up and set it down more times than he cares to admit, each glance met with nothing but the glow of the lock screen and the relentless crawl of minutes. By eleven, frustration curdles into something uglier—doubt.

Doubt isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but alone in the dark, his mind starts tearing apart every second of that hour you spent in his office. The memory of your shoulder brushing his lingers. He can still hear your laugh when you realized you’d forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. He’d been so sure there was something there. He’d bet on it.

But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe he’d read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didn’t feel a connection. You were just being polite, bringing an apple pie to thank a mechanic for doing his job. Sitting on that stool, chatting with him, you were just well-mannered, not interested. He’d blown it all out of proportion, let himself believe there was a spark when, to you, he was just the guy who fixed your alternator and handed out some advice.

—

Sukuna arrives at the shop in the worst mood humanly possible. Sleep barely touched him last night, and whatever patience he might have had for the rest of the world has been ground down to nothing.

Fingers curling around the cold iron handles, he wrenches the shutters up, and metal slams against the top of the frame so hard the glass windows in the office rattle. Not that he gives a damn. His jacket lands carelessly on the hook as he storms inside, and the paper coffee cup hits the workbench hard, sloshing the dark liquid over the plastic lid. It tastes like battery acid, but he drinks it anyway, needing the bitterness to match what’s inside of his chest.

He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself it’s just so it won’t get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows that’s bullshit. Each time he reaches for a tool or crosses the bay for another socket, his gaze flicks back to the black screen, searching for a flicker of light that stubbornly refuses to appear.

Around nine, the shop's cell rings, echoing through the empty bay. Sukuna’s heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it in—maybe you lost his number but found the shop’s online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip that’s just a little too tight.

“Ryomen’s Automotive," he grunts, his voice a rough, impatient gravel.

"Hey, man, just checking if you got those brake pads in for the pickup?"

Disappointment slams into him right beneath his ribs. His jaw locks, knuckles whitening around the mobile. "Yeah. They’re here. Come get 'em," he snaps, hanging up before the customer can get another word in.

Storming back into the bay, he grabs up his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket, as if that’ll keep the urge to check it all the time. The impact gun roars as he goes after a stubborn lug nut, the booming racket finally loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head. That’s it. He’s done checking. If you haven’t texted by now, you’re not going to. You probably tossed the paper, and he needs to get over it.

By one, Sukuna is elbow-deep in the greasy undercarriage of an old sedan, forearms streaked with black smears, his expression locked in a scowl so forbidding that even the delivery drivers have been giving him a wide berth all day.

He’s just reaching for a torque wrench when his phone vibrates on the workbench.

Bzzzt.

The sudden vibration catches him off guard, freezing him mid-reach. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. It’s probably just spam, he tells himself. Or some useless data plan alert. Or a wrong number.

Peeling off his gloves, he slides a hand into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and swipes the screen awake. There’s a text from an unknown number—except the first line of the preview makes his chest seize up.

[You]: Hey! Sorry for the late text, I didn't want to bother you last night since it was way too late. Just wanted to send this so you have my contact too. Thanks again for looking through those invoices with me, the pie was a small price to pay for saving my bank account!

OH THANK FUCK.

Relief hits him in a bone-deep wave, draining the tension from his shoulders. He draws in a slow breath as he stares at the words glowing on the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and register the gap between his own spiraling and your ridiculously polite message. You were just being considerate, that’s all.

Clearing his throat, he uses a clean patch of his forearm to wipe the grease off his thumb before he even thinks about typing. Something clever would be good, something that proves he’s not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that won’t give him away.

[Sukuna]: No worries. Pie was great, by the way. Just let me know if you get any more of those invoices.

He taps send, eyes glued to the delivery confirmation, then instantly adds the number to his contacts. Your name appears at the top of the chat, and for the first time all day, a smirk tugs at his mouth, breaking through the hard set of his jaw.

The phone disappears back into his pocket, and he turns to the sedan on the lift, with a jolt of energy running through him. As he grabs his wrench, the reality of the situation hits him from a completely different angle: you texted just to be polite and acknowledge the professional favor, and he just capped his own response by telling you to let him know if you get more invoices, boxing himself right back into being the helpful mechanic. Now what? How is he supposed to ask you out without trampling all over the boundaries you just so carefully respected?

By Friday night, that pitiful text thread on Sukuna’s phone has become a full-blown obsession. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he ignores the bowl of dinner going cold on the counter, his attention fixed on the glow of his screen. The chat is as embarrassingly short as it was the previous day: your polite thank-you, then his own awkward reply about the pie.

With a low, frustrated rumble in the empty apartment, he taps the empty text box. He’s never had to plan a conversation in his life, but suddenly, the weight of actually caring what you think drags every word through mud.

Hey, you free this weekend?

He glares at the five words. The line looks all wrong, like something a teenager would send on a dating app, hovering over his phone, waiting around for a girl he barely knows to throw him a bone. Sukuna is a grown man; he doesn't do vague, open-ended checking-in. And if you say no, or tell him you have plans, that’s it. Conversation over. No way to push back without looking like a desperate idiot.

Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else.

"Don't be a fucking asshole, Sukuna," he mutters.

With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.

Saturday evening drags in after a brutal ten-hour shift, wrestling with stubborn leaf springs and rusted exhaust bolts. As he’s slumped on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, his muscles ache, but his mind is still stuck on the same loop. He pulls out his phone again and opens the chat. All he needs is an excuse—something car-related, since that’s the only ground you both actually somewhat share.

Let me know if that alternator’s making any noise.

His thumb freezes before he can hit send, and he scowls at the message, a sharp spike of professional irritation cutting through the haze. If the alternator was making noise, that would mean he’d screwed up the belt tension. He knows it’s perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride won’t let him insult himself just to get a text back. With a shake of his head, he deletes the line and takes a long pull from his beer, trying to rework the phrasing, still clinging to the car angle but making it less about his own hands.

Make sure you check your oil this week.

He drags his hand over his face, catching himself immediately. If he sends that, he’s just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesn’t know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement. 

"What the fuck am I doing?" 

He clears the text box again and tosses the phone face down onto the cushion beside him, ready to bang his head on the wall.

Monday night is the worst. The silence of the last few days feels like a personal insult. Standing by his kitchen window, looking out at the dark street, he’s completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. He’s Sukuna. He doesn’t sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. He’ll just give it to you straight, no games or professional excuses. He snatches the phone off the counter and types, fingers jabbing at the screen.

I'm heading to the diner by my shop for lunch tomorrow. Come with me.

He stares at the message, breathing heavier as his thumb hovers over the blue arrow. For a split second, he almost hits it. But then your reaction flashes through his mind—opening your phone and seeing a blunt lunch demand from the mechanic who fixed your car last week, suddenly wondering whether the man who seemed so put-together had been working an angle the whole time.

"No. That's fucking creepy."

He’s completely trapped by his own respect for you, stuck suffering the consequences of having zero organic reason to reach out. He can rebuild a transmission blindfolded, but figuring out how to move a text thread from professional advice to I want to see your face again without being an asshole? That breaks his brain entirely.

A low, bitter curse slips out as he clears the message. He throws the phone onto the kitchen table, furious that one person has managed to jam his gears so completely without even lifting a finger.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

By Tuesday afternoon, the frustration has cooled into a quiet, stubborn determination. Leaning against the workbench during a lull in the shop, he stares at your name in his contacts. One more try to find a middle ground that feels natural but actually gives him an opening.

Found another complaint about that shop online. Thought you’d wanna see it.

Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought you’d wanna see it. He sounds like he’s trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. It’s not a lie, but he’d rather die than let you catch on.

"For fuck's sake."

By Wednesday afternoon, Sukuna’s completely done with himself, and he’s become absolutely insufferable to be around. Leaning against the tool board, he glares at the calendar pinned crookedly to the office wall, his thumb drumming a relentless rhythm against his thigh.

Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with him looking like an idiot. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clears—he doesn’t need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. That’s it.

I’m closing up the shop tomorrow around 6. If you wanna swing by, I can show you how to check your fluids and oil so you aren’t just guessing. No worries if you’re busy.

He stares at the message for a moment. There. Completely professional. Nobody in their right mind could mistake that for flirting. Another second passes. Perfectly reasonable text to send a customer.

With that, his thumb slams the send button, heart thudding stupidly against his ribs. The phone disappears deep into his pocket as he turns back to his tools, pulse racing, completely irritated by his own anticipation and already hooked on the slow, torturous wait for your reply.

Meanwhile, you’re at home, finally sinking into the couch after a long day, when your phone buzzes against the coffee table. His name flashes across the screen, and your heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. You read his invitation twice, and a soft smile tugs at your lips. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tap out your reply, keeping it light and trying to match his tone.

[You]: I'd love to! Need me to bring anything? (I promise I'll actually remember the plates this time if there's food involved!)

Down in the garage, Sukuna’s been organizing the same shelf of oil filters for the last four minutes, trying to distract himself, when his pocket finally vibrates. He freezes mid-reach. He deliberately finishes placing the last filter on the rack, forcing himself to move at a normal pace, refusing to look like a lunatic even to his own reflection. Only then does he step back, dig out his phone, and unlock the screen.

Reading your text, the tight, stubborn knot in his chest unravels all at once. Relief hits so fast it’s almost dizzying, and a rush of heat crawls up his neck. You didn't say no. You didn't find an excuse, you didn't think it was weird, and you explicitly said you'd love to come back. And that little joke about the plates instantly crumbles the remaining walls of his stubborn frustration.

A massive, genuinely victorious smirk spreads across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, rough chuckle rumbles out of his chest. Energy surges through him, ridiculous and electric, like he’s just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.

Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.

Food. You’re asking about bringing food.

For you, it’s testing the waters for a little more time together. But to him, it's enough to send his thoughts careening straight off the rails of the maintenance lesson and into a chaotic spiral of logistics. Does he buy something? Does he tell you to bring something? If he says no, does that mean you’ll just learn how to check a dipstick and drive away immediately after? He doesn't want you to leave. He wants you back on that metal stool, right where he can see you.

Pacing a short line next to the workbench, he types out a response, frowning as he slams straight into a wall of overthinking that’s completely foreign to him: I’ll grab some burgers. No, that’s too much like a date. Don't worry about food. No, that sounds like he doesn't want to eat with you at all. Or worse, you’ll eat before you come, and he’ll miss his chance entirely.

Frustrated with his own hesitation, he deletes the drafts, grunts, and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: blunt and completely practical.

[Sukuna]: Just bring the car. I’ll order a pizza. Pepperoni alright?

He hits send, tossing the phone back onto the bench with a sharp exhale. The message is demanding, a little aggressive, and leaves zero room for negotiation. Still, it guarantees you're staying for dinner.

A wide grin splits his face as he spins around and surveys his empty shop, eyes scanning the bays with sudden, critical focus. Twenty-four hours. That’s all he’s got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.

—

Rolling into the gravel driveway with five minutes to spare, you idle near the entrance just as the side door swings open and Sukuna steps out into the cool evening air. He’s in a plain black tee stretched across his broad shoulders and dark grey sweatpants. The change catches your eye immediately because he looks ridiculously good out of his coveralls. You can’t help but wonder if the wardrobe swap was just a coincidence, or if he actually cared about making a good impression tonight.

He walks over to the front of your car, waving his hand to guide you forward. "Bring it straight into the second bay," he calls out.

Following his gesture, you shift into drive and ease the car forward into the bay. The engine clicks softly when you shut it off, and as you step out, Sukuna’s already at the front bumper, nodding at you.

“You’ve made it," he rumbles, stepping up to pop the latch and lift your hood into place with a practiced, heavy thud.

"Told you I would," you say, glancing over the open engine bay with curiosity. "So, where are we starting? Am I going to get entirely covered in grime?"

Sukuna lets out a low, amused huff, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and pivots toward the rolling tool cabinet. "Not if I can help it."

He reaches into a cardboard box on top of the cart and pulls out a pair of thin, black single-use gloves. His size is impossible to ignore when he steps in close, suddenly crowding the space, and hands them over.

"Put these on first," he instructs, his gaze locking onto yours for a heartbeat. "The alternator's fresh, but everything else under that hood isn’t. No reason for you to ruin your hands."

You take the gloves, smoothing the black rubber over your wrists before looking up at him with a playful smile, tilting your head. "Very thoughtful. I didn't think a tough mechanic like you cared about a little dirt."

"I don't care about it on me," Sukuna mutters. His eyes linger on your hands for a second before he jerks his gaze back down at the engine bay, clears his throat, and points into the tangled mess of metal and hoses. "Alright, come here. We’re skipping the basic fluid check—you’re smart enough to know how to read a dipstick. I want to show you more interesting stuff."

Stepping in close, you slide the gloves over your hands, your shoulder brushing his for just a second. It's barely a touch, but enough to make both of you hyper-aware of the space you share.

"See this belt right here?" Sukuna asks, leaning over the grille. His deep voice drops into a steady, confident cadence as he gets into his element. "This is your serpentine belt. In case someone tells you it’s about to snap, I'll show you how to check the tension yourself, and how to spot actual dry rot versus regular wear."

He tugs on his own gloves, then reaches down. He navigates the cramped space around the engine block with ease, and you find yourself briefly distracted by the contrast between the size of his hands, the precision of the movements, and how gentle they look as he grips the heavy rubber belt. Then, with a twist, he exposes the underside to the light.

"Get your hand in right here," he says, glancing sideways at you, his eyes dark and intense in the low light. "Feel the edge of the rubber. Tell me what you notice."

For the next hour, Sukuna guides you through a standard oil change, patiently talking you through each step. He doesn't do the work for you; he has you reach beneath the chassis with a socket wrench to feel the exact point of resistance on the oil pan drain plug, his hand covering yours to adjust the angle, explaining the difference between a secure seal and stripped threads.

When he shows you a spark plug, he holds the tiny ceramic piece beneath the shop light, pointing out the faint color differences that separate a healthy engine from one that's burning fuel too rich.

All the while, Sukuna stays at your shoulder, keeping you grounded. Each time your gloved fingers falter over a stubborn clamp or an unfamiliar valve, his hand is there, nudging your wrist or guiding it with a confidence that makes it impossible to feel foolish. He answers every question thoroughly without a hint of impatience, pleased with your curiosity. By the time you peel the gloves from your hands, the machinery that once felt so intimidating is just a puzzle you’ve learned how to solve, and the satisfaction settles deep in your chest.

A sudden chime of the office bell cuts through the quiet, shattering the spell. Sukuna pulls his hand back from the engine block, his head snapping toward the front door.

"Pizza's here,” he rasps.

He strips off the gloves, tossing them in the trash before heading to the glass door to pay the delivery guy. You follow suit, peeling yours off and grabbing the plates you stashed in your trunk earlier. Stepping into the dim office, you find Sukuna already setting the steaming pizza box dead center on his desk.

"Look at that," you tease softly, sliding the plates onto the desk. "Real plates this time."

Sukuna glances down at them, and a faint, genuinely amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Fancy," he mutters, eyes flicking up to catch yours for a split second before his hand moves to the cardboard lid. “Bringing the good stuff to a garage."

The moment he flips the lid open, the rich, savory scent of hot cheese and pepperoni floods the room, instantly smothering the stubborn trace of motor oil that still clings to the air. He slides a massive, steaming slice onto your plate before grabbing one for himself. "Eat up before it gets cold."

For the first twenty minutes, conversation just flows easily, and to his immense relief, not a single word about car parts comes up. You ask about the shop, how long he’s been running it, and whether he always wanted to be a mechanic. He tells you how he likes working with his hands, how machines make sense in a way people never do, because if something’s broken, there’s always a reason, and always a fix.

After a while, Sukuna starts tossing questions your way. One answer leads to another, and before long you're deep in a story about that trainwreck project at work and the latest chaos your friends managed to stir up over the weekend. He doesn’t interrupt, his crimson eyes fixed on your face, watching your eyes crinkle with laughter, how your hands sketch wild shapes in the air, and the tiny smile that sneaks out when you mention your friends.

Some part of him is convinced this should be awkward. Or, at the very least, harder than this. But it feels completely natural, and before he knows it, he’s talking more than he ever does. And that’s exactly when the invisible trap closes right back around his throat.

Ask her, his mind orders, the thought landing in his chest with a sudden, heavy thud. Eight words. Do you want to go out with me? Just say the damn words.

You finish your slice and lean back a little on your stool, thumb brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip without thinking.

Do it now. She's sitting right here. She likes talking to you. Just open your stupid mouth and ask for a real date.

Sukuna shifts his weight on the metal stool as his large hand tightens around his napkin.

Don't be a coward. It's a question, not a marriage proposal.

He opens his mouth, but his throat locks up tight. He isn't actually afraid of hearing the word no—he has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary he’s drawn around you in his own head.

And then what? She realizes the mechanic who helped her has been working an angle the whole time?

He’s desperately trying not to abuse the trust he’s built with you. The sheer weight of wanting to keep this clean and respectable for your sake completely jams his gears.

"Hey," he blurts out anyway, his voice a little rough, cutting right through the middle of whatever you were saying.

You pause, blinking at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"

Sukuna freezes as his brain goes completely blank again under your direct gaze. His eyes drop to your mouth, staring at the soft curve of your lips in the dim light of the desk lamp, his mind scrambling for any kind of escape hatch.

For fuck's sake, Sukuna. You've started already. Just finish it.

Instead, his throat stays bone dry, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. The words just refuse to come, and the surge of internal fury that follows nearly knocks him sideways.

“Never mind.”

You study him for a long moment, and a small, knowing look flickers in your eyes as you set your crust down on the plate.

"Well," you say softly, with a playful little tilt to your head. "I guess I officially know enough about drive belts now. At this rate, I won't have an excuse to bother you anymore."

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The thought of you just fading back into the real world, never showing up at his garage again, triggers a raw, defensive panic that steamrolls right over his hesitation.

"You don't need car trouble to stop by," he quickly says.

It comes out too blunt, his voice rough and a little too sharp in the quiet room. He winces inside, bracing for you to pull away, but you just look at him, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.

"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone as you lean just a hair closer over the edge of the desk. "Most people just ask for a date."

Sukuna goes utterly still. The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is so thick you can hear the faint, steady hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He doesn’t answer right away—he can’t. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that you’ve just outmaneuvered him without even trying.

But then the sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and the tension in his chest snaps like a rubber band.

A low, rough chuckle shakes his chest, half frustration, half pure captivation. He drops the crumpled napkin onto the desk, and suddenly his eyes are burning with that hyper-confident heat he’s been holding back all week. The cautious, hesitant mechanic is gone in a blink.

"Yeah?" he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave.

Before you can blink, he closes the distance between the stools. That massive hand of his finds the back of your neck, thick fingers curling gently, thumb pressing into the warm skin along your jaw. His sheer size blocks out the rest of the office, casting you in his shadow as he leans down, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

His eyes drop to your mouth, and the intensity of his stare makes your breath catch.

"Been trying real hard to be polite all week," he mutters with a wicked smirk right against your lips, tracing a slow line along your jaw with his thumb. "But you're entirely right. I'm taking you out tomorrow night."

He pauses, giving you one last chance to pull away if you want to. When you don't move, matching his smirk with one of your own, he closes the last bit of space without a single shred of hesitation.

The moment his lips meet yours, a ragged breath escapes him, a sound so raw it sends a shiver tearing down your spine. He’s been starving for this all week, and the force of it knocks the air from both your lungs.

Sweet vanilla and tobacco from his perfume flood your senses, drowning out everything else. Sukuna tastes exactly like he smells: warm, intense, and utterly intoxicating. Any coherent thought vanishes beneath the rush of it. Your hands find the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his chest and bunching it tight in your fists as you pull him closer. Every bit of hunger he pours into the kiss, you give right back.

Feeling you lean in and your hands on him, a low, gravelly groan rumbles from deep in his chest. His grip at the nape of your neck tightens, thick fingers slipping higher into your hair until they're tangled in the strands at the base of your skull, leaving no room for doubt about how badly he's wanted this. His other hand leaves the desk, sliding up to cup your face, calloused thumb sweeping hard over your cheekbone as he tilts your head back, searching for a better angle.

Slow, insistent pressure parts your lips, and his mouth moves over yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The heat pouring off him is overwhelming, swallowing up the entire office until there's nothing left but his lips and the rough drag of his hands against your skin.

Sukuna pulls back just a fraction, barely a breath of space between you, so you can both drag in ragged breaths. Eyes closed, his forehead drops against yours while his chest heaves. But staying away isn’t an option. He leans right back in, catching your lower lip between his, sucking on it with a slow pull that rips a quiet gasp from your throat.

That deep drag is followed by a series of quick, hot pecks—one to the corner of your mouth, another firm press at the center of your lips, and finally a lingering kiss that seals your mouths together all over again.

Every tiny, breathless break just makes him hungrier. He presses in deeper, tongue tracing the shape of your lips, completely taking over the pace. Your heart hammers stupidly against your ribs, your body turning to liquid on the metal stool, kept upright only by the iron grip of his hands. He’s kissing you like he wants to leave a permanent mark, making up for an entire week spent talking himself out of this.

Even when he finally tears his mouth away, he refuses to let you go. His breath comes in short, heavy rasps that tangle with your own, crimson eyes fluttering open to find you—dark, hooded, and completely blown wide as he stares at your swollen lips. His thumb sweeps over your lower lip, wiping the dampness away with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your chest ache.

For a moment, neither of you says a word. The office is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and you can feel the lingering warmth of him, the tension that hasn’t left either of your bodies.

A smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth. He savors the silence every bit as much as the kiss itself.

“Text me your address,” he rumbles, his voice incredibly low and rough. His hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers threaded deep enough that when you instinctively try to lean back and get a better look at him, his grip tightens just enough to stop you. It isn’t rough, but it’s firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. “And be ready at seven.”

Blinking up at him through the haze of the kiss, you tilt your head as much as his grip allows, brows lifting as you study him. The corner of your mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"Pretty sure that wasn't a question, Sukuna."

His smirk deepens as he looks down at you, completely unfazed by your tone. That arrogant confidence in his eyes is impossible to miss now, and somehow it only makes your stomach flip harder.

"Neither was taking you out tomorrow night," he murmurs.

You don’t bother answering. Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you drag him down, crushing your lips into his. He chuckles deeply into the kiss as his hands slide from your face to your waist. Before you can think about what he's doing, he's pulling you off the stool and into his lap. Deepening the kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, drawing a low groan from him that sends a shiver racing down your spine and straight between your legs.

notes:

> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman > sukuna: she baked me a pie > sukuna 5 minutes later: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind

The first time had been almost at the end of his first year at Jujutsu Technical College and 3 weeks after he had officially asked you out. The upperclassmen usually avoided him, put off by the so called "prodigy," but he had finally been able to strike up a conversation with them after the school's athletics carnival had went well. Suguru had kicked the football a total of 3 times and scored one goal, while Satoru had hogged the ball most of their first year match and scored over 10 goals, before Yaga had dragged him off of the field by his ear. 

"Ohhh, right, I saw you get dragged off," Haruto has nodded and yawned, scratching the back of his neck, while Yoshida had hummed. "Yeah, Sawako even wanted us to check up on you, pfft," he snorted before Haruto nudged him to shut up.

"Whaaat? I'm being a good friend," Yoshida scoffed and rolled his eyes with a prideful smile, before his eyes looked over at his tall underclassman again. "Yo, Satoru, do you have a girlfriend?" he asked bluntly, ignoring his friends glares and sighs of embarrassment and awkwardness. 

He had raised a confused eyebrow, before pointing his thumb back at the classroom. He was sure he had kissed you and held your hand on the bleachers that day, did they not see? More importantly, you were literally the most gorgeous and prettiest girl in his eyes, obviously someone as hot as him was perfectly paired with another otaku baddie like you! Pshhhh, maybe they couldn't believe someone like him has been able to pull you.

"Yeah. Her." His thumb pointed back at your figure in the empty classroom.

Yoshida and Haruto had peered into the classroom, only to see… some girl they had never seen before. Plain hair, plain eyes, plain uniform, and a plain you just pressing away at your Tamagotchi. Haruto and Yoshida shared a confused look, before Yoshida clicked his fingers and gasped. "O-oh yeah, that's the girl I was telling you about the other day! You know, the one who walked away when I was trying to ask her for directions?" Haruto nodded, eyes lighting up in recognition, before confusion washed over their faces at the same time.

How does one of the most extroverted and loud boys, fall and date someone like you? Someone who talks in class maybe once a week! someone who’s flip phone is used to play snake while Gojo’s is used to actually… talk to people!

"What?" They had blurted at the white haired student, going on and on about how someone like you should’ve hated someone like gojo, and that you were clearly not meant for each other, and how they were going to tell Sawako that it'd be a waste of her time to pursue Satoru. As if Satoru wasn't right there. His eyes narrowing and upper lip curling in obvious annoyance.

As if he’d let anyone insult you.

"Hey, dumbasses. That's my girlfriend you're talking about," he scoffed at him, pushing past and going back inside the classroom to sit next to you again. 

You had looked over at him curiously, showing him the small screen of your Tamagotchi. "Look, our child is growing," with that casual smile on your face. Satoru blinked, his face straight, before he broke out into coos and awhs, pinching your cheeks and suffocating you in kisses all over your face. "Aghhhh, get off of me! You lunatic!" You had huffed, while he was happily kissing your face all over, "you're such a good mother to our baby dragon! Awhhh, what's the name you chose for him again, my beautiful princess?"

You had huffed, looking a mess before sighing and giving the toy to him. "Sylus."

That day was one of the main reasons that Satoru avoided outright disclosing your relationship, preferring to show it to people instead. 

Nanami didn't need to ask when he finally had enrolled into JJT, as Satoru made it a habit to hold your hand at every chance he got, and kiss your cute face. Haibara, unfortunately, hadn't seen enough or gotten the clue, only seeing how quiet and standoffish you were, and made the brilliant terrible statement when you all were camping in the back of the forest behind JJT for fun. Unfortunately, Haibara had spoken right in front of Satoru fucking Gojo, or Satoru L/N as he'd prefer to be called. 

The fire crackled in the cold dark night, illuminating 6 faces in the forest, as the scent of pine and wet soil drifted through the air. "Y/N and Nanami would make a good pair, wouldn't they? They're so similar!" he had smiled happily and adjusted his hold on the marshmallow he was roasting, not noticing Suguru choking on his spit, Shoko looking up at him and even pausing in chewing her gum. He especially didn't notice Satoru freezing, when he was draping his expensive jacket over your shoulders, cold icy blue eyes glaring holes at the sweet boy's face.

"Converg—" Suguru had jumped to stop and tackle gojo to the ground before he could possibly have killed Haibara. 

After calming Gojo down, mostly by you looking at Gojo as if he was embarrassing you and him whining apologies to you, Haibara had finally been made aware that Gojo and you were dating. "Ohhh, you're Y/N's boyfriend, sorry Satoru, I didn't know," Haibara had chuckled and nodded his head in an apology. 

"We're married," he lifted his hand to show a string you had tied around his ring finger a few minutes ago while fidgeting with him quietly. "We're not married," you shook your head bluntly, correcting him with a straight face.

"Engaged. We're engaged." he nodded proudly and flipped his hair back, all cool and already thinking about wanting to whip out his digital camera and force Suguru to take more shots of him for his fans. "We're 17, Satoru."

"We have a child." "I have a Tamagotchi pet… one that you get jealous of."

"We're madly in love then." He nodded again, not shy or embarrassed after being shut down by you so many times. He waited, Suguru waited, even Nanami waited, wanting to hear you correct Satoru's claim. Only after a full minute had passed, Satoru smirked, a blush on his cheeks as he shrugged, "see, she loves me. Hah," he smirked and stuck his tongue out at Nanami for a split second, knowing the blond man had been doubting him.

That's when he felt your lips press against his cheek. Very rarely did you initiate an sort of romantic gestures, let alone kisses. 

His face had turned beet red, while you were looking at him confused. Blinking blankly, and Suguru laughing loudly in the background. Yes, Satoru did love his girlfriend, more than he loved anyone or anything else, and much to peoples complaints . . .

She was a perfect match for him.