Please do not repost my work anywhere else aka other platform, this is all my original work and I don’t exactly want anyone reposting it hahah 😭 the only thing I allow anyone to do with my work is reblog on tumblr!
my name is Mochi (no it ain’t), I am a 20 year old female. I write for funsies and I love the color pink and dark red teehee. I have a bf who supports my writing lol. and I write mostly for Draco malfoy but I can also extend to the following:
-eddie munson
-peter parker
- miguel ohara
- ron weasley
- harry potter
- nct members
- bts members
- seventeen members
- jjk boys
- mha boys.
along with writing those characters I also have things i DO NOT under any circumstances write for, which is stated below:
-scat
-piss
-incest
-any characters that are under the age of 18 (smut unless stated that they are aged up)
-any thing dealing with SA, R@pe, or P:dophilia
-i also do not state anything political, religious, or anything pertaining to anything that may be happening to the world as to not “choose” sides or show any relation to violence as violence makes me uncomfortable.
if anyone tries to ask for any of these dislikes or states any of them( aka asking me my stance on a political matter etc etc) you will be automatically blocked. And as the same with most writers on tumblr,
also would like to say that just because i do not like talking about politics and religion in my blog, doesn’t mean i do not believe or stand with a certain side as i choose to remain anonymous because people are annoying in the internet and shame you for not talking about shit ur uncomfy with.
no ageless, faceless, or minors allowed. if you are found to be any of these, you will automatically be blocked.
taking screenshots while on ft with sugar daddy!jack abbot to show ur friends who ur yachting for. telling him, oh my friend asked for your number, she said she’d be a sugar baby for you too! while giggling, curled up in his crisp white sheets, right at his side despite him having a california king. he just roll his eyes—his smirk doesn’t go unnoticed though—while his glasses sit on the tip of his nose, playing solitaire on his phone. “give her robby’s number, i’m closed off,” he mutters, taking just a second away from his game to reach over and smack your ass, making you squeal on purpose. “got my hands full already, don’t want anyone else, baby”
though one of the sexiest things about him is his mind. how much he knew, like random facts that would win you a grand prize in a game show about books or historical events. or even about you and what makes you tick. where you liked to eat and how you’d crack your knuckles. he always knew.
his attention to detail was unmatched because he is an amazing observer.
he knew you so deeply that it was like he studied you in the same way he searched for information. kept your image close to his heart and burned it to memory like a brand.
but you hadn’t yet gotten further with jason other than making out hard and panting even harder, you knew he was the type to prioritize your pleasure over his. when you started touching more intimately, he saw how much you liked him and felt more confident in how heavily he felt for you. he’d hold those moments with the same tenderness he held your hand with on your first date, devotion leaking from his pores.
but jason wasn’t prepared to see how he could completely ruin you when it translated to bed. he didn’t even know he was capable of it, though once he got a taste, he knew he was unconditionally yours. mapping out roads around your body and marking the spot that made you make the most noises. memorizing the map that led to what he really wanted.
the first time was after a week that was horribly cold and you clung to jason like a second skin. overtime, his warm hands fell to between your thighs and when you didn’t stop him, he continued. shakily, more afraid of hurting you than anything else. though entirely skilled, he knew exactly what makes you tick. every single button he pressed made the experience all the more memorable. every touch and every praise, jason made it comfortable and safe like it was his priority because it is.
now he’s got you pinned under him just like every other time, hand running up your side while he just barely restrained himself. almost as though he’s afraid of hurting you somehow.
dragging his heavy, weeping tip through your folds. letting the weight rest against you after prepping for what felt like eternity. the resistance is hardly there at this point, but even now, jason’s bigger than anyone could gauge. what you’d imagined in your mind was ten times fold with him and the girth he harboured was a little daunting.
“i got you princess.” he breathes. “will you let me in?”
eyes staring into his as heart shapes form on the thin air, you nod breathlessly.
you’re not one to back down from a challenge, right?
then he presses forward and kisses you at the same time, swallowing down the gasp that took your breath. only an inch inside and he’s the one shaking already, cupping your face with one hand and fisting the bedsheet by your head with the other.
the stretch is incredible. the sheer size of him both unwarranted and ridiculously impressive. but when you consider his soft spoken voice and the gentle rasp that shook you to your core, it only made your arousal greater. he drops his head to your cheek and kisses your face gently. then he lets his lips trail down your jaw, licking down then he could tuck his head in your neck and breathe you in. rocking into you slow like he was afraid to fully seat himself inside you.
jason whimpers your name softly when you tense. “ease up ma.” before letting a hand circle your clit.
“i’m sorry,” breath shakily as you wrap your ankles around his back. “you’re really big.”
something in his perfect face melts and his lips upturn. he stops his hips from moving any further.“don’t apologize to me, i should be doing that. god, please don’t tell me i’m hurting you.”
but the wait was eating you up. the feeling of him there and not giving you it all was building and the ache was defeaning.
you needed all of him.
you shake your head and try to buck into him further, but jason’s hand shifts to your hip and holds you firm. still holding himself back for some reason unknown to you. a whine slips from your lips when you try to get closer and he groans like the action was ruining him.
this time, you decide to plead. “i want it all jay”
blinking down at you, he shifts his gaze from eye to eye. needing the reassurance as though he truly believed you were saving his feelings.
“are you sure?”
you nod and part your lips, biting your lip softly as the pressure rests there. “please.”
then jason leans down and you think he’s going to kiss you. plump lips pink and swollen with tension as he washes his eyes over your face. resting his forehead on yours before closing his eyes and still not moving his hips yet. just letting the weight of what would fill you stay just in reach but out of touch.
like a threat.
like a promise.
“i love you so much.” he admits before pressing his lips to yours, muffling any response you could’ve had.
you moan into his mouth then, half surprise and pleasure. the feeling was unreal. the stretch around him stole the air from your lungs even though he was moving so slowly.
he pressed forward and despite the pleasureful pain it caused, letting your ankles dig into his back and pull him deeper until he was fully seated inside you. a tear slips down your face just as he parts from you to breathe and a cry escapes past your lips.
the sound is enough to startle jason. he pulls back as the tear is enough to make him second guess himself. fear echoes across on his face.
“shit—did i hurt you?”
taking a moment to compose yourself, you shake your head warily. “no,” the sound another muffled cry as he stayed impossibly still, unsure what to do.
“sweetheart, you’re crying,” leaning back trying to pull his weight off of you.
though you don’t let him move far, tightening your hold on him and locking your ankles.
“stay,” gripping him close for dear life.
his eyes stay unwavering and his hips stay still. he reaches up for your face again and brushes his thumb over your cheek before he nods at your determination.
“okay,” shakily he says. “but if it hurts—”
“it doesn’t.” you quickly interrupt. “i promise, it feels good.”
a slow smile creeps up his face. “yeah? you feel good?”
you nod again and stare straight at his lips, urging him on. slowly his resolve crumbles and he lands closer to your face to kiss you once again. pressing his perfect lips to yours like a seal and a lock.
just then he adjusts his hips, shifting them forward and rocking into you. he watches as your breath hitches and your fingernails dig into your palms. head drawing back to drown into the pillow beneath it. he groans at the slight resistance created in the friction but eases up until you let him in so easily. hands on your hips tight but not hurting, just enough to remind you where he was.
he takes your hands and pries your fingers up, interlocking them with his to distract you from the sensation. slowly inching his way inside until the tears in your eyes were accompanied by gentle moans.
then you drag him closer once again and he lets you interlock your ankles behind him.
“let me do the work,” panting by your ear. “let me show you how i love you.”
wiping the tears from your cheeks, he smiles. teeth shining brightly as he strokes your cheeks with his thumb. then when you smile, he returns it back.
finally he bottoms out with a soft sputter on his tongue. completely unable to mask his weight behind his heavy hips, touching your cervix from this angle. your nails dig into his hand, needing to be grounded and feel him completely. but part of you wanted to guide him even closer though you knew it was probably impossible at this point. jason pants heavily, putting your hands up higher and higher until they rested just above your head.
the ministrations resume and he moves with less restraint than you’d started with. watching how your expressions changed and the sounds escaped your lips quicker with every movement.
his deep thrusts could’ve knocked the air from your lungs but he was doing it so slowly as he inched himself further, it melted away. pleasureful bliss blooms across your skin as he kisses your neck. leaving open mouthed smooches up to your face and worked back down, surely leaving marks in their wake.
“please jay,” moaning out as though he wasn’t already fucking you. “more.”
jason fucks you like he was about to lose you then, when he looks up and sees your eyes rolling and the tear streaks on your face. letting go of your arms to lift you up and over him. he rolls onto his back and seats you in his lap, never pulling completely out, just enough that you feel what you’d need to retake.
“okay princess,” he coos. “i’ll help, yeah?”
already exhausted but willingly to please him, you grip his shoulders and start to grind down into him. he cups your ass and lifts you up, letting your weight back onto him over and over. the mix of your arousal making it easier to fuck up into you as he holds you effortlessly. shifting your hips against him weakly, jason decides to take up the task entirely but not until he really sees you struggle to fit him inside you.
a couple more whines escape you as you attempt to move, taking an inch deeper just to grind against his pelvis. minutes go by like this, when he tries to tell you it’s okay and he can do it, you shake your head like you’re already gone. then you tell him you can handle it.
both of you know you can’t.
another roll of your hips against his where a broken moan pulls him out his head causes jason’s brain to flip. he doesn’t just hold you anymore, no, he starts to get meaner. not like he wants to hurt you, but he wanted to give you what he’s wanted all night—to fuck you full.
thrusting up again and again while he watches your face contort, slowly melting onto his chest while he sits up further. moving you up and down onto him, biting his lips to control his moans when you whimper his name. then he can’t even hide that. groans and moans, gasps and sighs—they fill your ears like sinful symphony as he works himself up further. he listens to the praises you say in his ear while he does the work you should’ve, fucking up into you as though on a mission. his pace picks up as he feels you moving back into him, matching his thrusts with your own.
the peak sneaks up on you when he tangles his hand in your hair to get a look at your face. pulling just enough to see your expression and gasp when he continues his ministrations.
“i wanna watch you let go for me.” nearly whining when he admits. “you gonna let me come inside you? please?” his breathy voice coaxing you.
vigorously you nod as his pace begins to falter and his thrusts only become deeper as though he wanted to get closer.
it’s enough to spur you on. enough to push you right over the edge as you see his pink, bitten lips and the flush on his cheeks. the ruffle in his hair that proved how long this had been going on for. he looked so incredibly hot, you could die a happy woman tonight just from his good he’s fucked you.
through the peak, he carries you over, not stopping and not pausing his filthy promises. you’re clamping down around him when he sputters your name, groaning harshly and prolonging the feeling. you can feel him reaching his climax, bucking into you and movements stuttering. when he comes, you feel the pulses as he fills you. rope after rope painting you white from within. the waves of intense pleasure as his veins drag and he starts overstimulates himself. then he reaches between you to circle your sensitive bud, thrusting sloppily as you’re limp against him and throwing you into another orgasm.
practically screaming his name as you muffle a cry into his shoulder, barring your teeth and taking a bite of his supple skin. shaking as he fucks you through another climax and pushes his seed deeper inside. hand slipping off his shoulder as he slows his movements. groaning softly by your ear as he makes shallow bucks as though he didn’t want this to end.
but fucked out in his arms is his lover, drenched in sweat and slick that he didn’t know had even reached those places. and still, he was buried inside you with no indication of wanting to move.
minutes go by like this, both of you entirely spent and trying to catch your breath. he’s first to look at you and ensure that he hadn’t harmed you. eyes closed and lips parted, panting hard like you’d run a marathon as jason looks the same. leaning back further just to see the look on your face, jason kisses your forehead then.
“was that okay?” he twists at your heartstrings. “did i hurt you?”
still he was questioning himself and you were just coherent enough to shake your head and speak in a slur. “you’re perfect. my perfect boy.”
the breathy words only made him smile. his grin wide and toothy as he kisses the top of your head over and over. ignoring how your hair stuck to your head, hoping you’d do the same to him.
“sweet baby.” murmuring between his rough kisses that felt like cuteness aggression towards you. “i love you so, so much.”
you hum as you nuzzle into his chest. “mmhmf, i love you too.”
still cheesing, he holds you tight against him. part of him felt like he was dreaming with how much he loved you. his body shaking with restraint as he twitched inside you but he knew you were too exhausted to go again. leaning himself back onto the mattress to tuck you against him further, holding you there like something sacred. as though you would run or get taken away if he faltered his hold at all.
the hold on you only grounding as though you were floating over your body still, ghosting like he’d fucked you into the afterlife. sleep eases its way through your body and jason absorbs it.
only minutes later you’re completely asleep, snoring peacefully as jason drools on your head.
and there’s no place you’d rather be.
forgive me for this filth. i’m never a normal person when i’m ovulating…
synopsis. katsuki’s pride is no match for an aphrodisiac quirk
contents. nsfw! mdni. pro hero! katsuki bakugou x fem! reader. est rel. they’re dating. pwp. dubcon due to the quirk’s influence but it’s very consensual. m! mastürbation + rec öral. switch! katsuki. mostly sub he cries and begs. unprotected piv. reader’s on the pill. multiple orgäsms. implied aftercare. ࿐
katsuki never imagined that he’d be the kind of hero to get hit by a fucking aphrodisiac quirk. that’s rookie bullshit. the kind of thing that happens to sidekicks who aren’t paying attention, to extras who get caught slipping because they’re too damn slow and too damn soft. it’s not the type of thing that happens to him.
he’s the great explosion murder god: dynamight ™. with reflexes like lightning and situational awareness that’s second to none. he’s prepared for every kind of villain, every conceivable quirk. mind-control, strength enhancement. shape-shifting. but not once did it cross his mind to prepare for getting hit with a lust quirk.
at first, he’d been able to power through it. he gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached and disregarded the heat that was flooding his veins like napalm. he obliterated the villain. secured the perimeter. signed off on the preliminary report with trembling fingers.
by the time he made it back to his agency, his sanity was threadbare. he tried taking a shower but the freezing water did nothing to quench the fire coursing through his veins. if anything, it made it worse.
he rested his forehead against the tiles and bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. his knees buckled as his hand, slick with soap suds and precum, slid all over his cock. he barely managed a few uncoordinated strokes before his hips were jerking uncontrollably. the relief lasted for all of three seconds before the blood came rushing righttt back to his cock.
he was still hard, still aching. and it was becoming very clear that this wasn’t a problem he could solve alone.
he stumbles out of the locker room, a towel slung low on his hips, his skin still flushed and steaming. he pulls on a t-shirt and a pair of loose sweats in a daze.
you’re the only thing his lust-filled brain can think of. he’s certain he’ll die if he doesn’t get to you, now. he needs you like he needs air to breathe. like he needs nitroglycerin in his palms. the thought of your face, your voice, your body on his is the sole thing keeping black spots from swarming his vision.
everyone who works at his agency knows that katsuki never leaves work early. he’s always the first to arrive and the very last to leave. he’s the one who stays late to pore over incident reports until his eyes burn. he’s the one who turns the lights off and locks all the doors behind him. but tonight he’s out of the building before the sun has even fully set.
not trusting himself to drive in this state, he hails a cab. the decision to not get behind the wheel is one of the few clear-headed ones he’s made since this whole ordeal started. his hands are shaking too much, and he knows that he’d wrap his porsche around a lamppost before he could even make it past three blocks.
he slumps into the back seat, the cheap leather sticking to his sweat-damp skin, and groans out your address. the driver glances at him in the rearview mirror, his eyes widening at the sight of great explosion murder god: dynamight ™ looking like he’s about to spontaneously combust in the backseat of his car.
on a regular day, katsuki would tell him to mind his damn business and fucking drive. but he currently doesn’t even have the energy to scowl at the old man.
after what feels like eternity, the cab screeches to a halt in front of your building. he doesn’t even wait for the car to stop completely before he tosses a handful of yen bills at the driver and stumbles out onto the sidewalk.
he practically sprints into your building. he’s too impatient to wait for the elevator. he takes the stairs instead, taking them two, sometimes three at a time, he nearly collapses once, catching himself at the very last second.
he can barely stand by the time he finally reaches your door. he’s so close to exploding right here in the hallway and you haven’t even touched him yet. he somehow musters up the energy to fish the spare key you’d forced on him months ago out of his pocket. his hands are shaking so badly, it takes him three tries before the tumblers click.
he limps into your apartment and kicks the door shut behind him. every single one of his nerve endings is on fire as he leans against the door for a second. his head thudding against the cool wood. he can feel a bead of sweat trickle down his temple, follow the line of his jaw, and drip onto his t-shirt. this is pathetic. he’s pathetic. he just wants to crawl into a hole and die. or fuck you until he can’t remember his own name. he’d prefer the latter. he’s so hard it hurts.
“kats ?” he forces his eyes open, vision swimming before it focuses on you. you’re standing in the entranceway to the living room, wearing one of his old t-shirts and little else. he wants to rip that shirt off and see what’s underneath, to map every inch of your skin with his hands, his mouth, until you’re gasping his name.
you take in the sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, the deep, feverish flush on his cheeks, and instinctively step closer. you reach up, your cool palm pressing against his burning cheek, and he almost sobs with relief. he leans into your touch like a starved man, a low moan rumbling in his chest. he could stand here all day and just let you touch him.
( he could probably cum in his pants, just from this, like a fucking loser. god, he wants you so bad. he wants your hands all over him. he wants his hands all over you. he needs to feel you. )
you lean in and press a soft kiss to his trembling lips. it’s supposed to be a sweet, simple greeting, but for him it’s feels like a match to gasoline. he fists his hands in the material of your shirt and pulls you closer. he can feel your body tense ever so slightly against his
“how was work ?” you ask, a little breathless when you finally manage to pull back just enough to look at him.
“fuckin’ terrible,” he manages to grind out. his voice is so tight and strained. he barely recognizes himself. he’s embarrassed. so fucking embarrassed. part of him doesn’t want to tell you. he could just make something up. say he’s tired. say anything but the truth. but the thought of deceiving you, even to save his pride, is unbearable. he rests his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut as he mumbles, “got hit,” the words practically scrape his throat raw. “with a quirk.”
“what kind of quirk ?” you ask softly. your hand coming up to rest gently on his bicep. he swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing violently. he feels the heat in his cheeks deepen, a fresh wave of shame washing over him. he has to say it. he has to force the pathetic words out.
“some . . . aphrodisiac bullshit.” he looks away, unable to meet your gaze, “i blasted the punk the hell up right after but it was already too late. it’s. . . fuck, it’s bad.” he swallows hard, “it’s . . really fucking bad.”
a smile slowly spreads across your face. you can’t help but laugh. never in a million years did you think you’d live to see the day katsuki bakugou needed your help.
“you’re laughing ?!” he chokes out. he’s just confessed to being hit by a lust quirk. this is the most humble he’s ever been. stripped of all his pride, reduced to a nothing but a desperate, needy mess in front of the one person he wants to see him as strong.
he’s never been this vulnerable, this submissive, in his damn life. and you’re fucking laughing ? he wants to be angry. he wants to push you away and reclaim some semblance of his dignity. but he can’t. all he can do is stand there and tremble as your thumb brushes over his bottom lip.
“sorry, sorry, it’s not funny,” you murmur, though the smile playing on your lips says you believe otherwise. “how are we supposed to deal with it ?” you’ve got to be messing with him. he’s in utter disbelief. does he really have to spell it out ? after he’s already humiliated himself this much ?
“obviously i need to. . .” he trails off, his face flushing an even deeper shade of red. he can’t bring himself to say the words. they’re too crude, too pathetic.
“you need to what, kats ?” you’re determined to make the most of the rare, once-in-a-lifetime chance to see your explosive, always-in-control pro hero boyfriend completely at your mercy.
“you know what. . ” he grits out, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
“i don’t” you frown, your eyes wide with mock innocence. “you’re gonna have to use your words, kats. tell me exactly what you need from me.”
he lets out a frustrated growl, his head falling back against the door with a soft thud. “why are you doing this to me . . ?”
“because you’re adorable like this,” you coo, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, feeling the tremor that racks his entire body. “it’s a side of you i don’t get to see nearly enough.”
you pull back just enough to look him in the eye, your expression softening slightly, though the teasing glint remains. “and because i need to make sure you’re not just asking because of the quirk. i need to know that you actually want me.”
( you might as well have asked him if grass is green )
“of course i do,” he chokes out, “how could you even. . . it’s always you. it’s only ever been you. even when my brain is fucking scrambled, it’s still just you.”
“okay,” you whisper, your hand sliding from his jaw down to his chest, right over his racing heart. you take his hand, fingers lacing through his, and lead him towards your bedroom. he follows you like a lost puppy, eyes fixed on the sway of your hips as you walk.
he’s on you before you can even shut the door. his hands grabbing your hips, pulling you into a hungry kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and pent-up frustration.
your legs wrap around his waist as he lifts you effortlessly. he stumbles the few steps to the edge of the bed, sitting down with a soft thud so you’re straddling his lap.
he can feel how warm you are through his pants. this is hell. this is heaven. he’s gonna die. he’s positive he’s actually going to die if you don’t move. the pressure of your weight against his aching cock draws a sharp inhale from between his teeth. you lean down, your lips finding his again in a kiss that’s anything but chaste.
you start to move, rolling your hips slowly, grinding your core against the hard, thick length straining in his sweats. a high-pitched whimper falls from his lips. a sound so foreign to his ears it takes him a second to realize it came from him.
( what. the. fuck. he doesn’t whimper. he doesn’t fall apart like this. he’s the one who makes you fall apart. )
he hates this. he hates the sound of his own voice. but he can’t help it. he needs more. he needs to feel you. his hands fly to your hips, thick fingers digging into your flesh with bruising force.
“katsuki,” you whisper against his lips. your tongue darts out to taste the salty sweat on his skin. he groans, his head falling back against your ruffled sheets as his hips buck up to meet yours.
he’s burning up, his skin radiating a concerning amount of heat. you can feel it through your clothes, through his. you trail your lips down the length of his neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his pulse.
“are you sure you’re okay ?” you look down at him,face contorted with concern “maybe we should go to the hospital, get you checked out. . .”
he stares at you, his crimson eyes wide with disbelief. you’ve got to be fucking kidding him. here you are, asking him about his health while your chest is in his face and you’re straddling his lap. you’re gonna be the death of him. he swears to god. but what a way to go.
“the hospital ? i’d rather die than let another soul see me like this.” he snarls, though it lacks its usual bite, sounding more like a plea. “and i’ll blow you up if you even think about telling anyone this happened to me.”
“don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me ,” you murmur, leaning down to press a soft, teasing kiss to his jaw.
your fingers find the hem of his t-shirt, the fabric damp with his sweat. you peel it up slowly, revealing the hard, defined lines of his abs. his stomach clenches under your touch, the muscles jumping as your fingertips graze his skin.
he lets you undress him like a doll. you drag the shirt over his head, tossing it carelessly aside. his chest heaves as your hands return to his body, tracing faint scars, the ridges of his abs, the sharp v-line that dips down into his sweats.
katsuki’s trembling as you hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweats, breath hitching as his cock springs free, slapping against his stomach with a wet smack. it’s flushed a deep, agitated red. his tip already beading with an obscene amount of precum that drips down onto his skin.
katsuki’s not one to feel self conscious, his confidence is as much a part of him as his quirk, but right now, under your gaze, he feels too exposed. he can’t meet your eyes. his gaze is fixed somewhere over your shoulder, his jaw clenched tight, a muscle ticking in his cheek. he’s completely at your mercy, and you haven’t even touched him properly yet.
you reach out, your fingers tracing the v-line of his hips, your touch light and teasing. he shudders violently, his hips bucking up, seeking more of your touch.
“please,” he whimpers “quit teasin’ me” please. please please please. he’ll beg. he’ll get on his knees and beg. he’ll say please. he’ll say anything you want. he needs to cum. it hurts so bad. he’s gonna die. he’s gonna die if you don’t let him cum.
“but it’s so much fun,” you murmur as your fingers trail lower, brushing against the base of his cock. he lets out a strangled moan as you wrap your hand around him, your palm cool against his burning flesh.
you start to stroke him, slow and teasing, your thumb swirling around his head and spreading the slick fluid down his length. he can already feel his orgasm building, a tight, hot coil in his stomach, but you won’t let him have it. you keep him teetering over the edge until tears are brimming his waterline.
“please,” he begs, throwing an arm over his face, hiding his shame as he pleads with you. “please, baby, let me cum. i’ll do – fuuuck – anything, please.”
“look at me,” you say firmly. he’ll look. he’ll do whatever you want. just don’t leave him like this. this pathetic. this weak. he peeks at you from under his arm, crimson eyes sparkling with unshed tears. you’ve never seen him looks so fragile, so broken. the mere sight of him makes your heart ache, you can’t deny him any longer.
you shift, kneeling between his spread thighs. leaning down and wrapping your lips around the his tip. it’s a shock to his system. he cries out as you take him deeper, flushed tip hitting the roof of your mouth.
“shit . . . baby, please,” he chokes out, his voice a ragged, breathless mess. “i can’t. . . i’m gonna. . .” the afflicting aphrodisiac quirk amplifies every sensation. fuck. fuck fuck fuck. he’s trying to stay quiet, he really is. he’s biting down on his knuckles so hard he can almost taste blood, trying to muffle the obscene sounds falling from his lips, but it’s no use. every drag of your lips, every swirl of your tongue, pulls desperate whimpers and choked groans out of him
your tongue flattens against the underside of his cock as you hollow your cheeks, sucking him off so hard it makes him see stars. you can feel him trembling, his thighs tensing under your hands as you take him even deeper and you know he’s not going to last much longer. you hum around him, the muscles in your throat constricting around his tip. and that’s all it takes to push him over the edge.
his body arches off the bed as he spills sticky ropes down your throat. you’re milking every last drop, until he’s a limp, trembling mess beneath you. you’re surprised by how sweet he tastes, like salted caramel, so much sweeter than usual.
“feeling better ?” you rasp as you pull back slowly, a string of saliva and cum connecting your lips to his flushed cock.
he’s completely wrecked, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut, his face glistening cherry red. he’s never cum this hard in his life. he can barely breathe. his limbs feel like lead, his mind’s blissed-out and hazy. for a few precious seconds, he thinks it’s over. he thinks it’s worn off.
then he looks down and his heart sinks. his cock is still painfully hard. it hasn’t gone down at all. if anything, he’s somehow harder than he was before. he’s beyond horrified. he’s just had the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life, and it did nothing. the shitty quirk is still burning him alive, and he’s starting to think he might be stuck like this forever.
“feels worse” his crimson eyes are filled with a mix of fear and desperation. “it’s . . fuck. . it hurts more now”
he needs more. he’s too ashamed to ask, too proud to beg you again. his pride has already taken too many beatings it may never recover from tonight. but his eyes are pleading with you as you clamber to your feet. he don’t say another word. you don’t need him to. you already know what he wants. you know katsuki like the back of your hand.
without breaking eye contact, you slowly strip off the shirt of his you were wearing, then your underwear, letting them fall to the floor. his breath hitches as his eyes trail over your naked body. he reaches for you, large hands gripping your hips and pulling you between his spread legs.
you rest your hands on his shoulders as you straddle him again, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his bare thighs. his hands slide from your hips to grip your ass, pulling you even closer, grinding you against him slowly.
it feels so good. too good. and then he realizes why it does. he’s completely bare. it’s so rare for him to fuck you raw, a line he almost never crosses, and the fact that he almost did, that he was so lost to the quirk he forgot, terrifies him.
“no, fuck, we can’t. not without a c-condom” his voice straining as he reaches for his sweats. his hands shake as he yanks his wallet from the cotton pocket, nearly dropping it in his haste. he flips it open, lithe fingers fumbling through the slots, but there’s nothing there.
he’s always so responsible, so prepared. a wave of despair washes over him, so strong it’s ridiculous. he was too out of it to check before he came here, too desperate to even think about stopping at a convenience store, and now . . . he checks again, more slowly this time, as if a shiny foil wrapper might magically appear. nothing.
a few hot tears spill over, tracing paths down his flushed cheeks, and it infuriates him. why the hell is he so damn sensitive ? he knows it’s the quirk fucking with his brain, his emotions, but it doesn’t make it feel any less real.
he tosses his wallet and sweats back onto the floor and rakes a hand through his blond hair, “i don’t . . . i don’t have one.”
he’s out. he’s fucking out. he’s always so prepared. he’s always so fucking responsible. and now, when he needs it most. he’s failed you. he’s failed himself.
you’re kissing his tears away, your lips soft against his damp skin. “it’s okay kats” you soothe, cupping his cheek and smoothing your thumb over the jagged scar adorning it. “. . i’m on the pill, remember ?”
his crimson eyes, wide and vulnerable, search yours for any hint of hesitation, any sign that you’re just saying this to placate him. he finds none. he leans into your touch, his body trembling violently as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against him.
“are you sure ?” he chokes out, his voice muffled by your skin. he’s not asking about the pill. he knows you’re just as responsible as he is. he’s asking if you’re sure you want this, sure you want him bare, with nothing between you when he’s this much of a mess.
“i’m positive,” you whisper, capturing his lips in a kiss that ebbs all his qualms away. his hands are everywhere, roaming your back, gripping your thighs, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s not a sliver of space between you.
you position yourself over him, crying out as the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance. you sink down, taking him inch by inch. you’re so tight. so wet. and you’re taking him so well. all of him. bare.
“baby,” he whimpers, his eyes squeezed shut. “move. please. you gotta move.”
you shift your hips in a sensual rhythm that has him seeing stars. his hands are gripping your hips so tight you’re sure there’ll be bruises tomorrow, but you don’t care.
“don’t stop,” he chants the phrase like a mantra. “don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.” like it’s the only thing he knows how to say. every drag of your walls against his cock is both a blessing and a curse.
for a few precious seconds, he just holds you, his face buried in the crook of your shoulder as you ride him, trying to anchor himself to this moment.
but the lust quirk doesn’t care about moments. it only cares about the ache, the burning, relentless need for more. his hips begin to move on their own accord, a slow, shallow roll that’s more instinct than conscious thought. another whimper tears from his throat as he feels your slick walls grip him like they never want to let him go, “can’t. . . i can’t stay still,” he gasps
he drives up into you frantically. the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, mingling with his harsh pants and your breathy moans.
he’s completely consumed by the quirk and the mind-blowing pleasure of being inside you. his crimson eyes are half-lidded, tears of pure sensation and frustration leaking from the corners, but he doesn’t stop. he can’t.
“shit, look at you,” he chokes out, his voice cracking as he forces his wide eyes open to watch you. the sight of you bouncing on his cock, your head thrown back in pleasure, your skin rippling with each brutal snap of his hips, is almost enough to make him cum again. “so fuckin’ pretty. . . takin’ me so well.”
his calloused thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, frantic circles over the sensitive nub. overcome by the need to make you cum. maybe, just maybe, your orgasm will trigger his own. maybe, just maybe, the feeling of you clenching around him will extinguish the fire burning him alive.
“c’mon,” he pants, his hips pistoning up into you, the wet, obscene sounds of your cunt sucking him in reverberating in the room. he can feel you tightening around him, your walls fluttering and clenching as your own release builds. it spurs him on, his thrusts become even more erratic, more desperate. “that’s it,” he groans, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot and ragged. “gonna cum ? gonna make a mess all over me ?”
before either of you can fully process it, he rolls, taking you with him. the world flips, and suddenly your back is pressed against the mattress, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the feverish heat of his body blanketing yours.
he settles heavily between your thighs, his weight pinning you down, his forearms bracketing your head as he looms over you. his pupils are blown so wide you can barely see the crimson of his irises, just a thin ring of red surrounding pools of pitch black. all traces of his earlier submission are gone.
he doesn’t give you a moment to adjust, immediately picking up a brutal, punishing pace. his hips snap against yours, the sound of skin against skin louder and more intense than it was before. the thick head of his cock repeatedly kisses the spot inside you that makes your vision turn white.
his scarred hand slides down your body until his thumb finds your clit again. his movements frantic as he rubs tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. the dual stimulation of his cock hammering into you and his thumb working your clit sends shockwaves through your entire nervous system.
“mghh katsuki,” you’re screaming and moaning his name so loud, you know your neighbors are going to complain again. but you’re well past the point of caring. and katsuki’s never given a single fuck about your neighbors; he’d burn the whole building down if it meant he could finally feel you cum around him. tears are falling from his eyes again, tracing paths down his face as he completely loses himself in you.
“yeahhh, that’s it,” he cries. his thumb on your clit presses down harder, hips slamming into yours with renewed vigor. your headboard smacks against the wall with the force of his thrusts. “c’mon, baby, please . . . cum for me. i know you’re close. . . i can feel it”
he can feel your whole body tensing, your back arching off the bed as you teeter right on the edge. your cunt is clamping down on him like a vice, rhythmic pulses that make his own vision swim.
“fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight,” he groans. he can’t . . . he can’t stop. he doesn’t want to stop. he could stay like this forever, buried inside you, feeling you cum on his cock over and over again.
“one more” he’s panting against your neck, his voice wrecked. “jus’ one more, baby, i swear i can feel it wearing off.” his hips have a mind of their own now, inching impossibly closer to yours. you’re so overstimulated you can barely think, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as your body convulses with yet another wave of pleasure. your cunt is spasming around him again, and again, and again.
“s’too much,” you whine, “kats, it’s too much.”
“i know, baby, i’m so sorry . . .” he murmurs against your skin, “swear i’m gonna pay that extra a visit and send him straight to hell for doing this to me.”
a breathy giggle escapes your lips despite the overwhelming pleasure coursing through you. “that’s not – hah – very heroic of you,”
he lets out a shaky breath, his rhythm never faltering. “‘m not sure i can even consider myself a hero anymore after this,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper as he presses his forehead against yours.
his thumb finds your clit again, circling the swollen bundle of nerves, sending both of you spiraling toward another peak again. he’s well past the point of shooting blanks now, his body completely wrung out, nothing left to give. his hips are faltering, movements growing sloppier. he’s barely propped up on his elbows, arms shaking violently with the strain of keeping his weight off you.
you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve both cum. you’re so blissed out, your mind floating somewhere far above the soaked sheets, nails digging crescents into his shoulders, as he falls apart for the last time.
for a moment, you both just lay there, breathing in the thick, humid air. there’s so much of him leaking from your folds, coating your inner thighs and soaking the already ruined sheets beneath you.
he can no longer ignore the mess he’s made of you when he musters up the strength to pull out. he makes a muffled, embarrassed sound against your skin, his face burning hot. “m’sorry. . . fuck, it’s everywhere.”
“it’s fine, katsuki,” you murmur, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, the blond strands clinging to your fingers.
he lifts his head just enough to look at you, crimson eyes heavy-lidded and hazy. he glances down, his gaze tracing the mess on the sheets before flicking back to your face. “we can’t fuckin’ sleep in this,”
he pushes himself up with a groan, arms trembling so badly he almost collapses back onto you. he manages to roll to the side, landing with a thump on the mattress. the sudden loss of his body heat makes you shiver. he just lies there for a second, staring at the ceiling before forcing himself into a sitting position.
his vision swims as he inches towards the edge of your bed. he rises to his feet and his legs nearly gives out. but he’s still standing. you can see the fine tremors running through his thighs, the strain in his back as he straightens up with a pained grunt.
he turns back to you, his face half-shadowed in the dim light. his hair is a sweaty, tangled mess, sticking up in every direction, and his eyes are barely open.
“c’mon,” he says, holding out a hand to you, “we’ve gotta shower. and then i’ll make you some dinner”
lust can weaken most men, can make them forget how to breathe, how to speak. but no shitty quirk can ever make katsuki forget his love for you. it’s in his bones, in his veins, in every fiber of his being. that’s why he’s pushing through the pain, why he’s offering you dinner and a warm shower – despite your feeble protests – instead of collapsing back into bed. even when his body is failing him, his heart is right there with you.
Synopsis: Reader and Jason have been friends for a long time. Both of you are vigilantes. Tonight, after escaping from a few cops on your tail and coming down from your adrenaline hight, a heated moment turns into your first fuck and some feelings are confessed. I had sm fun writing this.
w.c. 2.8k+
Details: jason todd x male!reader, smut, fluff, confessing feelings!
Fem!reader version.
"You're a fucking idiot, you know that?" Jason huffed as he dropped down beside you on the roof of your apartment building, groaning and rolling back his sore shoulders. "You do know look both ways before you cross the street, right?"
You rolled your eyes at him, still panting lightly from your quick escape from the cops who pulled up as you finished tying the group of idiots you were kicking the asses of up to some broken light poles. While running, a car almost turned you into roadkill, but Jason yanked you back by your pants so hard you got a wedgie.
You rub your sore bottom as he leaned against the nearest vent, pulling off his hood and the mask covering the lower half of his face, chuckling softly as he shook his head. "You know, im getting tired of saving your ass all the time, dude."
"You're one to talk, Todd. That cut on your outer thigh would have been a stab to your dick if i hadn't thrown the trash can lid at him." You pull off your own mask, the breeze carding though your hair and cooling your flushed cheeks, sweat drying on the back of your neck.
It's Jason's turn to roll his eyes, tsking as he looks down at his left thigh, muttering about how he liked these pants as he ripped the tear open a bit more to get a better look at the cut. You noticed it looked deep, but before you could say anything, he waved a gloved hand.
"Its fine. Just a scratch."
"Its not a scratch, and you're not nonchalant enough to pretend it doesnt hurt, even just a bit."
Blood was oozing from the wound and down his leg. It wasn't fatal, it didn't hit an artery and it wasn't large enough to be at risk of him bleeding out, but you were still worried. You stayed silent though, not pushing right now.
"C'mon, lets get cleaned up." You turned and hopped down onto your fire escape just below, knowing that if you pushed to help him, it'd just make him shut you out. You didn't want to push any boundaries by asking to patch him up yourself, so you asked to make sure he was okay in this subtle way. Come down and you can both clean yourselves up together in a way that would let the other know they're okay without getting too intimate. The last thing you wanted to do was pressure him or make him uncomfortable.
You didn't look back to see if he was following you, knowing he would eventually, and there was a heavy thud of his boots on the metal of the fire escape behind you. You slipped in through the window of your living room, turning on the lamp next to your couch as you sighed and started to strip your suit off, glad to be rid of the tight fabric.
Jason moved behind you, quiet as he slowly stripped of his gear first, then he took off his shirt aswell. His muscles were broad and tight, littered with bruises and puckered with thick, pale scars. There was a bit of blood on him, much less than the last tine you'd seen him top less. Last time, you didn't have the time to admire the sight in front of you and were focused on stitching a gash on his side since he wasn't able to reach it properly to stitch himself.
You took your time watching him, the way his muscles bunched and stretched beneath the tanned skin, the olive tone mixing with the purples and greens of abused flesh quite nicely. His autopsy scars were clearly visible, deep and darker than the rest of the raised and healed flesh from blades and other things. Below that, the muscles in his abdomen flexed nicely as he moved, tapering off into the nice V of his hips and down lower, where a dark trail of hair snuck into his pants, down to what you could only imagine as a beautifully big-
"My eyes are up here, babe."
Your gaze snapped up to his, the green of his iris piercing into you as you met eye to eye. Your neck felt hot as you scoffed, looking away and putting your an old shirt on before dropping the bottoms of your suit, standing in your boxers. You ignored the way he called you babe and the way heat pooled low in your belly. "Yeah, and your shirt is over there so put it on."
Jason was quiet then and when you looked to see what he was doing, you caught him staring at your ass and thighs before looking away, clearing his throat and putting a shirt on.
"Superman boxers?" He shook his head, amused, eyes half-lidded as he looked at you again. "How old are you again?"
"They're comfortable, Jay. And dont act like you dont think the color looks great on me." The words left your mouth in a rush, a hot flush filling your face before you could think, and Jason started laughing again.
"Oh, I wont deny it. Red and blue look great on you... and your ass." His cheeks also flushed slightly, and he stepped closer, looming near your shoulder as you reached for the first aid kit you had. You felt his heat radiating off his chest and seeping into you through your back, felt his soft breath against your neck, felt the warmth pooling low in your belly.
"You look tired," he murmured, and you almost wanted to groan at the low rasp of his voice in your ear, wanted to lean back into his chest as he subtly pressed you against the back of your couch.
"Adrenaline is just wearing off," you replied, grabbing some alcohol and a bandaid for a cut on your cheek, when you saw his hand twitch, jerking upwards toward your own as you moved. It hovered in the air for a moment, and he let it drop when you turned to face him fully.
His eyes raked dragged over you slowly, and you felt bare beneath his gaze, bare in a way that made your cock slowly harden in your boxers. Your face felt hot now, embarrassment and want turning in your stomach as he looked at you like that.
He stepped foward, close enough that your faces were only a few inches from each other, and murmured, "you have a cut." Before you knew it, he was pressing a cotton pad soaked in alcohol against the cut, the sting making you hiss, and when you parted your lips to protest, he stuck the bandaid over it, smoothing it over your skin with his thumb for a second too long before pulling away.
Your cock was getting so hard now, and you were glad your shirt was long so he couldn't see your boner. You needed to calm down. You're both exhausted, now isn't the time to get horny.
You swallowed thickly, throat bobbing as you stepped away, excusing yourself to go shower and disappearing into your bathroom. You stripped quickly, cock aching as you fisted it in your hand and bit your lip, quickly stepping into the cool shower to relax. It didnt seem to help, your muscles were still tight, shoulders bunched up to your ears, and your cock pulsed with your heartbeat as it stood erect against your stomach. Fuck you for doing this to me, Jason.
You froze as the bathroom door creaked open, the glass of the shower wall blurred with water so you only saw a tanned body stepping in. A tanned body that soon turned into a tanned naked body.
"Jay?" You called, voice shaking a bit, when the shower door opened, and all six feet (give or take) of jason and his gloriously toned body stood on front of you. "Jason-!" You couldn't help but look down between his legs and-wow, you were right it was beautifully big-had to force yourself to keep your eyes on his, still shocked and confused at him coming into your damn shower. You covered your crotch with your hands.
"Jason, what the fuck-?" He cut you off with a kiss, stepping fully into the shower as you gasped against his lips, his tongue taking the opportunity to slip between your lips. The door closed behind him and he gently pressed you against the shower wall, the cold tile making you shiver against him. "Mmph-!"
He pulled back after a moment, breath heavy as his eyes searched yours, visibly nervous and embarrassed with their intensity. He bit his lip before asking, "Was that okay...? I'm so sorry if it wasn't, i-i just really wanted to kiss you."
You were shocked into silence, mouth gaping like a fish out of water, and his cheeks turned bright red, him mistaking your reaction for rejection. "Christ-im so sorry. I just-"
Your lips crashed down on his, kissing him to shut up up because you wanted this. You've wanted this for a while, honestly. Jason was so beautiful, not just physically. He was funny in that sarcastic way that scratched your brain just right, he was sweet beneath all that sass and muscle of his, he was scarred but still let you patch him up and see him bare because he trusted you, he was passionate about books and poetry and loved ranting about whatever novel or old play he borrowed from the library near his apartment and was now reading.
You liked him. A lot. So you kissed him back, sliding your tongue into his mouth and gripping his hair ro pull him closer. "Yes," you wanted against his lips. "This is more than okay, Jay."
He let go then, groaning as he devoured your lips again, grabbing the backs of your knees and hauling you up, slotting his hips between your thighs in such a delicious way, the friction at this angle feeling heavenly as he held you against the wall.
His kisses got sloppier, pressing his lips against your neck, trailing slow, lingering kisses down to your collarbone. He whispered softly against your skin, confessing how long he's wanted this, how he's felt about you.
"I didn't think you'd feel the same." He nipped at your jaw, making you gasp softly, your hips bucking against him and your cock rubbing against his stomach. "I-god-i havent been able to get you out of my damn head. [name]." He slows then, breathing heavily against your shoulder.
He lifted his head to look at you, eyes soft. "How far do you want this to go?" His hand squeezed your thigh, thumb stroking softly. "We won't go any further than you want. I promise. Just tell me."
Your heart was hammering in your chest, fast and insistent against his as you swallowed, throat bobbing, before responding. "All the way." Your cheeks turned read as you said it, but you continued. "A-all the way, Jay. I'm sure. As long as you're okay with it."
He watched your face for a moment before a small smile touched his lips and he kissed you again. "I'm more than okay with it, baby." He paused then, pressing his forehead against yours. "But we ain't doing it in the shower. Not for our first."
He hauled you against him, turning the water off before stepping out of the shower door, grabbing a towel as he walked out of the bathroom and to your bedroom. The warm lighting your lamp gave off washed over you both, accenting the flex of his mucles as he carried you toward your bed.
He placed you down gently, using the towel to dry water off you and then himself, and you noticed the cut on his thigh was till bleeding. "Jay-"
"Not now, baby," he said gruffly, tossing the towel away and slowly pushing you back on the bed, getting on top of you and kissing down your chest. "Not when i have you right here, open and wanting me like this."
Your hand slips down his chest to his stomach and lower, slowly wrapping your hands around his firm cock and making his groan. Your thumb flicks over the tip, smearing precum as he hisses softly, nipping your shoulder. "Fuck-"
He kisses you again, slowly grinding into your hand and making the softest noises of pleasure into your mouth that turn you on even more." God, you feel so good. Don't stop," he whined softly, biting his lip as his face ducked between your neck and shoulder. Your own cock lay hard against your stomach, leaking onto the muscles in your abdomen, your tip flushed a furious shade of pink. God, you wanted him inside you.
"Lube, Jay-" you gasped into his mouth, his tongue licking across yours as he moaned softly. "Please. Bedside drawer."
He was gone and back in a few seconds, squeezing some lube onto his fingers and pressing his forehead against yours. "I'll go slow. I just need to stretch you a bit." Suddenly his fingers were sliding into your tight hole, slicking you up and stroking in and out of you in a way that made you whimper. Your cock twitched against your stomach as you moaned at a second finger, then soon a third one.
Your cock was drooling on your stomach, untouched as you whined and whimpered beneath him. "Jason-!"
"You sound so beautiful, baby, you know that?" He kissed your hip, fingers still moving inside you as he looked up at you through his lashes. "You think you're ready for me?"
You nodded eagerly, almost salivating at the thought of his cock stretching you open, of filling you so completely in a way no one else had. You groaned. "Jason, please. Yes, im ready, just please-"
He swallowed your words with a kiss before pulling back and lubing himself up for you. You felt his tip prodding at your entrance. "Slow, baby. I don't wanna hurt you," he murmured, before sliding just the tip in. The stretch made you gasp and you moaned as he eased in, his inches slowly slipping inside you before he bottomed out, both of you groaning in unison at the feeling.
"God, you're so tight," he practically whimpered, not moving to let you get used to the stretch. "Fuck-"
The stretch burned deliciously, the tip of his cock sitting against thats gummy spot deep inside you, making you whimper. "Jason."
You moaning his name seemed to do something to him. "Fuck, baby, please let me move. You feel so good around me." You nodded eagerly and that was all he needed. He pulled back slowly before sliding back in, faster and faster each time, fucking you hard enough that the bed frame hit the wall with each of his thrusts, his soft moans and grunts muffled against your neck.
You moved in unison, your nails digging into his back and hips rising to meet his as he pistoned in and out of you, breaths heavy with the sound of skin meeting skin echoing in the room.
You almost cried out when you felt his hand wrap around your cock, stroking you in time with his thrusts. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes and you whined his name, your stomach tightening as you felt yourself on the edge.
"Jason, im close-"
"I am too, baby, just hold on, okay?" He wanted heavily, moaning into your neck as he fucked you deeper into the mattress, groaning. He grabbed your hands and intertwined your fingers, pressing them into the sheet on either side of your head.
It wasn't long before you both shattered, moaning into each other's mouths as you came. Cum painted your stomach and dripped from your hole as he pulled out. He collapsed on top of you, almost crushing you, but you were too dazed to protest.
He nuzzled into your neck, shy again all of a sudden. "Im sorry," he murmured, trailing soft kisses down your jaw. "I was too rough, im sorry. I didn't mean to be."
Your heart melted at his sweetness and you cupped his face in your hands, pulling him back to see his face. "Jason, im okay," you assured him, pressing your head against his. "I liked it. And you didnt hurt me, I promise. I'd hit you if you did." That got a chuckle out of him and he leaned in slowly to kiss you, lips meeting in a tender embrace.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for this. For... for feeling the same."
You ran your nose along his. "I've felt like this for a long time, Jason. I don't plan on stopping any time soon either."
He kissed you again, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, feeling same and warm in his embrace, as you did for every night after that.
A/N: First smut fic in a whileeee. First time if written male!reader smut, too. I was very nervous to do this and did it to practice for another fic im writing and also just to understand how it'd be to write smut from a male reader perspective. I am so sorry if I made any mistakes, I am a girl so I don't exactly know how it'd be for two guys to go at it, but I tried. THIS ALSO WASNT PROOFREAD I WAS TOO TIRED TO DO IT.
summary: You and Jason broke up 2 years ago because of him constantly pushing you away. You see Jason on a date with a new girl whilst out on yet another date. Even after the date, when you're under your date in the back of his Cadillac, all you can think about is Jason.
pairing: Jason Todd x black!f!reader
warnings: Angst, arguments, messy breakups, bad coping mechanisms (sex and drinking), Jason is emotionally stunted, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, car sex
note: Based off of the song Rhythm of Love by Cil
word count: 2,062
🎶 While I'm wasted in the back of a Cadillac
Under somebody, somebody, somebody
It makes me sick to watch you fall into the rhythm
And I'm nobody, nobody nobody 🎶
The leather of the Cadillac's back seat is cool against your bare thighs. The man above you —what was his name? Derek? Matt? — moves with a rhythm that should feel good, should pull you under, should drown everything out like it always does. His mouth trails down your neck, his fingers digging into your hip as he positions himself between your legs. The windows are fogged, the city lights bleeding through in smears of gold and red.
But your mind is somewhere else entirely.
You close your eyes, and instead of the weight of this stranger pressing you into the upholstery, you feel his weight.
Jason.
The memory of his hands, calloused and warm, sliding up your ribs. The way he used to whisper your name like it was a prayer and a curse all at once. Two years. It's been two years since you walked out of his apartment, since you told yourself you were done crying over a man who wouldn't let you in.
And yet here you are, lying in the back of a Cadillac, letting a man you barely know fuck you into the leather, pretending it's enough.
The date had started like all the others. A nice dinner at that Italian place downtown, the one with the dim lighting and the overpriced wine. Marcus — yes, Marcus has to be correct — had laughed at your jokes, held the door open, told you you were beautiful in a way that felt scripted but sincere enough. You wore that red dress, the one that clings to your curves like a second skin, the one that always makes you feel powerful. You sipped your Chianti and talked about your job, your hobbies, the way you'd always wanted to travel to Greece.
And then you saw him.
Jason Todd, sprawled in a booth across the restaurant, his arm draped over the shoulders of a woman with honey-blonde hair and a smile worthy of a toothpaste ad. She was laughing at something he said, her hand resting on his chest, and Jason — your Jason, the one who never let anyone touch him like that — was letting her. Leaning into it. Smiling that crooked smile you hadn't seen in two years.
Your chest caved in. You felt it, a physical collapse, like someone had reached inside you and pulled out your ribs. Marcus was still talking, something about his boat, but the words were underwater. All you could see was the way Jason's fingers traced lazy circles on the blonde's shoulder. The way he looked at her like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking forever.
You wanted to scream. You wanted to march over there and slap that smile off his face, or maybe slap yourself for still caring. Instead, you finished your wine, excused yourself to the bathroom, and stared at your reflection in the mirror until your hands stopped shaking.
You're on a date. You're moving on. You're fine.
But you weren't fine. You were never fine.
The first time you slept with someone after the breakup, it was a guy you met at a bar. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a scruffy jaw that reminded you of Jason in the worst way. You took him home, let him fuck you against the headboard, and when it was over, you lay there staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but a hollow ache where satisfaction should have been.
That became the pattern.
One-night stands.
Blind dates.
Friends with benefits.
You threw yourself into every bed that opened its doors, hoping that if you fucked enough people, you'd eventually fuck the memory of Jason out of your system. You told yourself it was liberation. This is what moving on looks like. But every time a man groaned your name, every time his hands grabbed your hips, every time he buried himself inside you, you found yourself comparing. He doesn't kiss like Jason. He doesn't hold me like Jason. He doesn't make me feel like I'm falling apart and coming together at the same time.
No one ever did.
After the restaurant, Marcus suggested a drive. "Got the old man's Cadillac," he said, grinning, his hand on the small of your back. "Plenty of room in the back seat."
You knew what that meant. You knew it the second he said it. And you agreed, because that's what you did. You said yes to the drinks, yes to the charm, yes to the sex that followed like a well-rehearsed script. You let him take you to the parking lot behind the restaurant, let him open the door for you, let him slide in beside you.
Now his mouth is on your collarbone, his hand sliding up your thigh, and you're staring at the ceiling of the Cadillac, counting the tiny perforations in the fabric. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen...
"Okay?" he murmurs against your skin.
"Mm-hmm."
He takes that as encouragement. His fingers find your cunt, and you gasp — not from pleasure, but from the shock of it, the intrusion. You're wet, because your body doesn't care about your heart. Your body is a traitor. It responds to touch the way it's been trained to, opening up, welcoming him in.
He pushes inside you, and you close your eyes.
And then you're gone.
You're back in Jason's apartment, the one in the Bowery with the busted radiator and the stack of books on the floor. It's late, maybe two in the morning, and you're straddling his lap on that worn-out couch, his hands gripping your ass, his mouth hot and hungry on yours.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he growls against your lips.
You laugh, breathless. "Good. Then I'll have you all to myself."
He flips you onto your back, pins you to the cushions, and looks down at you with those eyes — green and fierce and so full of want it makes your stomach flip. "I love you," he says, and he says it like it hurts. "I love you so goddamn much it scares me."
"Then don't push me away," you whisper, your fingers threading through his hair. "Let me in, Jay. Please."
He doesn't answer. He kisses you instead, deep and desperate, and you let him. You let him because you think that's enough, that his body can say what his mouth can't. He fucks you slow that night, like he's memorising the shape of you, every curve, every sound. When he comes, he buries his face in your neck and shudders, and you hold him, convinced that this time will be different.
It wasn't.
Marcus is moving faster now, his breath ragged, his grip tightening. "God, you feel good," he grunts.
But you always went. Because staying meant seeing the walls he built, night after night. It meant watching him shut down, push you away, lock himself in his own head. It meant loving someone who wouldn't let himself be loved.
But you don't feel it. You feel nothing except the ghost of Jason's hands, Jason's mouth, Jason's cock. You didn't mean to compare every guy to Jason, you tried not to.
You remember the way he used to take you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other splayed across your stomach, pulling you back into him. You remember the way he'd whisper filthy things in your ear, things that made you blush and burn and come undone. You remember the way he'd hold you afterwards, his chest pressed against your back, his lips on your shoulder, his voice soft: Stay. Don't go. Please don't go.
So you left.
And you've been running ever since.
The breakup happened on a Tuesday. It was raining, because of course it was. You'd been fighting for a month straight — stupid things, really. He forgot to call. You were too clingy. He said you "deserved better." You said you didn't want better, you wanted him. But he wouldn't hear it. He'd already made up his mind, the same way he made up his mind about everything: alone, in the dark, without consulting anyone.
"Just go," he said, standing in the doorway, his jaw tight, his hands shoved in his pockets. "It's better this way."
"For who?" you wailed, tears streaming down your face. "For you? Because it sure as hell isn't better for me!"
He didn't answer. He just stood there, a statue carved from grief, and watched you walk away. You waited for him to call you back. You counted to ten, twenty, thirty. But the door clicked shut, and that was it.
Two years.
Two years of waking up alone. Two years of pretending you were fine. Two years of letting strangers fuck you into mattresses and back seats and kitchen counters, hoping that if you filled yourself with enough bodies, you'd forget what it felt like to be filled with him.
But you haven't forgotten. You'll never forget.
Marcus is close. You can tell by the way his rhythm turns frantic, the way his fingers dig into your hips. "I'm gonna... fuck..."
"Come inside me," you say, because that's what you're supposed to say. That's the script. The words fall out of your mouth like a reflex, hollow and rehearsed.
He groans, thrusts deep, and stills. You feel the warmth spread inside you, and you close your eyes, trying to feel something, anything, but there's only a cold, yawning void. He collapses on top of you, breathing hard, his weight pressing you deeper into the leather.
"Wow," he mutters after a moment. "That was..."
"Great," you finish for him. "Yeah."
He lifts his head, looks at you with that post-coital softness. "You okay?"
No. I'm not okay. I'm never okay. I'm lying in the back of a Cadillac, covered in a stranger's cum, and all I can think about is the man who broke my heart two years ago, and I hate myself for it.
"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "I'm good."
He kisses your forehead, and you let him. You let him pull you closer, let him whisper sweet nothings in your ear, let him pretend this means something. Because that's what you do. You let them pretend. You let yourself pretend. And when it's over, you go home, shower until your skin is raw, and start the cycle all over again.
But tonight, something is different. Tonight, the illusion cracked. You saw Jason with someone else, and it sliced you open in a way you didn't think was possible. You thought you'd numbed yourself enough. You thought the sex, the drinks, the constant motion had sanded down the edges of your grief.
But all it did was polish it. Make it shine brighter. Make it hurt more.
You slip out of the Cadillac an hour later, after Marcus has dressed and driven you back to your apartment. He kisses you goodbye, asks if he can call you again, and you say yes, because why not? Another name in your phone. Another body in your bed. Another night you'll forget by morning.
But when you get inside, when you're alone in the dark of your empty apartment, you don't head for the shower. You don't pour yourself a drink. You sink to the floor, back against the door, and let the tears come.
You cry for the girl you used to be, the one who believed in love, who thought that if she loved hard enough, she could break through anyone's walls. You cry for the woman you've become, the one who fucks strangers to feel whole, who smiles through the pain, who tells herself she's fine when she's falling apart. You cry for Jason, for the way he looked at that blonde, for the way he never looked at you like that in the end.
And you cry because you know, deep down, that you'd still take him back. Even after everything. Even after the years of silence, the hurt, the walls. You'd crawl back to him on your hands and knees if he asked.
But he won't ask. He never does.
The memories play in your head, over and over again. Like a movie premiere replaying the worst moments of your life on the big screen for your personal viewing displeasure.
You press your palms to your eyes and let the darkness swallow you.
❝You’ve been glued to Ryomen “permanent scowl” Sukuna’s side since he stomped up to you at six years old, insulted your picture book, and then sat down to read every single page. Now he’s the fight-happy neighborhood menace and you’re his soft-spoken partner in crime, the only one who can make him do his homework, share his snacks, and admit (under extreme duress) that you’re his favorite human.❞
main masterlist | series masterlist | end
The apartment was small enough that if you burned toast, the whole world knew about it.
The living room was also the dining room and, if you scooted the couch forward, sort of the workout area. The kitchen had three cabinets, two of which squeaked, and the bathroom door stuck when it rained. Your bedroom barely fit the bed, one dresser, and a cheap floor lamp that tilted like it had given up.
It was perfect.
You were twenty-four, with a fresh degree and a very unglamorous, entry-level book editing job at a small press that paid you mostly in stress and free advance copies. Sukuna was twenty-five, working as an electrician—certified, licensed, and very smug about the fact that he could fix literally anything with wires.
“I went to war and came back a light switch therapist,” he liked to grumble, tightening something in the breaker box. “This socket has seen some things.”
You had a cat named Mochi—a round, opinionated tuxedo who strutted through your one-bedroom kingdom like she paid the rent. She slept on Sukuna’s chest and ignored you unless you happened to be eating chicken.
You wore a thin gold ring on your finger with a small marquise diamond that flashed every time you reached for the kettle or turned a page. It still made your heart flutter when you caught it in the light.
“Fiancée,” Sukuna would say sometimes, testing the word like it was heavy. “Still weird.”
“You proposed,” you’d remind him.
“Yeah, I do a lot of dumb things,” he’d say, then kiss you like it was the smartest thing he’d ever done.
You hadn’t planned a wedding.
Not really. You had a shared Pinterest board and a notebook with ideas—dates circled, venues bookmarked, dress screenshots saved in your phone. But there had always been something else in the way: your classes, his training, your last semester, his overtime, your first job.
“We’re engaged,” you’d say, half apologetic, when people asked. “We’re just… taking our time.”
“Why rush?” Sukuna would shrug. “You’re stuck with me already.”
You lived like you were already married anyway.
He was still vulgar. Still a furnace you leaned into on every cold night.
You were still shy, still blushing when he leaned down to murmur something in your ear while you washed dishes or studied on the couch.
“Come sit with me,” he’d grumble from his spot, sprawled in the corner like a huge, sulking cat, remote in hand.
“I’m working,” you’d say, red pen poised over a manuscript.
“You can work right here.” He would pat his thigh.
When you ignored him, he got louder, not in volume but in mood—sighing more dramatically, shifting so the couch creaked, nudging your calf with his foot.
He was all long limbs and tattooed skin now, stronger than ever from hauling ladders and equipment up and down stairs all day. There was always a faint smell of metal and dust on his clothes when he came home, under the warm scent that was just him.
“You’re ridiculous,” you’d mutter, closing your laptop.
“You love me,” he’d say.
Unfortunately, you did.
You’d cross the room and settle onto his lap, his hands immediately bracketing your waist, fingers curling in the hem of your shirt like he was making sure you wouldn’t vanish. His mouth would find yours, and the rest of the world would drop away—the ticking clock, the unpaid bill on the fridge, the half-edited chapter waiting for you.
You’d learned each other slowly and all at once after he came home at twenty. Learned how you fit together in the dark, how to talk and laugh and stumble through firsts without shame. Learned that you could be both shy and sure, nervous and wanting.
By twenty-four and twenty-five, you had a rhythm: busy days, cramped space, shared mugs, shared bed, the soft, steady intimacy of knowing someone down to their sighs.
You were good at talking.
You’d argued and made up about money, about schedules, about whose turn it was to scoop the litter box. You’d had hard conversations about holidays, about family, about future kids and if you wanted them. You knew how to say “I’m sorry” and “that hurt me” and “I’m scared” without the world ending.
Except in one place.
He could not talk about the war.
It slipped out in small details at first.
He’d flinch when fireworks went off too close to the apartment building.
Once, the power went out unexpectedly, and he went absolutely still, every muscle wired, eyes sharp in the dim, until the lights flickered back on and he could pretend he’d just been annoyed.
He always sat with his back to the wall in restaurants.
When you watched a movie and a scene came on with a convoy or a desert or too many uniforms, he would reach for the remote. “This is boring,” he’d say, tone light but eyes flat.
You didn’t push. Not at first.
You knew there were places inside him lined with sharp edges, things he’d seen that had carved out their own territory. You knew he’d spent nights under a sky you’d never seen, in a heat you’d never felt, hearing sounds you couldn’t understand.
Sometimes you woke up to find him sitting on the edge of the bed in the dark, elbows on his knees, breathing slow like he was forcing it.
“Nightmare?” you’d ask softly.
He’d shrug. “Just… noise.”
You scooted closer, pressing your cheek to the warm plane of his back, arms wrapping around his middle. He’d cover your hands with his and let out a breath that sounded less like a sigh and more like surrender.
“Go back to sleep,” he’d murmur. “Work tomorrow.”
You never told him you stayed awake longer, listening to his heartbeat under your ear.
It came to a head on a Tuesday.
You’d had a long day at work—three manuscripts behind schedule, your boss in a mood, your eyes sore from staring at tiny comments in the margins. You trudged up the stairs to your apartment, grocery bag bumping against your leg, mentally running through what you could make for dinner that wouldn’t set off the smoke alarm.
When you opened the door, the first thing you noticed was the quiet.
The TV was off. No music. The lamp in the corner was on, casting warm light over the room. Mochi perched on the arm of the couch, tail swishing, ears tilted back in that way that said something was weird.
“Suku?” you called, toeing your shoes off. “I brought—”
“Kitchen,” he muttered.
You found him at the counter, half in his work clothes, half out. His boots were off, but his shirt was still on, sleeves rolled up, forearms tense. His hands rested on the edge of the counter, fingers digging into the laminate so hard his knuckles were white.
A little pile of mail sat unopened next to him. Beside it, his phone lay facedown.
Your heart tugged. “Hey,” you said gently. “Rough day?”
He let out a humorless breath. “You could say that.”
You set the groceries down carefully. “What happened?”
He didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, eyes fixed on the countertop.
“Job site?” you prompted. “Boss being an idiot? Clients not understanding how electricity works again?”
He huffed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Those are normal levels of stupid. I can handle those.”
You stepped closer, instinct pulling you into his orbit.
“Suku,” you murmured. “Talk to me.”
He shuffled a fraction away, and the distance hurt more than you expected.
“Got an email,” he said eventually. “From one of the guys. Unit chat. Someone sent pictures.”
You waited, chest tight.
“Family they’re helping,” he said. “Over there. Still.” He swallowed. “Little kids. House torn up. Dad missing. Mom… trying to hold it together.”
His voice dulled on the word “mom.” The light in his eyes shuttered a little more.
Your throat thickened. “Oh,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he said. He still wasn’t looking at you. “I know it’s supposed to be… inspiring. ‘Look, we’re still making a difference,’ or whatever. And they are. Those guys are good. But all I could think about was—”
He cut himself off so sharply it was almost a physical sound. His fingers tightened on the counter.
You took another step, close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his arm.
“Sukuna,” you said softly. “You can say it.”
His jaw clenched. “No,” he muttered. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because once I start,” he snapped, finally looking at you, eyes bright and furious and hurting, “I’m not gonna stop. And I don’t want to dump all that on you.”
You met his gaze steadily, even though it made your chest ache.
“That’s not dumping.” You shook your head. “That’s sharing a weight you’ve been carrying by yourself for years.”
He scoffed, but it wavered. “You already carry enough. Work. Suki. Your parents. Me. You don’t need—”
“I want you,” you cut in quietly. “All of you. Even the parts that scare you. Especially those.”
He looked at you like he wanted to argue. Like he had a speech prepared about how he was protecting you. Like he was building a wall in his head as he spoke.
Then something in his expression cracked.
“I saw so much,” he said, the words flat and distant, like they were coming from a long way off. “Stuff you only hear about in briefings or see in movies. Except it wasn’t a movie. No safe distance. No cut scenes. Just… there.” He gestured vaguely, like he could point to the place in the air where everything still existed. “People screaming. People not screaming anymore. Houses that used to have life in them and now just… holes. Dust. I kept thinking, ‘Okay, this is the worst thing I’ll ever see.’ And then the next day would prove me wrong.”
You didn’t speak. You just reached out and laid your hand over his on the counter, your fingers small over his tense knuckles.
He stared at your hands like they were a strange, fragile animal.
“There was this one village,” he said, voice turning rougher. “We were supposed to just… check in. Routine. Whatever. And then we turned a corner and… the whole street looked wrong. Like someone had taken a giant hand and scraped it down the middle. Houses on one side untouched. Houses on the other…” He exhaled, the air leaving him like a punctured tire. “Gone. Or almost. Crushed. Pieces. There were toys in the rubble. Clothes. A crib.”
Your heart tightened painfully. You squeezed his hand.
“We had to keep moving,” he said. “We had orders. Clear this area, check that route, make sure nobody’s about to blow us up. I get that. We’ve got our job, they’ve got theirs.” His mouth twisted. “But I kept thinking about that crib. About how someone probably set it up and argued about which wall it should go against. How proud they were when they finished. How they must’ve had to stand there and watch it all get crushed.”
His voice cracked on “watch.”
You stepped closer, your other hand coming up to touch his arm.
“Suku,” you whispered.
He shook his head, like he was trying to clear it. “And then the pictures today. Different family, same story. And I’m here, you know?” He finally turned fully to you, and the look in his eyes almost knocked the breath out of you. “I’m here in a one-bedroom with a cat and a fiancée and a job where if I screw up, somebody can’t charge their phone for a few hours. And I’m glad. I’m so glad. But I also feel… wrong. Like I stepped out of a fire and everyone expects me to just… be normal now.”
Tears blurred your vision. “No one who loves you expects that.”
He laughed, a short, broken sound. “You’re gonna tell me you don’t want normal? A boyfriend who doesn’t wake up at 3 A.M. because a truck backfired three blocks over? A future husband who doesn’t check exits like he’s still on patrol? Someone who doesn’t go quiet when the news shows anything with sand in it?”
“I want you,” you said again, fierce now. “All of it. The loud, the quiet. The parts that make you check the exits and the parts that make you cry when a kid on a bus gives up their seat to an old lady.”
“I did not cry,” he muttered. “You sniffled very suspiciously,” you corrected.
His mouth twitched.
The tiny crack of humor only made the tears in his eyes stand out more.
“I feel like if I say it all out loud,” he admitted, voice dropping to a whisper, “it’ll make it real again. I’ll be back there instead of here.”
You stepped into his space fully now, pressing your chest to his, tilting your head back to meet his gaze.
“Then let it be real,” you said. “For a little while. With me. So it doesn’t have to be real when you’re alone.”
His throat worked. His hands left the counter, hovering awkwardly for a second, like he wasn’t sure where to put them. Then they settled on your hips, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like a lifeline.
“Y/n,” he murmured. “I don’t want you to think I’m weak.”
The words punched right through you.
You reached up and framed his face with both hands, thumbs resting at the sharp edges of his jaw.
“Look at me,” you said softly.
He did.
“There is nothing weak,” you said, steady, “about surviving something like that and still choosing to love people. To have a life. To come home and learn how to fix someone’s ancient wiring without setting the building on fire. To let yourself care. That’s the opposite of weak.”
His eyes shone. “I see them,” he whispered. “Sometimes when I close my eyes. The guys we lost. The kids. The families. I see their faces and I think, ‘Why am I here and they’re not?’”
You swallowed hard. “That’s not a question you can answer alone.”
“I don’t know how to answer it at all,” he said, desperation threading through his voice now. “It just sits in my chest like a live wire. Buzzing. Waiting to fry something.”
You did the only thing that made sense.
You pulled him down into your arms.
He came willingly, folding over you like he’d been waiting for permission to collapse. His forehead found the crook of your neck, breath hot and uneven against your skin. His arms wrapped around your waist, crushing you to him, fingers digging into your back hard enough to almost hurt.
You held on just as tightly.
For a heartbeat, he was silent.
Then he broke.
It wasn’t loud at first. Just a shuddering inhale, the tremor running from his shoulders into your chest. His fingers tightened, his whole body shaking. A wet sound escaped him, half-choked, like he was trying to swallow it down and failing.
You slid one hand up, weaving your fingers into the short hair at the back of his head, the other splayed between his shoulder blades. Your shirt dampened where his face pressed into your neck.
“Hey,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”
He made a noise that might’ve been your name or a curse or both. His breath hitched, and suddenly the dam truly gave way—harsh, broken sobs tearing out of him, his chest heaving against yours.
You’d never seen him cry like this. Not when he left for basic. Not when he came home. Not when he’d called after a bad day.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to shush him or tell him it would be okay when you didn’t know what “okay” would ever look like, exactly.
You just held him.
“You’re here,” you murmured into his hair. “You’re here. You came home. You built a life. You’re working. You’re loving. You’re allowed to feel all of it. You’re allowed to be sad and angry and scared and still be strong.”
“I shouldn’t have left them,” he choked out into your skin. “I shouldn’t have… why am I here?”
“Because you made it,” you whispered, tears sliding down your own cheeks now. “Because you took ten thousand steps you were ordered to take. Because you made a hundred choices and some of them were yours and some of them weren’t. None of that makes you less worthy of being here.”
He shook his head against you, but he didn’t pull away.
You stayed like that for a long time—long enough for Mochi to hop up on the counter, meow once, then decide this was above her pay grade and leave. Long enough for your legs to start to ache, but you didn’t loosen your hold.
Eventually, his breathing slowed.
The sobs quieted to hiccups, then to deep, shuddering breaths. His arms loosened enough that you could lean back slightly and see his face.
His eyes were red, lashes clumped, nose a little pink. There was a rawness there that scared you and made you want to kiss every piece of it.
“Well,” he croaked, voice wrecked. “That was disgusting.”
You laughed wetly. “You’re beautiful.”
“You need better standards,” he muttered, sniffling.
You cupped his cheeks gently, thumbs brushing away the lingering wetness. “Does it… feel any different?” you asked. “Saying it out loud, I mean.”
He thought for a moment, then nodded once, tiny but real.
“Lighter,” he admitted. “And heavier. But in a way that… makes more sense? Like… like it wasn’t supposed to just be in my head this whole time.”
You smiled through your tears. “That’s because your head isn’t meant to be the whole world.”
He snorted softly. “Try telling it that.”
You rose on your toes and pressed your forehead to his.
“You are not weak for this,” you said again, firm. “You are stronger for it. For letting me in. For letting me see you. I know that’s hard for you. Letting anyone see you when you don’t have your armor on.”
He huffed. “I don’t wear armor.”
“You wear sarcasm,” you countered. “Same thing.”
He gave the tiniest smile, fragile around the edges, but it was there.
“You sure you still want to marry me?” he asked quietly. “All this fine print in the contract.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Sukuna, I said yes when you were nineteen and covered in dust and crying in my mom’s backyard. I said yes when we couldn’t afford anything but gas station coffee and frozen dumplings. I’ll say yes with your nightmares, with your bad days, with your mail, with your ugly crying. I’ll keep saying it until we’re eighty and your back hurts and Mochi’s reincarnated three times.”
He stared at you like you’d just handed him something he’d forgotten he’d lost.
“I don’t deserve you,” he said softly.
“That’s not how this works,” you replied. “We chose each other. That’s it. That’s the math.”
He exhaled, a shaky, disbelieving laugh. “You and your math.”
You leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t about distraction. Not about turning pain into something else. It was slow, steady, your lips moving against his with the same quiet insistence as your words. His hands came up to frame your face now, thumbs rubbing absent circles at your jaw, almost apologetic.
You parted, foreheads resting together.
“Talk to me again,” you said. “When it comes back. When the pictures show up. When the nightmares happen. I can’t make it go away. But I can keep it from eating you alone.”
He nodded, eyes closing briefly. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll… try.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” you said.
Later, you made dinner together—simple stir fry, chopping vegetables side by side. He bumped your hip with his as you reached for the soy sauce. You flicked a piece of pepper at him. He pretended to be offended.
You watched a movie, his head tilted back against the couch, your feet in his lap. Mochi kneaded his thigh and then curled into a loaf, purring like nothing had ever been wrong in the world.
When you went to bed, he pulled you close, his chest pressed to your back, one arm tucked under your head, the other wrapped firmly around your waist, fingers brushing your ring where it glinted in the dark.
“Hey,” he murmured into your hair, voice low and rough, but steadier than earlier. “Thank you. For… all that.”
You smiled into the pillow. “Anytime.”
“Even if I’m gross again,” he said.
“Especially then,” you answered.
He chuckled quietly, the sound vibrating against your spine. Then his breathing evened out, slower, deeper. You felt the tension in his body ease in tiny increments, like someone turning a dimmer switch down.
You stared at the faint outline of the curtains against the window, at the city lights pulsing beyond, and thought about how strange and beautiful it was that lives could be rebuilt in one-bedroom apartments with thin walls and imperfect wiring.
He had seen things you never would.
You could never fully understand the weight he carried from those years.
But you could sit with him in the kitchen when it got heavy. You could be the person who didn’t flinch when he sobbed into your neck. You could be the one who held his shaking hands and told him he was still whole.
You could keep choosing each other, over and over, in a tiny apartment that smelled like stir fry and laundry detergents and cat food.
You didn’t have a wedding date yet.
But when you closed your eyes, his arm around you and his breathing steady in your ear, the gold band warm against your skin, it didn’t feel like waiting.
It felt like living the promise already, one day at a time.
Summary: During a much-needed beach holiday, Jason Todd forgets sunscreen and ends up with a brutal sunburn. His girlfriend (reader) spends the rest of the trip babying him with over-the-top care, turning his misery into a hilarious, loving comedy of errors.
For my DC summer event ◞ DC masterlist
The beach was supposed to be paradise.
White sand, turquoise water, palm trees swaying in the breeze, and a private villa Jason had rented for the two of you after months of back-to-back missions. He’d been insistent on it — “We need a break, babe. Real one. No patrols, no Bats, no nothing.” You’d agreed immediately. The idea of Jason relaxed, shirtless, and happy under the sun sounded perfect.
What you hadn’t counted on was how stubborn he could be about sunscreen.
The first morning, you’d slathered yourself in SPF 50, the kind that smelled like coconut and left a white cast. You’d offered the bottle to Jason, shaking it playfully.
“Come on, big guy. You’re pale as a ghost. You’ll burn.”
He’d waved you off with that cocky smirk, already pulling on his swim trunks. “I’m fine. I don’t burn. I tan. I’m basically a Greek god, remember?”
You’d rolled your eyes but let it go. He was a grown man. If he wanted to be stubborn, that was his problem.
By noon, you knew it was going to be a problem.
Jason had spent the morning in the water, showing off with lazy laps and dramatic dives, then stretched out on a lounge chair like he owned the beach. You’d been reading under an umbrella, occasionally glancing over to admire the way the sun glinted off his wet skin and the white streak in his hair. He looked good — too good. Broad shoulders, toned arms, that dangerous edge even in swim trunks.
But by the time you suggested lunch, his shoulders were already turning pink. By mid-afternoon, they were bright red. By the time the sun started to dip, he looked like a boiled lobster.
“Jason,” you said, trying not to laugh as you poked his shoulder gently. He hissed, jerking away. “You’re burned. Badly.”
He grunted, sitting up with a wince. “It’s fine. Just a little sun. I’ve had worse.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Your back looks like a stop sign. Come on. Let’s get you inside before you peel like a snake.”
He grumbled the whole way back to the villa, but he let you steer him. Inside, the air conditioning was a blessing. You guided him to the bedroom, making him lie face-down on the bed while you rummaged through the bathroom for aloe vera.
When you came back, he was already complaining. “This is stupid. I don’t need babying. I’ve survived worse than a sunburn.”
You sat on the edge of the bed, squeezing a generous amount of aloe onto your hands. “You’re right. You’re a big, tough Red Hood. But right now, you’re my big, tough, very red boyfriend, and I’m going to take care of you. So shut up and let me.”
He huffed but didn’t argue when your cool hands touched his back. The second the aloe hit his burned skin, he hissed, muscles tensing.
“Cold,” he muttered.
“Necessary,” you replied, spreading it gently across his shoulders. “You’re going to peel so bad tomorrow. I’m going to have to wrap you in gauze like a mummy.”
He groaned, burying his face in the pillow. “This is humiliating. The Red Hood, taken down by sunscreen.”
You laughed softly, working the gel down his back in slow, careful strokes. “It’s kind of cute, actually. Big bad Jason Todd, forgetting the basics. Makes me feel useful.”
He peeked at you over his shoulder, one green eye narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” You leaned down, kissing the unburned part of his neck. “But I also hate seeing you in pain. So let me fix it.”
He sighed, relaxing under your hands. “Fine. But only because it’s you.”
You spent the next twenty minutes massaging the aloe into every burned inch — his back, shoulders, the back of his neck, even the tops of his ears. He made the most pathetic little sounds when you hit a particularly sensitive spot, half-grumble, half-whimper, and you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
When you finally finished, you wiped your hands and crawled onto the bed beside him, pulling him carefully into your arms. He curled against you immediately, head on your chest, one arm slung over your waist like he needed the contact.
“You’re going to be miserable tomorrow,” you said, stroking his hair.
“Worth it,” he muttered. “Got to see you in that bikini all day.”
You laughed, kissing the top of his head. “Flatterer. Even burned to a crisp, you’re still thinking about my bikini.”
“Can’t help it,” he said, voice already sleepy. “You look good in everything. Even when you’re laughing at my pain.”
You stayed like that for a while, holding him gently, listening to his breathing even out. The sunburn was going to be hell tomorrow — peeling, itching, the works — but right now, he was soft and warm and yours.
The next morning was exactly as predicted.
Jason woke up groaning, rolling over with a wince as the sheets brushed his burned skin. “Fuck. This is worse than getting shot.”
You were already up, mixing a concoction of aloe, cooling lotion, and a little bit of your fancy face cream. “Come here, drama king. Let me fix you.”
He grumbled but let you help him sit up, shirtless and flushed. The burn was angry red across his shoulders, back, and the bridge of his nose. You worked the lotion in carefully, smiling when he made those little hissing sounds.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he muttered.
“I’m enjoying taking care of you,” you corrected, kissing his shoulder. “Even when you’re a big baby about it.”
He huffed but leaned into your touch. “I’m not a baby. I’m a grown man who forgot sunscreen. There’s a difference.”
You laughed, moving to his chest. “Sure. A grown man who whimpers when I touch his sunburn.”
He glared, but there was no heat in it. “Keep that up and I’ll show you how grown I can be.”
You raised an eyebrow, fingers trailing lower. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
He caught your hand, pulling you into his lap despite the wince. “Both. But not until I’m not on fire.”
You kissed him softly, careful of his burned nose. “Deal. But I’m still babying you today. No arguments.”
He sighed, resting his forehead against yours. “Fine. But only because it’s you.”
The rest of the day was spent in full caretaker mode.
You made him stay in bed with the AC blasting, brought him cold water with lemon, and slathered him in more aloe every few hours. He complained the whole time — “This is ridiculous,” “I’m not completely useless,” “Stop laughing at me” — but he let you do it. Every time you kissed his forehead or stroked his hair, he’d soften, pulling you closer despite the burn.
By evening, he was a little less grumpy. You’d gone into the town and bought his favourite food, set up a movie on the laptop, and were carefully applying lotion to his back again when he caught your hand.
“You don’t have to do all this,” he said quietly. “I’m a big boy. I can handle a sunburn.”
You smiled, kissing his shoulder. “I know. But I want to. You take care of me all the time. Let me take care of you for once.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he pulled you into his lap, careful of his back, and buried his face in your neck.
“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when you’re babying me like I’m five.”
You laughed, wrapping your arms around him. “I love you too. My big, strong, sunburned boyfriend.”
He held you tighter, the TV flickering in the background. The vacation wasn’t perfect — he was going to peel for days — but it was theirs. And in the quiet moments, with Jason’s arms around you and his grumpy complaints turning into soft sighs, you wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
Jason Todd might be the Red Hood.
But on this beach vacation, he was just your boyfriend — sunburned, stubborn, and completely loved.
And you? You were happy to be taking care of him, the way he takes care of you.
a/n: this was so freaking cute to write I’m so freaking AAAA. I can’t find AC, sorry ☹️
taglist: (comment to be added) @batwngs @naymysweetangel @pinklyred @theamazkngskye @the-shape-of-water @sillygayfreak @nightwingsbaddie @starrydustedwinter @imgoinglococrazy
NOTES: encountering sukuna was probably one of the most surprising things that had happened out of this whole apocalypse situation, especially since he protected you from the creatures.
TAGS: MDNI!!!, jock!kuna x ANSD!reader, deafness, hearing aids, tension, reminiscing, flashbacks, gore, ASL, college au, zombie/alien creatures, no sorcerers/curses, second person, no use of y/n, guns, weapons.
WORD COUNT: 2477
once everyone threw their hats in the air, you were gone. too much screaming, cheering, yelling, it was literal hell. your hearing aids screeched, they never worked anyways. you ripped them off before enjoying the quiet, until someone tapped on your shoulder.
you looked up, it was sukuna. he was the well-known, greatest heavyweight champion your school had ever known. you had barely ever spoke to him, except that one time in freshman year, you of all people had to tutor him in ASL. safe to say, he passed... as expected, he was a junior anyway.
he signed, "are you okay?" it was simple, nothing out of the ordinary but you nodded, signing back. "noises hurt, too loud for my hearing aids." he nodded, his mouth moved as he signed. "I'm here for yuji, seen him around?" you looked around, as if youwould spot yuji's matching pink hair with sukuna. you looked back at sukuna and shook your head, "look for nobara, she might be with him."
he nodded and pat your back signing a quick thanks before walking off to find nobara and yuji. you sighed, picking up your hat and making your way to your mothers car. she looked up as you entered and smiled, signing "how was it?" with a bright smile on her face. you signed a quick fine before getting into the car, she noticed your hearing aids were off.
she gathered that all the loud noises hurt so she started the car and drove home. as she drove around to the very crowded exits, you saw sukuna and yuji hugging. sukuna ruffling his hair and yuji smiling up at him with that stupidly bright smile of his. you smiled softly watching them before your mom drove off and you never saw them again after that.
you were under the impression that once you got home, you'd immediately start packing for college and getting ready to prepare your dorm. when your mom pulled into the driveway, the house was decorated in every celebration and graduation decoration you could find at party city and michael's. you looked at your mom confused, she smiled sheepishly and ushered you inside.
when the door opened, there were so many people. relatives, cousins, family that lived in a whole different country, so many family all waved. by the way their mouths moved, you would assume they said "surprise!" you guess some of them don't know you're deaf. you smiled and walked in, taking hugs and kisses from each and every one.
people were eating dinner everywhere, the couch, dinner table, kitchen, anywhere in the house just to eat. your mom had always made good food, but your relatives brought even more food which was even better. maybe it was time to let go of that stupid diet and stop caring about norms.
sometimes family members would yell for you or speak to you but all you could do was look confused before they made an O shape with their mouth and mouthed a "sorry." you shrugged it off and always got your mom or dad to sign it for you to translate. it sucked to go through a messenger but it was needed, you knew life like this wasn't easy.
once the party died down, everyone was full and ready to go home. for the family who came from another country, they slept in the basement and some even booked a hotel so they could come back and visit. you hugged and thanked your mom and all the relatives who came and went upstairs to your room, guess packing would have to wait for another day.
once sophomore year of college hit, you were drained. it was so difficult going through classes while having to write on a notebook for people to understand you. you made it back to the dorms without any trouble, there wasn't anybody out anyway, guess everyone had more afternoon/evening classes.
you unlocked your dorm room and stepped in, you didn't even look around before you stepped into a puddle of blood. you froze, looking around before seeing your roommates body discombobulated and gruesomely torn apart. for a second you almost call the cops, but you knew there was something deeper. you stepped around her body carefully and noticed huge claw marks dragged across her body.
you looked around before feeling a big thump on the floor which sounded like a huge car falling, you flinched, looking around before settling on the huge and disgusting creature standing just some feet away from you. you swallowed, it's head moved a bunch of spots on it's face, expanding and showing a pair of two huge ears,
you looked at it closely, noticing it doesn’t have eyes. you thought for a second and put two and two together, it was blind… but could hear, like the opposite of you. as it opened its mouth, you could feel a huge rumble on the floor before it ran off and disappeared.
you breathed out slowly, moving slowly around the body and grabbed essentials. you packed a bag and opened the door as slowly as you can, hoping there wasn’t any noise coming from the door. you stepped out, looking around and walking down the dorm stairs. you saw cars everywhere, dead bodies and blood all over the floor.
you could feel rumbling and vibrations all over, you made sure to put your hearing aids on, just in case there was a chance it’d magically work and you could hear the creatures. you walked, you ended up taking off your shoes to feel the vibrations.
for the next week, it was pure silence. sometimes you’d encounter the creatures, but it wasn’t anything serious since it was hard for you to make noise. you were currently walking around an abandoned market, full of supplies and food. you filled your bag to the brim, covering it with a blanket so it doesn’t rattle or make noise.
once you turned you saw a flash of pink and a huge creature before you tumbled onto the floor. you felt a huge weight on you, but it felt like a person. you looked up and saw sukuna. you blinked, looking at him, he was holding onto you so tightly and smiled down at you. he looked so relieved before he looked at the creature and put a finger to his lips once he looked back at you.
you nodded and steadied your breathing as much as you could, kinda hard when a 6’ ft guy is on top of you but hey, motion is motion. you looked up at him, his hair was longer, he had a little stubble and a new scar on his cheek… well two… or maybe they were tattoos. his pink hair was still the same, you noticed he looked bigger, as in muscle. he was hairy, the literal beast in beauty and the beast, it made you wonder if he had a nice bushel of hair down there too.
he was staring at you, once you looked back up at him, your face went red. he grinned and sat up on his knees and signed, “it is gone.” you nodded, looking around and signing a quick thank you before standing up. he examined your body, you were thinner, your hair was much longer and your duffel bag was humongous... but you had no weapons, he looked down at himself, he was holding a gun he found in a weaponry and a shotgun on his back, along with his backpack.
you looked up at him and signed, “you alone?” he paused before nodding, you didn’t know if that meant everyone was gone… or he couldn’t find them… or came alone. before you could respond with an “i’m sorry,” he signed quickly, “come with me, i have… friends” he took a moment before signing friends and you tilted your head. “friends?” he nodded, spelling out gojo, geto, yuji and a new name, megumi.
your mouth made an O shape and nodded, “are you alright with one more?” he nodded and grinned, “the more the better” you smiled and tagged along as he led you to his spot. it was huge, you could tell it was old and run down but it was definitely somewhere good for hiding from huge monsters.
he led you inside and flicked the lights twice before everyone looked up at the door and smiled. yuji was baffled, gojo almost clapped before catching himself, geto waved and who you assumed was megumi, nodded. you waved and gojo got up, waving a hello and hugging you tight. yuji came over and hugged you too, geto and megumi stayed but watched the moment.
sukuna tapped them softly to get off and took my hand to lead me to a room, you looked down at your hands before smiling softly to yourself and following willingly. the room was his. you swallowed and looked at him, silently asking if he was okay with this and he nodded. “we have no other rooms.” you nodded and set your stuff down on the bed, you unpacked slowly, putting everything in sorted piles.
sukuna helped, examining the stuff, his hand brushed yours five times… yes, you were counting. who could miss the hot touch of a man whose hands are bigger than your head? no one, that’s the answer. you glanced at him a couple times, he shared one too. it was clear you were both interested in the dirtiest things in this situation but you held off.
once you finished, sukuna helped put them all away by giving you a tour. there was an area for medical stuff and supplies, a food and kitchen spot, a separate hall for the bedrooms and lounge rooms. most rooms were empty, it was a warehouse anyway, who wanted old and oxidized junk?
sukuna led you to the kitchen and asked if you were hungry, doing you a once over on your weight before you nodded. he started to prepare a small meal, you sat on the counter and watched him. you could feel the others watching you two, they knew the tension was there. even if your encounters during high school were so minimal.
sukuna sat with you as you ate, he signed, making conversation. asking how you’ve been, if you were with anyone, if you’ve found your family, any bad or scary encounters. you explained that you haven’t been with anyone and you barely encounter the creatures at all. he nodded, seemingly not surprised you were as quiet as you were.
once it was time for bed, sukuna insisted you had the bed. you shook your head, saying it was only fair you either shared or you slept on the floor. he reluctantly agreed to sleeping on the bed together. when you both settled, while you were wearing one of his old t shirts, he looked at you. you looked back at him, he signed slowly, “you okay?” you nodded and smiled sleepily, “tired… you?” he nodded and signed “me too.”
you took his hands and held them together, you signed after letting go saying “thank you for the hospitality.” he smiled, shaking his head as if to say it was no problem. he signed for you to get some sleep and you got comfortable, you were still facing him but your eyes were closed. he watched you, watching how your eyelashes fluttered at every eye movement, how your breathing was so soft and slow, how your hands twitched as if you seeked attention.
he loved every bit of you… but he’d never admit that, not even to himself. he closed his eyes and drifted off, refusing to address the stupid heart flutter he has when hearing you shift.
the next months were very calm. sukuna was so helpful, gojo and geto were super kind and yuji was just… yuji of course. megumi didn’t do much, he mostly followed yuji and helped around when he was needed. this one time you guys are on a food hunt. all of you, unfortunately.
sukuna stuck with you, megumi with yuji and geto with gojo. every noise and crack, sukuna held your arm. you looked at him, confused. he brushes your hair back and signed “don’t worry, pretty girl.” you smiled and ruffled his hair. he grinned and continued on stacking up on food.
when you all got back, sukuna and you started unpacking the food. setting everything up evenly and carefully for no noise, sukuna signed “are you hungry?” you nodded and held up a cup of noodles with a pleading face. he nodded and made them for you, you sat on the counter as he cooked them for you.
you ate them slowly, they were hot and perfect for the cold. sukuna came around and draped his jacket on you, you smiled up at him and offered a forkful of some noodles. he took them politely, eating them from the fork while not breaking eye contact.
you swallowed and pulled the fork away when he finished, he patted your head and walked off. you replayed the moment of feeding him and him staring at you so sensually. you continued eating, throwing away the cup and walking over to the lounge.
geto and gojo were both asleep, yuji was showing megumi something. yuji looked up and waved, you waved back and sat down on a chair. sukuna walked into the lounge, looking around before his eyes softened on you. you scooted over and gestured to the spot next to you for him to sit since there were no other seats. he took the seat, positioning himself so he doesn’t crush you.
you ended up falling asleep against his warmth, his arm wrapped around your waist and his face buried in your hair. he was slumped, he held onto you so tightly like he was afraid you’d go. when you woke up around three am, he was gone. you looked around for him, noticing yuji and megumi were asleep in their room.
gojo and geto were still asleep on the couch. you got up and looked for sukuna, checking every entrance, exit, room. you couldn’t find him. when you looked outside, you saw him staring out at the moon. you walked to him, gently tapping his shoulder. he looked at you and signed, “go back to bed.” you shook your head, “why did you leave?”
he looked away at the moon before signing, “needed fresh air.” you nodded, turning away, not wanting to interrupt his moment before he grabbed your wrist. his mouth moved, it looked like he was saying “stay,” his eyes were pleading and you nodded, standing right back next to him. his hand trailed from his wrist to your hand, holding it firmly. you held his back, looking up at him and smiling.
until he looked up quickly and grabbed you, hurrying you into warehouse and locking the door quickly. you signed quickly, “what’s wrong?” he signed back, “the creatures, they’re here.”
a/n: wow guys, first chapter! i’m surprised i wrote this as fast as i did to be honest. hope it’s okay, if anything didn’t make sense lmk! i also don’t necessarily know ASL so if i got anything wrong, please let me know. i dunno a schedule for this yet so ill figure it out.
divider creds to @dividers-are-us and @somebitchprobably-graphicdump
SYNOPSIS: you and sukuna knew each other from high school. he took ASL for the easy language credit, you were there as a tutor and teachers assistant. after your second year in college, huge creatures show up and start destroying and eating every thing in their way. since you are naturally quiet, it was easy to get around them and avoid them as much as you can. the moment sukuna recognizes you, he rushes over, dropping a glass jar on the floor of the market floor attracting the creatures and causing you two to hide together.
TAGS: jock!kuna x ANSD!reader, deafness, death, angst, gore, smut, MDNI!!!, guns, weapons, p in v, ASL, consensual, zombie/alien creatures, college au, second person, no sorcerers or curses, satosugu, itafushi, no use of y/n, dirty talk, degrading, yearning and whiny sukuna.
I. ALMOST MADE ME (S)CREAM (7/7/26)
encountering sukuna was probably one of the most surprising things that had happened out of this whole apocalypse situation, especially since he protected you from the creatures.
II. HIDEOUT
desc
III. MORE “FRIENDS” (yay?)
desc
IV. UNPROTECTED
desc
V. SOLUTION
desc
VI. I CALL SHOTGUN (FINALE)
desc
a/n: I'm so excited to finally post a series!! I did a ton of research but if any information is wrong I'd love some help! ANSD is auditory neuropathy spectrum disorder! its a type of hearing loss where an area in the inner ear is defected and the audio that is entered is not transmitted to the brain which causes difficulty to understand speech and other noises! sometimes its in one ear or both, in this story reader has trouble in both ears since birth and wears hearing aids! (wink wink nudge nudge)
divider creds to @dividers-are-us and @somebitchprobably-graphicdump
She was twenty, serving whiskey at a company dinner. He was forty-three, divorced, guarded, and far too old to be looking at her the way he did. One reckless night was supposed to be the end of it. Instead, it became the beginning of an unusual romance neither of them knew how to explain—and neither of them was willing to walk away from.
warning; age gap. smut.
masterlist | series masterlist | next
Ryomen Sukuna had not planned on falling in love again.
At forty-three, he had become comfortable with that truth.
Comfortable with the quiet house. Comfortable with the long hours spent at his drafting table, the low hum of his computer filling rooms that no one else disturbed. Comfortable with coffee gone cold beside architectural plans and evenings that ended precisely the way he expected them to.
He worked from home most days, designing hospitals, office towers, private residences, and expensive buildings that would belong to people he never intended to meet. He was good enough that clients tolerated his bluntness, wealthy enough that he no longer accepted projects he found boring, and established enough that no one questioned why he declined nearly every invitation that came his way.
Sukuna liked being alone.
Or at least he had convinced himself he did.
He had been married once in his early twenties, back when he still believed love was something two people could build correctly if they followed the proper plans. The marriage ended before he turned thirty. No dramatic betrayal. No overturned furniture or screaming in the street. Just two people slowly realizing that affection could not always survive the weight of everything they wanted the other person to become.
After the divorce, Sukuna stopped trying.
He dated occasionally.
Rarely more than once.
He disliked small talk, hated crowded bars, and had no patience for pretending he was interested in another person’s hobbies simply because their face was attractive. Women called him handsome, difficult, arrogant, emotionally unavailable.
All of those things were true.
He did not care.
Then he met you.
You were twenty.
Too young, though he had not known that immediately.
Beautiful enough that he noticed you before he noticed anything else in the room.
The company dinner had been held inside the ballroom of an expensive hotel, the kind of event Sukuna attended only because his name appeared on several of the projects being celebrated. Long tables were dressed in black linen. Champagne glasses caught the light. Executives laughed too loudly at one another’s jokes while architects pretended not to resent the contractors.
Sukuna had been there for less than twenty minutes when you approached with a tray of whiskey.
Your long brown curls fell in heavy ringlets down your back, half pinned away from your face. The black uniform hugged your soft waist and fuller hips, and the little name tag pinned over your chest sat slightly crooked.
You stopped beside him. “Whiskey?” Sukuna looked at the tray.
Then at you. “What kind?” Your brows lifted slightly. “The kind they gave me.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
His mouth twitched.
You noticed.
That had been the beginning.
He took one glass.
Then another when you passed again.
By the third, you stopped beside him and glanced at the mostly untouched drink already in his hand. “You know, you’re supposed to finish the first one.”
“I know.”
“You keep taking them.”
“I know.”
“Why?” His eyes moved over your face. “Maybe I like the service.” You smiled.
Not shyly.
Not nervously.
Slowly.
Like you knew exactly what he meant and had decided to reward him for saying it.
“You tip well?”
“I don’t reward mediocrity.” Your smile widened. “Then I suppose I’ll have to impress you.” You walked away before he could answer.
Sukuna watched you go.
He should have left it there.
He knew that.
You were working. He was old enough to understand when attention could become pressure, and Sukuna had never needed to chase anyone who did not clearly want to be caught.
But you kept returning.
You brought him another whiskey without being asked.
You leaned closer when he spoke, though the music was not loud enough to require it. When he asked how long you had been waitressing, you admitted it was temporary, just something you did for extra money while attending college.
“What are you studying?” he asked. “Literature and communications.”
“You want to be a writer?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I want to work in publishing. Or teach. Or write. I haven’t decided.”
“That’s expensive indecision.” You gave him a flat look. “You’re an architect at a company dinner. I’m sure you had your life perfectly planned at twenty.”
“I did.”
“Of course you did.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I was hoping you had at least one interesting flaw.” He lifted his glass. “I have several.” You glanced at him over your shoulder as someone at another table called for you. “I’ll believe that when I see them.”
By the end of the night, Sukuna had taken enough whiskey from your tray that one of your coworkers noticed.
She whispered something when you returned to the service station.
You glanced at him.
Sukuna looked away before you caught him watching.
He was forty-three then.
You were twenty.
He learned your age near the end of the evening, when the tables had begun to empty and the executives were leaving in expensive cars.
The discovery should have ended everything.
Instead, he found you waiting near the hotel entrance after your shift, curls loosened from their pins, coat folded over one arm. “You need a ride?” he asked.
You looked toward the dark windows beyond the doors.
“My friend was supposed to get me.”
“And?”
“She forgot.” Sukuna took out his keys. “I’ll drive.” You looked at him carefully. “You do this for all the waitresses?”
“No.”
“Just the ones who keep bringing you whiskey?”
“Just the ones who flirt with me all night and then pretend they weren’t.” Your cheeks warmed. “I wasn’t pretending.” That answer followed both of you into the parking garage.
What happened in his car was not romantic.
Not at first.
It was heat and impatience, the tension from the ballroom snapping beneath the dim light of the garage. Your hands tangled in his shirt. His mouth found your neck. You kissed him like you had already decided there would be no morning after, no awkward conversation, no expectation of anything beyond one reckless night.
Afterward, you adjusted your clothes in the passenger seat, avoiding his eyes.
Sukuna watched you smooth your curls.
“You regret it?”
“No.”
“Then stop looking guilty.”
“I don’t look guilty.”
“You look like you’re about to apologize.” You turned toward him. “I mean, isn't this a one-time thing?” He looked at you for a moment.
Then he took your phone from where it sat between the seats.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving you my number.”
“You could ask.”
“You would say yes.”
“That’s arrogant.”
“It’s accurate.”
He entered his name and handed the phone back.
You looked at the new contact.
Sukuna.
Nothing else.
No last name.
No explanation.
“Call me,” he said. “For what?” His gaze moved over your mouth. “To do it again.” You laughed softly. “One more night?”
“One more.”
There were many more.
At first, that was what the two of you called them.
One more night.
You met after your classes, after his work, after dinners neither of you attended together. Sometimes he picked you up near campus. Sometimes you arrived at his house by an Uber and left before morning. You told yourself it was casual because the alternative felt absurd.
Sukuna was more than twice your age.
He had a divorce behind him, a successful career, a large house, investments, routines, expensive tastes, and a personality sharpened by decades of knowing exactly what he wanted.
You were twenty, working events on weekends and surviving on instant noodles during finals.
There was no sensible shape for the two of you.
So you kept it shapeless.
Until one night, you stayed.
Not just until morning.
Through it.
You wore one of his shirts because yours had fallen somewhere beneath the bed. You sat curled into the corner of his couch, bare legs tucked beneath you, watching an old movie he claimed was good.
“It’s boring,” you said. “It’s been on for twelve minutes.”
“Nothing has happened.”
“People are talking.”
“That is not a plot.”
Sukuna looked at you.
You looked back.
Then, without thinking, you moved closer and rested your head against his shoulder.
He went still.
You noticed immediately. “Sorry.” You began to lift your head, Sukuna’s arm moved around you. “Stay.” You did.
By the middle of your twentieth year, one more night had turned into whole weekends.
You left clothes at his house.
A toothbrush appeared beside his in the bathroom. Your favorite tea began showing up in his kitchen despite the fact that he called it “perfumed water.” Sukuna started asking about your assignments.
Not politely.
“Did you finish the paper?”
“I’m working on it.”
“You’ve been saying that for three days.”
“I have a process.”
“You procrastinate.”
“That is my process.” He would complain, then sit beside you with his laptop while you wrote. If you got distracted, he tapped the table.
If you became overwhelmed, he ordered food.
If you fell asleep on the couch, he carried you to bed while muttering about how little common sense college students possessed.
You began dating without either of you formally announcing it.
The conversation happened after Sukuna canceled dinner with a woman he had known professionally for years because you had asked if he wanted to watch a movie.
You had not known it was a date.
When you found out, you stared at him from the kitchen doorway.
“You canceled for me?”
“She was irritating.”
“You hadn’t seen her yet.”
“I remembered.”
“Sukuna.”
“What?”
“Are you really not seeing other people?” He looked up from the cabinet where he was searching for popcorn. “No.” Your stomach fluttered. “Since when?”
“Months.” You hesitated. “I haven’t either.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“You’re here constantly, and you told me how you felt.” Your eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means you don’t have time for anyone but me.” You crossed your arms. “You’re impossible.” Sukuna set the popcorn on the counter.
Then he looked at you. “Do you want to date me?” The bluntness made you blink. “Are you asking?”
“Yes.”
“Like actually date?”
“What other kind is there?”
“We already sleep together.”
“That isn’t dating.”
“We eat together.”
“That’s dinner.”
“I leave my clothes here.”
“That’s poor organization.” You laughed.
Sukuna stepped closer. “I want you here.” The humor faded from your face.
He touched your waist. “Not just when we’re in bed.” Your chest tightened. “What about the age difference?”
“What about it?”
“People will talk.”
“People talk when they have nothing worth saying.”
“That sounds like you don’t care.”
“I don’t.”
He did, though.
Not then, perhaps.
Not fully.
But he would.
You said yes.
By twenty-one, you lived with him.
The decision happened gradually enough that neither of you could identify the exact day you moved in. Your textbooks took over one shelf in his office. Your clothes filled half of his closet. Your skincare crowded the bathroom counter until Sukuna bought organizers and complained while arranging everything by height.
When your apartment lease ended, you did not renew it.
Sukuna cleared out one of the spare rooms and turned it into a study for you, though most nights you still worked at the dining table because he was nearby.
No one knew you were together.
Not your classmates.
Not his colleagues.
Not beyond a handful of people you trusted.
The secrecy was partly yours.
Partly his.
At twenty-one, you were old enough to make your own decisions, but the world had opinions about women your age and men like Sukuna. Some people looked at you as though you were being manipulated. Others looked at him as though he had chosen you only because younger women were easier to control.
Neither was true.
But truth rarely stopped strangers from enjoying themselves.
Once, at a restaurant, a couple seated behind you whispered loudly enough to be heard. “Unbecoming,” the woman said. “An older man taking out someone that young.” Sukuna’s hand stopped around his glass.
You watched his expression flatten.
Normally, he would have turned around.
Normally, he would have said something sharp enough to ruin their evening.
Instead, he placed the glass down and asked whether you wanted dessert.
You knew then that he cared.
Not about them.
About what their judgment could do to you.
You were building a reputation at school. Applying for internships. Earning recommendations. Sukuna understood that people were crueler to young women than they were to established men. He knew any rumor would cling to you more stubbornly than it would to him.
After that, you ate at home more often.
And you loved it.
Sukuna cooked while you sat on the counter and stole ingredients. You watched films with your legs across his lap. You studied while he drew revisions beside you. You spent long mornings tangled in bed and quiet evenings curled beneath blankets, the rest of the world safely outside the walls.
It did not feel like hiding.
Not most of the time.
It felt like protecting something tender.
Your father changed that.
Sukuna met your parents when you were twenty-one.
Your mother was polite.
Your father was not.
The dinner began badly and deteriorated quickly.
Your father was fifty.
Only five years older than Sukuna.
The realization sat visibly between them from the moment Sukuna introduced himself. Your father stared at him, then at you, then back again. “How old are you?” he asked.
Sukuna answered without embarrassment.
Your father gave a short, humorless laugh. “You’re practically my age.” Sukuna took a sip of water. “You look older.” You closed your eyes.
Your mother coughed into her napkin.
Your father’s face darkened.
The rest of the meal became an interrogation.
How did you meet?
Why was a man in his forties attending a dinner where college students worked?
How long had you been together?
Were you living with him?
Was he paying your bills?
Did you understand how this looked?
You answered calmly until your father accused Sukuna of using money to control you.
Then Sukuna spoke. “She moved in because she wanted to.” Your father leaned across the table. “And you let her.”
“She’s an adult.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“And?” The single word nearly ended the dinner.
Your father turned toward you. “If you continue this, I’m not paying another cent toward that school.” Your mother whispered his name.
He ignored her.
You went quiet.
Sukuna did not. “That’s your choice.” Your eyes snapped toward him. Your father scoffed. “Easy for you to say.” Sukuna’s face became still. “I said it’s your choice.” The two men stared at each other.
You knew then the evening was over.
The drive home was silent.
Rain streaked the windows. Streetlights passed in long gold lines over the windshield. Sukuna drove with both hands on the wheel, jaw set.
You stared out the passenger window.
Your father had already sent a message confirming he had removed his payment information from the university portal.
The semester bill was due in three weeks.
You had some savings.
Not enough.
Your throat felt tight, but you refused to cry in the car.
Sukuna glanced toward you twice.
He said nothing until you reached home.
The moment the front door closed, you took off your shoes and walked toward the bedroom without speaking. Sukuna followed.
You climbed into bed still wearing your clothes and curled onto your side, facing the wall.
The mattress dipped behind you.
Sukuna moved close, slid one hand beneath your cheek, and gently turned your face toward him.
Your eyes were wet.
His expression softened.
“Don’t worry about school.”
You swallowed.
“I’ll figure something out.”
“I already did.”
“What?”
“I’m paying for it.”
Your eyes widened.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Sukuna.”
“No.”
“You can’t pay my tuition.”
“I can.”
“I won’t let you.”
“You don’t control my bank account.”
“That’s so much money.”
“I have more.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“It is to me.”
You pushed yourself up slightly.
“Sukuna, I have senior year next year, and then two years for my master’s.”
“I know.”
“That is not a small amount.”
“I know.”
“You already pay for the house, groceries, everything.”
“And?”
You stared at him.
He reached up and brushed one curl away from your face.
“I’ve saved more than enough.”
“For retirement.”
“I’m not retiring tomorrow.”
“For emergencies.”
“This is an emergency.”
“It is not.”
“You were just threatened out of school by someone who was supposed to help you.” Your face crumpled, Sukuna’s thumb brushed beneath your eye. “I adore you,” he said.
The bluntness of it broke something open.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.” His voice softened. “I’m not having children. I don’t want them.” You blinked through tears. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I have money. You have a future.” Your lips parted. “I’d rather put it into your career than watch it sit in an account until I die.”
“That’s morbid.”
“It’s practical.”
“You could change your mind about kids.”
“I won’t.”
“You could regret paying.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.” Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. “I know myself.” You looked away. He touched your chin and turned you back. “I’m not buying you.”
“I know.”
“I’m not asking you to owe me.”
“I know.”
“You finish school. You get your master’s. You do whatever you planned before your father decided money was a leash.” Your tears finally spilled.
Sukuna sighed.
Then he pulled you against him.
You pressed your face into his chest, crying quietly while his hand moved through your curls. No one had ever offered you something so large without using it to demand something in return. Your father had paid for school because he believed paying gave him authority.
Sukuna paid because he wanted your life to remain yours.
That night, gratitude blurred into love so intense it frightened you.
You kissed him first.
Not with urgency.
With tenderness.
You touched his face and told him you loved him even though the two of you rarely said it aloud then. Sukuna looked at you like the words had struck him somewhere unprotected.
Then he kissed you back.
You made love slowly, passionately, with none of the impatience of your first night in his car. Sukuna held you like he understood exactly what you were giving him. Every touch carried care. Every kiss lingered.
He loved how responsive you were.
How your breath caught when he touched you gently.
How your curls spread across his pillows.
How you said his name like it belonged only to you in those moments.
Afterward, he held you against his chest and reminded you twice that tuition would be paid before the deadline.
It was.
Now you were twenty-two.
A senior completing the final year of your bachelor’s degree, though graduation would not truly be the end. Two more years waited afterward for your master’s program, already mapped across notes and application deadlines pinned above your desk.
You had been with Sukuna for two years.
You had lived in his house for one.
The house no longer felt like his.
It was yours too.
Your books filled the shelves. Your shoes sat beside his at the door. Your mugs occupied half the kitchen cabinet, though Sukuna insisted three of them were “structurally useless.” Your shampoo filled the bathroom with the scent of flowers. A framed photograph of the two of you sat discreetly in his office, turned slightly away from the window.
Your private social media account held the only visible pieces of your relationship.
A picture of two coffee cups on his drafting table.
His hand resting over your knee in the passenger seat.
Your curls spread across his chest.
The profile photograph showed the two of you together, though your face was partly hidden against his shoulder and his was turned toward you. Anyone from your family could have scrolled past without realizing it was you.
Sukuna pretended not to care about social media.
Then he asked why one picture of him had fewer likes than another.
“You said likes were meaningless,” you reminded him.
“They are.”
“Then why are you counting?”
“I’m observing.”
“You’re jealous of your own picture.”
“That one was better.”
“You were frowning.”
“I look good when I frown.”
“You always frown.”
“Exactly.”
That evening, you sat at the kitchen island with your laptop open, surrounded by textbooks and highlighted articles. Sukuna worked in the adjoining office, visible through the glass doors he kept open whenever you were home.
You had a presentation due Monday.
He had a hospital design review at eight the next morning.
Neither of you was doing the work you were supposed to be doing.
You kept watching him.
Sukuna sat at his large drafting desk wearing dark trousers and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Reading glasses rested low on his nose, something he hated enough that you had been sworn to secrecy about them.
They made him look devastatingly handsome.
Older.
Sharper.
Distinguished in a way he would have mocked if you said it aloud.
You stared too long.
Without looking up, Sukuna said, “Stop.”
You blinked.
“Stop what?”
“Staring.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“How would you know?”
“I know when you’re looking at me.”
“That sounds narcissistic.”
“It’s experience.”
You smiled and returned to your laptop.
Thirty seconds passed. “Come here,” he said.
You looked up.
Sukuna had removed the glasses. “I’m working.”
“No, you’re reading the same paragraph again.”
“You were watching me?”
“I know when you’re not working.”
“That sounds narcissistic too.”
“Come here.” You closed the laptop halfway. “I have a presentation.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Monday.”
“It’s Friday.”
“I like being prepared.” Sukuna leaned back in his chair.
“You’re lying.”
“I do.”
“You started the slides this morning.”
“I was busy.”
“With what?”
You hesitated.
He lifted one eyebrow.
“Laundry.”
“I did the laundry.”
“Reading.”
“You fell asleep.”
“I was resting my eyes.”
“On my chest.” You smiled. “That sounds productive.” Sukuna stared at you.
Then held out one hand.
You knew better than to reward him.
You stood anyway.
The moment you entered the office, Sukuna pulled you between his knees and wrapped both arms around your waist.
You rested your hands on his shoulders. “You’re supposed to be working.”
“So are you.”
“You called me in here.”
“You came.”
“You’re impossible.” His face settled against your stomach.
You looked down at the top of his pink hair.
For someone who had spent two decades alone, Sukuna had become remarkably attached to having you nearby.
He did not admit this.
He demonstrated it constantly.
If you studied in the bedroom, he eventually moved his laptop there. If you sat on the couch, he appeared within ten minutes and stretched out with his head in your lap. If you went to make tea, he followed as though the kitchen had suddenly become architecturally significant.
“You miss me?” you asked. “You’re ten feet away.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
His arms tightened.
“No.”
You smiled.
“Liar.”
Sukuna lifted his head.
His eyes moved over your face.
“Did you eat?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A granola bar.”
“That’s not food.”
“It is literally food.”
“It’s compressed crumbs.”
You laughed.
He stood, still holding your waist, and guided you toward the kitchen.
“My presentation—”
“You’re eating.”
“You have a review tomorrow.”
“I’ll finish.”
“So will I.”
“After dinner.”
You watched him open the refrigerator.
There it was.
The shape of your life together.
Sukuna pretending orders were not affection.
You pretending you did not love being taken care of.
The age difference remained.
Twenty-three years could not be erased by affection. It existed in the music you did not recognize from his childhood, the technology he complained had changed unnecessarily, the gray beginning to thread subtly near his temples.
It existed in the way strangers sometimes looked at you.
The way your father spoke his name with disgust.
The way Sukuna checked your academic calendar more carefully than you did because he refused to let anyone claim your relationship had distracted you from school.
But it also existed in the patience he had learned before meeting you.
In the stability he could offer without using it to trap you.
In the quiet certainty with which he loved you.
You crossed the kitchen and wrapped your arms around him from behind.
Sukuna paused with one hand on the refrigerator door.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you attached to me?”
“You attach yourself to me all the time.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m older.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is authority.”
You laughed against his back.
Sukuna turned in your arms.
His hands settled at your waist.
“You’re in a mood.”
“I love you.”
The teasing left his face.
It always did when you said it unexpectedly.
His eyes softened.
“Yeah?”
You nodded.
“Even with the glasses.”
His expression darkened.
“I knew this was a mistake.”
You smiled brightly.
“You look very handsome in them.”
“You tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”
“Your secret is safe.”
He leaned down and kissed you.
Slowly.
Warmly.
His thumb brushed the curve of your waist beneath your shirt.
For a moment, deadlines and family and gossip disappeared.
There was only his mouth against yours.
The house around you.
The future waiting beyond Monday’s presentation.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“You’re finishing school,” he said.
You smiled faintly.
“I know.”
“All of it.”
“I know.”
“No matter what your father says.” Your expression softened. “I know.” Sukuna kissed your forehead.
Then he turned back toward the refrigerator. “Now eat.” You sighed dramatically. “Romance is dead.”
“It’s in the pan.” You laughed and leaned against the counter while he began cooking. Two years earlier, you had thought he would become one more night you remembered too clearly.
Instead, he became breakfast.
Tuition receipts.
Movies on the couch.
His reading glasses left beside your textbooks.
A quiet house slowly filling with two lives instead of one.
And for the first time in decades, Sukuna no longer mistook solitude for peace.
Not when peace sounded like your laughter drifting through the room beside him.
Can we get more bunny!reader x bakugo smut 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹
Its short cuz im waiting for my shift to start but here ya go 🫶🫶
"Gotta tell me what you want.." His voice is low as he watches the twitch of your tail.
His back rests against the headboard while your face is buried in his hip, you slowly grind against his leg with little whines slipping out.
Your tail swishes back and forth when his hand slides through your hair, playing with the soft strands while you take what you need.
"C'mon, tell me." He tugs on your hair lightly.
You scoff and press your face into his side more, grinding down onto him harder. Your shirt is disheleved and riding up, exposing your panties that are just so tempting to tear off.
His hand carefully brushes your ear, waiting for you to cave for him, he feels the vibration of your voice against his skin as you mumble something.
"Hm? Didn't quite catch that." He chuckles.
You groan and pull your ears out of his hand but he grabs hold of your hair.
"Tell me."
Your hips still and you avoid his gaze, his eyes are narrowed and hungry.
"Need your mouth..." you groan, pulling away from him.
He chuckles and pats your ass, nudging you off of him, you flop down onto your side and katsuki climbs down the bed.
꒰ content ꒱ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ jason todd x fem!reader, smut? idk man, not proofread
“Jason, please," you whine into your phone. It's connected to his comms. You can hear his heavy grunts and the bodies of goons slamming to the ground.
All that only made you wetter and more desperate.
Now you have needs. Needs that Jason can’t always take care of from miles away. That’s fine. You have your trusted pink vibrator. Expect this time it decided to give out in the middle of it all. You'd been thinking of Jason while you played around, thinking about how he'd whisper filthy things into your ear, all while somehow still being so sweet and careful. him trying not to crush you when all you needed was for him to do just that. it was all you could think about while you were on the phone with him, your body buzzing with need. You want your man to crush you.
"i need you," you beg, all sense of shame gone. Your fingers play around with your clit, but god, none of it—not even your beloved vibrator—had or will ever compare to your boyfriend.
He's panting on the other side. though, for completly diffrent reasons. "fuck, sweetheart, you know i cant—
"Then talk me through it," you argue.
"I'm fighting criminals, theres nothin' sexy about it." he grumbles. "Just a bit longer?" then, he lowers his voice. "please, baby?"
Nothing sexy his ass. As if any of that mattered when he has you talking to him so wonderfully.
"Fuck you, todd," you mutter, not really meaning it.
"Later," he says as he—you think—swings at someone becasue you hear a crack.
part one!! part two!!
it started out as small things. flowers that were surprisingly your favorite. some even came with small notes, letters woven with apologies but never signed. not like you needed to know who they were coming from. other times it was food doordashed to your place as if someone knew that you were getting off work late and didn't have time to eat. some times it was even packages from amazon of different things you've been wanting for a while; new art supplies, plushies, journals, etc.
all of it went in the trash. you made yourself clear on how you wanted things to end, it was not your fault nor your problem if sukuna could not grow up to respect that. you even went as far as to unblock him just to tell him to fuck off. he was able to send one message before the rest went green
yn
stop sending shit to my place
sukuna
yn please i just want to talk
i don't deserve it but please
hello?
??
you suppose your message works for a couple days until you hear a knock at your door and open it to find his frat brothers, specifically gojo and geto.
"hey, yn!" gojo greets, a little too jolly. geto waves at you with a grin as well as you stand in your door way. you greet them in return and ask what they were doing at your place. they look at each other before gojo sighs. "don't take this the wrong way, but we're here to talk about sukuna-"
you try to slam the door in his face but you only end up closing the door on his foot.
"fuck me!" gojo cries out, falling to the floor and cradling his injured foot in his hands. geto steps around him and puts a hand on the door, preventing you from closing it.
"just hear us out, please," geto pleads.
"why should i?" you say. "you can't honestly expect me to take him back after the way he treated me, do you?"
"you don't know the full story-"
"and whats the full story? that he didn't just kiss all those girls, they fucked too? what a shocker-"
"can u just let us in?" gojo asks from where he sat on the floor. "not sure if you want us airing all of this out in the hall like this." you take a moment to think about before you open the door all the way for the both of them. after seeing gojo hobble into your apartment, you apologize for slamming the door on his foot. gojo and geto both take a seat on your couch as gojo waves off your apology, "don't mention it, i probably would've done the same thing if i was you."
geto nods in agreement, "i know how this might seem, yn; i mean two of your ex boyfriend's friends show up to your place and ask you to take him back does sound pretty sketch."
"so tell me one reason why i should listen to you, let alone him," you say, arms crossed.
"because you don't know the full story."
gojo eventually stops rubbing his foot when geto elbows him, silently telling him to take over. gojo grumbles something about him being a pussy before he looks to you. "we aren't really here to defend him. we know that he's an asshole, believe us. we just think you should know the truth about it all. sure, he liked the attention but he never liked those girls."
"everyone knew about sukuna's rep, even before he got with you. so girls throwing themselves onto him at parties wasn't exactly anything new," geto adds.
you roll your eyes, "way to rub it in. and this is supposed to convince me that he's the victim or something?"
"we're not trying to convince you of anything," gojo says with a shake of his head. "after you hear this side, none of us would blame you if you never even looked his way again. but you need to know that he never liked those girls, he never even kissed them back! the stories just made it seem like that but you never see how he shoved them away right after. even when he was wasted, he shoved them off and practically barfed like he ate shit."
"then he would end up at your place," geto finishes. "sukuna is a dick at best, even a cheater at worse. but it wasn't in the way that you thought. and of course, none of this excuses the way he treated you. even we don't know the full story but we know that you deserved better."
"so what? he's some saint now just because he never kissed those girls back?" you ask. "how do you expect me to believe this? why wouldn't he just explain himself if that is really what happened?"
"we're not too sure about that part," gojo admits in defeat. "maybe he really is just a sad son of a bitch and he thinks he deserves it or something— some self sabotaging thing."
"surprised you even know what that is," geto snorts.
gojo ignores him, "and surely you can see he's trying right? he's trying to be better for you."
"sending flowers and random bullshit isn't exactly the best improvement i could've gotten from him," you sigh.
"well he did try going to your place himself but toji always dragged him out of it, saying the last thing you wanted to see was him."
"toji's not exactly wrong," you mutter to yourself. "i mean— can you guys blame me? what would you do right now if you were me?"
"i really don't know," gojo shrugs. "im pretty grateful im not in your shoes, actually. to be honest, you don't even have to do anything. like i said, we didn't come here to convince you of anything. we just want you to know the truth." him and geto stand from your couch.
"well good luck with whatever you end up doing, yn," geto wishes you as he and gojo move to exit your apartment. but just before he leaves, he looks at you and says, "if you don't believe anything else we say, believe this; sukuna really does love you. i guess he's just not too good at showing it."
that leaves you with a sense of deja vu before your mind plays the scene of toji telling you something similar only a couple weeks ago. gojo and geto wave goodbye to you and close the door behind them, leaving you with your thoughts. who were you to take the words of your ex's friends? and even if their story was true, it did not excuse his behavior. you knew that much and you knew your worth. you end up heading out to take a walk, hoping to clear your thoughts. you don't see sukuna across the quad but he sees you. he knows he shouldn't go after you, that he didn't deserve a second of your time. but he couldn't stop his own feet from going after you. he catches up to you and the look you give him shatters the last bit of hope he held in his soul.
you look at him with confusion laced in pity. "sukuna," you greet blandly. you know that you haven't seen him in a while but he looked different. for the first time in a long while you couldn't smell alcohol on him.
"yn," sukuna begins, he takes a breath in as if preparing himself for the words he was about to say. "i love you, i really do. i know i never made it seem like it, but i swear to you. i love you in a way that ive never loved anything else."
a sigh escapes from you, "why are you telling me this?"
"because you told me to tell you when i was sober; but i meant it both times."
"that doesn't change anything," you say, trying to stay firm. "you know that, right? you know that you treated me like shit?"
"i know, and i also know that there's nothing i could do to make you forgive me. but that doesn't mean i won't try. i'm done with the parties, with the drinks, and all that bullshit. im just sorry it took me losing you to realize how much you really meant to me. i know i didn't show it before and im not making excuses— but your my first real relationship, yn. i know i fucked up, but please."
it felt weird to see sukuna begging for you like this so openly. so often in the relationship you found yourself begging for the bare minimum when things started going downhill. how ironic for it to all have ended like this.
"this doesn't fix anything," you tell him. you notice how defeated he looks and how his shoulders drop so you continue. "and if you make me regret giving you more shot, i swear i'll kill you myself."
he isn't perfect, you didn't expect him to be, but you can tell he's truly trying. true to his word, he turns down invites to parties and doesn't get wasted anymore. he's more consistent in his efforts with you, getting you gifts not because he's repenting or because you asked but because he loves you. but he will never forgive himself for only showing his love for you like this now.
"you deserve the world, yn," he tells you one night. "if im not the man that can give you everything you deserve, then ill learn to let you go. but if you stay with me, ill work everyday proving to you that i can be worthy of you and your love."
taglist: @ihesoo @killboyy0 @drisae @obsidianglitchgenesis @lun3z @letharue @emeraldpurple @lexiee0-0 @asian-woody @brunettebombshell72 @younghideoutberserker @brightbriefs @volleyballgirl2022 @iamarealmicrowave @whatdoesthesenpai @that-b-word @daniellefully @bigbootfemboys16 @mkndchzz @bam-boozledx @ambrosiarosesworld
sukuna taglist: @cttelina @bunbun812 @oksukuna @kriitee @bleepybl00p @sailormarsinanotherlife @sushikuna @icebearcucumber @cheacheasstuff @duckie3801
a/n: per the poll winner, here is sukuna groveling!! i kinda hate this but fuck it we ball. im sorry if i missed you asking to be tagged on pt2 :( i only tagged those that deadass said smth along the lines of "tag me" bc i didn't wanna accidently tag someone who didn't wanna be T^T
also im sorry this was so lateeee i wrote it on the drive but it never saved
AND ik this is js a fic, but on a real note. guys please dont take shit from anyone, let alone a romantic partner. i hate to make reader be big bird so i did my v best to make sukuna at least a LITTLE redeemable :(
Your car breaks down right in front of his garage, and you’re already steeling yourself for the usual routine: a sky-high bill, too much time wasted, and a mechanic who barely looks up. Instead, you get Sukuna, who’s so offended by your previous mechanic's scams that he takes it upon himself to teach you enough to make sure it never happens again. Unfortunately for him, fixing your car is a breeze, but getting you out of his head? Not so much.
cw: mechanic!sukuna x f!reader, mostly sukuna pov, sukuna has a crush, yearning sukuna, pining sukuna, sukuna is bad at feelings, kinda slow burn
wc: 10.4k, one shot
notes: based on these two asks: first and second! thank you nonnie for the idea <3
main masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ sukuna art by @/hunnismokah
It's barely past dawn, and as Sukuna drags the shutters up, the ungodly morning air hits him with a brisk, damp chill, cooling the coffee in his hand. He’s banking on a quiet hour to sort through the mess of inventory, maybe even enjoy the silence, before the first scheduled appointment pulls him away.
Down the road, maybe a hundred meters away, hazard lights blink through the gray mist. A hatchback sits stranded on the shoulder with its hood open. You’re there beside it, looking entirely defeated, with your shoulders hunched as you rub your arms against the biting chill that cuts straight through your jacket. You're pacing in small circles, your breath blooming in white puffs that vanish into the fog.
Taking a long sip of his coffee, Sukuna watches the scene for a beat. It’s obvious that this mess is about to become somebody's problem, and with how close you are to his driveway, that somebody's him. He lets out a resigned grunt, sets the mug aside, and starts the slow, reluctant walk down the slick, dark stretch of asphalt.
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
Warnings: soft smut, explicit sexual content, oral sex, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, violence, gun violence, blood/injury, attempted drugging, human trafficking, children in danger, identity reveal, secret identities, emotional vulnerability, model!Reader, vigilante!Reader
Summary:
Red Hood has known Mirage for years.
He knows the way she fights. He knows she favors smoke over bullets, rooftops over alleys, and disappearing over answering a single personal question. He knows she has expensive gear, dangerous instincts, and a habit of targeting men who think money makes them untouchable.
Jason Todd does not know her name.
Unfortunately, Gotham does.
Author’s Note:
written for this anonymous ask
this was a fun one to write! experimented a bit with changing POVs and stuff. hope you like it!
Gotham loved a beautiful lie.
It loved you twelve stories tall, painted in soft light above Kane Avenue with diamonds at your throat and one bare shoulder turned toward a camera. It loved you in perfume campaigns and charity spreads, in couture editorials and black-and-white billboards that made the city’s rot look almost elegant by comparison. It loved your name when it appeared beside museum wings, foundation galas, and old money that had learned to smile for cameras. It loved your face behind department-store glass, your body in gowns worth more than most people’s apartments, your mouth painted red enough to stop traffic.
Gotham loved you because it thought beauty was harmless.
It had no idea what your knuckles looked like under the concealer.
It did not know about the split skin beneath your gloves, the bruises arranged like ugly fingerprints along your ribs, or the little collection of scars hidden beneath silk and expert lighting. It did not know that the woman selling softness from a billboard had once followed a trafficking broker from a charity dinner to a private club in the East End and broken three of his fingers before midnight.
Gotham knew your face.
Red Hood knew your hands.
He knew them gloved, usually. He knew the way your fingers closed around a baton before violence, the way your wrist flicked before a smoke pellet hit the ground, the way your left hand always went to the blade at your spine only after someone gave you a reason to stop being polite. He knew the shape of you in darkness better than most men knew lovers in daylight. Black armor, fitted mask, hood drawn low, voice flattened through a modulator until nothing personal could escape unless you let it.
He knew you as Mirage.
He had known you for years.
The first time you happened to him, Jason had been twenty, angry enough to turn every alley into a confession booth and young enough to pretend that anger was the same thing as control. He had been hunting a gunrunner through the Bowery, following a trail of modified rifles and dead teenagers until it led him to the back of a pawn shop with barred windows and a loading door painted the color of old blood.
He had expected six men.
There were nine.
He had expected a shipment.
There were children in the van.
That was the kind of math Gotham liked to do.
Jason had taken down four before the fifth managed to get a gun up. Then the alley filled with smoke.
Not normal smoke. Not the cheap gray cough of a canister tossed by an amateur. This was black and silver, thick enough to swallow the light and laced with fragments of reflection that turned every movement into three. The armed men panicked. Jason did not, but only because panic looked different on him. He raised his gun toward the nearest shadow.
Someone dropped from above.
The gunman hit the pavement before Jason fired, his wrist bent at an angle that made him scream. You rose from the smoke like the city had imagined you out of its own bad dreams, all black armor and sharp angles, your baton already moving toward the next man’s throat.
Jason shot the alarm trigger out of a smuggler’s hand and turned his helmet toward you.
“Cute trick,” he said.
You looked over the unconscious men, then at the blood drying across his jacket. “Messy work.”
“I had it handled.”
“One of them had a van full of children.”
His finger tightened against the trigger.
You stepped past him, cutting the lock on the van before he could answer. The children inside stared at you with the frozen terror of people waiting to learn whether the next masked figure would be worse than the last. Your voice changed when you spoke to them. Still distorted, still careful, but lower. Gentler.
“You’re safe,” you told them. “Stay behind me.”
Jason remembered that more clearly than he wanted to.
He had named you Mirage after the third time you interfered with one of his missions, when you used hacked security lights, mirrored decoys, and smoke to make eight men in a warehouse believe there were four of you surrounding them. By the end of that fight, half of them had surrendered to shadows. Jason had stood amid the wreckage with a cracked helmet and blood in his mouth, watching you zip-tie a man to a forklift with more elegance than the situation deserved.
“So,” he said, “Mirage.”
You looked up. “Absolutely not.”
“Too late. It suits you.”
“It sounds like something a man with a branding problem would say.”
“I have excellent branding.”
“You wear a red helmet in Gotham.”
“Iconic.”
“Obvious.”
“Effective.”
“Loud,” you said, and vanished into the smoke before he could decide whether to be offended.
He kept calling you Mirage. You kept pretending you hated it.
Over the years, your paths crossed often enough that coincidence became an insult to both of you. You were not a Bat, though you knew them well enough to keep out of their way when it mattered and irritate them when it did not. You were not one of Jason’s people either, though you appeared in his territory with alarming frequency and a habit of leaving criminals gift-wrapped for the police before he could finish terrifying them. You chased different pieces of the same ugly machine: weapons moving through fashion warehouses, girls disappearing after private parties, donors with clean names and dirty hands, men who hid their violence behind money because Gotham had taught them that enough silk could cover any amount of blood.
Jason learned the shape of your silence.
You would fight beside him without hesitation. You would take his offered hand if you were dangling from a fire escape with bullets carving brick apart around you. You would let him press gauze to your side if you were bleeding badly enough to make pride impractical. But the second a fight ended, you became distant again, all smoke and deflection, humor sharpened into a blade before he could ask a single question that mattered.
He knew you favored rooftops over alleys when waiting for a target. He knew you hated guns but understood them too well to be naive about them. He knew you had expensive gear, better intel than half the people in masks, and a dangerous familiarity with Gotham’s elite. He knew you could walk into a room full of predators and make them think you were prey until the door locked behind them.
He did not know your name.
Gotham did.
That was the joke, though neither of you knew it yet.
By daylight, your name moved through the city like perfume. It rose from magazine covers and flashed across entertainment reports, appeared on invitations, press releases, donor lists, charity boards, luxury campaigns, and the sides of buildings so enormous that Jason had ridden past your face a hundred times without ever thinking to connect it to the woman who once broke a trafficker’s nose in front of him and told him his interrogation technique lacked imagination.
You had been famous long before Red Hood named you Mirage.
You had also been careful long before Jason Todd started looking.
Fame was not a mask you had chosen because you enjoyed being adored. It had begun as work, then leverage, then cover. People spoke in front of beautiful women. They spoke in front of models because they thought looking was a kind of ownership and ownership made them careless. Men who guarded their offices left doors unlocked when they wanted to show off. Men who had trained themselves not to mention crimes in boardrooms forgot themselves over champagne when they believed the woman beside them was too decorative to understand what she was hearing.
You understood everything.
You had learned how to turn being underestimated into a weapon.
You had also learned that no one survived a double life alone.
“Hold still,” Devin said, in the tone of a man who had said it five times already and was two seconds away from making it everyone’s problem.
You stopped flexing your hand.
Devin gave you a sharp look in the mirror. “That was not holding still. That was malicious compliance.”
“I’m holding still emotionally.”
“Wonderful. I’ll put that on your tombstone after I kill you myself.”
He bent over your hand again, his brush moving with the kind of precision surgeons probably envied. Devin had been your makeup artist for six years, which meant he knew your face better than some people knew their own. He was gorgeous in a way that made strangers check their posture, with warm brown skin, close-cropped curls bleached at the tips, and a wardrobe that treated black turtlenecks like a personal religion. He wore gold hoops, silver rings, and an expression of divine irritation whenever your nightlife interfered with his artistry.
He was also the reason half of Gotham did not know its favorite model regularly arrived at shoots looking like she had lost an argument with a brick wall.
“That bruise is deep,” he said, stippling color over the split at your knuckle. “Don’t tell me you fell.”
“I would never insult you like that.”
“You insult me every time you come in here with your face rearranged and expect me to make you look dewy.”
“You are spectacular at your job.”
“Yes, and I’m bisexual, overbooked, underpaid for the emotional labor, and far too beautiful to be color-correcting vigilante trauma at six in the morning.” Devin leaned closer to inspect his work. “Did you at least win?”
You looked at him in the mirror.
He rolled his eyes. “Of course you did. That is why you look smug and concussed.”
“I’m not concussed.”
“You said the same thing last year before you asked me why the couch had opinions.”
“The couch was ugly.”
“The couch was from Milan.”
“It had bad vibes.”
Devin’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Your agent bought that couch.”
“My agent loves me enough to survive the truth.”
“She also loves you enough to cancel Milan if you keep bleeding on my makeup chair.”
From the other side of the dressing room, Marisol looked up from her phone. “I have done it before.”
“You canceled one fitting,” you said.
“I canceled an entire day of fittings, two interviews, and lunch with a man who kept calling me sweetheart in emails even though my signature clearly says Marisol Vega, Agency Representation and Public Strategy.” She smiled without warmth. “I regret nothing.”
Marisol had been your agent for almost as long as Devin had been touching your face. She had started as your booker when both of you were younger, nicer, and less tired. Now she managed your contracts, your press, your charities, your excuses, your disappearances, and the public-facing shape of your life with the competence of a military commander and the loyalty of someone who had once held your hand in a hospital bathroom while Devin painted over a bruise on your cheek before an early morning campaign call.
Your crew was not large, but it was yours.
Devin handled your face and, when necessary, your lies beneath it. Talia, your stylist, had learned to sew hidden pockets into couture without disturbing the line of a gown and could smuggle a collapsible baton into a garment bag with the calm of a woman bringing snacks to a matinee. Nadia, your hairstylist, could hide an earpiece beneath a cascade of waves or a sleek knot so cleanly that security scanners looked like amateurs. Marcus, your driver and unofficial security, knew which alleys had cameras, which paparazzi could be bribed, and which photographers were too predatory to be allowed near the car.
They knew.
Not all of it at first. Not all at once. But bruises told stories, and the people who loved you had learned to read. They had noticed the blood beneath your nails, the torn seams, the exhaustion that followed nights when Gotham’s ugliest men appeared on the morning news with broken hands and no explanation. You had tried lying. Devin had said, with perfect eyeliner and a face like judgment, that he had not survived high school, beauty school, and dating men to be lied to badly by someone he loved.
After that, the lie became a system.
“Your left shoulder is still tight,” Talia said from the garment rack, not looking at you directly. “The gold dress is out.”
“I like the gold dress.”
“The gold dress requires symmetry and a deep breath. You currently have neither.”
“I can fake both.”
“You cannot fake breathing, darling. That is how we ended up with the corset incident.”
Marisol lifted one finger. “We do not speak of the corset incident.”
Devin dabbed concealer along the base of your knuckle. “I speak of it frequently because it was traumatic for me and I deserve community support.”
“You weren’t the one in the corset,” you said.
“No, I was the one explaining to a French photographer why his muse was on the floor breathing into a paper bag while her secret security gremlin threatened to stab him with a hatpin.”
From the doorway, Marcus said, “I did not threaten. I displayed options.”
“You are all impossible,” you said.
Marisol’s expression softened just enough to be dangerous. “We learned from the best.”
You looked away first because affection in a dressing room before a shoot at six in the morning was somehow harder to endure than gunfire.
Devin caught it, of course. He caught everything. He tilted your chin back toward him with two fingers and resumed blending along the edge of your jaw, where a bruise had begun to yellow under your skin.
“Do I need to worry about Red Hood?” he asked.
The room changed so subtly that anyone else might have missed it.
Talia’s hands paused on a hanger. Marisol’s thumb stopped moving over her phone. Marcus became very interested in the hallway.
You kept your face still. “Why would you worry about Red Hood?”
“Because the last time you came back from patrol with that look on your face, it was after you let him stitch your side and then pretended that was a tactical decision.”
“It was a tactical decision.”
“It was a rom-com for people with severe emotional damage.”
Marisol looked up. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
“Do we need to make a call?”
“To who?”
“Anyone. Everyone. Bruce Wayne, if necessary. The man collects damaged strays like other billionaires collect yachts.”
You almost smiled. “I’m fine.”
Devin snorted. “She says, while I am painting over what appears to be a handprint on her ribs.”
“It was a bad landing.”
“On what? A person?”
You said nothing.
“That silence is legally an admission.” Devin leaned back, inspecting your face with the offended pride of an artist forced to repair a masterpiece after raccoons attacked it. “There. You look rested, luminous, and entirely unlike a woman who spent last night fistfighting organized crime.”
“See? Spectacular.”
“I know. Praise is accepted in cash, compliments, or the name of the man who keeps putting that look on your face.”
“There is no look.”
All four of them stared at you.
You sighed. “I hate you all.”
“No, you don’t,” Marisol said.
You did not.
That was the trouble with being loved by people who knew where the armor ended and the skin began. They made it harder to disappear.
Red Hood did not have that problem, or so you thought.
Hood operated like a warning that had taught itself to walk upright. He had allies, obviously. Gotham’s vigilante scene was too tangled for anyone to be truly alone, whatever they told themselves. He had the Bats, though his relationship with them seemed to shift depending on the night, the case, and how recently Batman had said something emotionally constipated. He had people who would answer if he called. He had hands at his back when the world was ending.
But Hood carried loneliness like an old injury.
You recognized it because you had spent years turning your own into posture.
That was probably why the two of you kept finding each other on rooftops after fights were over, lingering too long in the gray hour before dawn. You would sit on a ledge with blood drying beneath your gloves. He would lean against an access door with the red helmet tucked beneath one arm, domino mask still keeping the last inch of ritual intact.
Sometimes you talked about the case.
Sometimes you argued about methods because arguing was easier than admitting how familiar it had become to breathe the same cold air.
Sometimes you said nothing.
One night, after the two of you stopped a shipment beneath the Westward Bridge, Hood found you sitting on the hood of a stolen van with a butterfly bandage half-applied to your cheek and an expression like you were debating whether pride could be used as a medical adhesive.
He held out his hand.
You looked at it. “What?”
“Give me the bandage.”
“I’m fine.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I noticed.”
“Mirage.”
The way he said your name was starting to become a problem. It had been a joke once. A label tossed at a stranger in smoke. Somewhere along the way, it had become familiar enough to make you answer as if it were your real name.
You handed him the bandage.
He stepped close, careful enough to be irritating, and tilted your chin with the back of one knuckle. His hood had fallen back after the fight, rain catching in the dark hair at his temples and the white streak cutting through it. The red mask was gone, leaving only the domino across his eyes and the stubborn line of his mouth when concern tried to disguise itself as annoyance. It should have made him feel less like Red Hood. Somehow, it only made the gentleness stranger.
“You always this difficult with people trying to help?” he asked.
“You always this bossy with people bleeding in your vicinity?”
“Usually I’m worse.”
“That tracks.”
He cleaned the cut with a disinfectant wipe, his thumb resting lightly near your jaw. The sting helped. Pain was easier to manage than his hands being gentle.
“You going to tell me why you were after D’Amico?” he asked.
“You already know why.”
“I know he moves girls through private clubs and auctions guns to men with too much money. I don’t know why you were angry enough to throw him through a windshield.”
“He landed badly.”
“He landed exactly where you aimed.”
You looked past him toward the river.
Hood taped the bandage into place and did not move away. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“I know.”
That was worse than pushing. Pushing gave you something to resist. Patience asked what you were so afraid of.
A siren wailed in the distance. The air smelled like wet asphalt, gunpowder, and the river.
“He was at a party once,” you said before you could stop yourself.
He went still.
“He thought no one important was listening.”
“And you were?”
You smiled faintly beneath the mask. “People talk in front of beautiful women.”
Hood’s gaze intensified.
You felt the mistake half a second too late.
His thumb, still near your jaw, went motionless. Not enough to trap you. Enough to tell you that something had shifted behind his eyes.
You slid off the van.
“I need to go.”
“Mirage.”
“Don’t.”
You looked at him then, and whatever he saw made him stop.
For all his anger, all his blood and guns and theater, Jason Todd understood the shape of a locked door.
He stepped back.
You fired your grappling line and left him with the body of your almost-confession on the street between you.
After that, he started paying attention differently.
Jason had always noticed things. It was part training, part paranoia, part having died once and come back with a nervous system that trusted danger more than peace. But after that night by the river, he began to notice the edges of Mirage that did not fit into his existing file.
The gear had always been expensive. Not Bat-expensive exactly, but custom, clever, built by people with money and taste. Your armor was too fitted, too cleanly repaired, too elegant in the details no one was supposed to see. Your boots were quiet but not cheap. Your gloves were reinforced at the knuckles and tailored at the wrist. The hidden compartments in your suit were not improvised; they were designed by someone who understood bodies, movement, fabric, and concealment.
You knew high society too well.
You knew which gala entrances had private security instead of city police. You knew the names of donors who never appeared in crime databases but turned up in the wrong rooms with the wrong men. You knew which senators drank too much, which council aides had gambling debts, which fashion houses hired girls too young and too desperate to ask why their contracts included private travel clauses.
People talk in front of beautiful women.
The sentence bothered him for weeks.
Then Bruce disrupted his life by asking him to attend a Wayne Foundation benefit tied to Gotham Fashion Week.
Jason said no.
Bruce did not blink. “You haven’t heard the details.”
“I heard benefit and fashion. That was enough.”
“Several names connected to Black Mask’s distribution network will be there.”
“Send Tim.”
“Out of the country.”
“Dick.”
“Blüdhaven.”
“Cass.”
“Hong Kong.”
“Damian.”
Bruce stared at him.
Jason sighed. “Fine, not Damian.”
“It’s at the Novick Theater,” Bruce said. “The public event is legitimate. The private after-event may not be.”
“May not be.”
“That’s why I need eyes inside.”
“You have eyes inside.”
“I need eyes that do not look like mine.”
Jason leaned back in the chair. “So you want me to play rich dead son at a fashion show.”
Bruce’s mouth tightened slightly at dead, but he did not take the bait. He rarely did when it would be satisfying. “I want you to attend as Jason Todd.”
“That usually goes well.”
“It goes better than Red Hood walking through the front door.”
“Depends who you ask.”
“Jason.”
The name landed with that particular Bruce weight, like a hand on a shoulder that was somehow also a locked gate. Jason hated it. He hated more that some part of him still responded.
He went.
He told himself it was for the case.
The Novick Theater had been restored with the kind of money that made old things look clean enough to forgive themselves. Gold trim shone beneath chandeliers. Velvet curtains framed a runway built over the orchestra seats. Gotham’s elite gathered in black tie and couture, drinking champagne beneath banners that promised art, philanthropy, and empowerment. Jason stood near a pillar with his back to the wall, wearing a black suit Alfred had tailored years ago and an expression that kept most people from trying to make conversation.
Bruce, naturally, found him anyway.
“You look like you’re planning a murder,” Bruce said mildly.
“I’m surrounded by people using the word curated in normal conversation.”
“That would explain it.”
“I found four concealed weapons.”
“This is Gotham.”
“Six if we count the woman near the west bar with the knife in her clutch.”
Bruce glanced once without moving his head. “We count her.”
Jason watched a man near the east corridor adjust his cuff too often. “You owe me.”
“I’ll tell Alfred you said that.”
“That’s low.”
The lights dimmed before Bruce could answer.
Music filled the theater, low and sleek, with a pulse beneath it that made the floor feel alive. Models moved down the runway in structured gowns, black silk, sharp white tailoring, flashes of silver and red. Jason watched because there were exits to monitor and suspects to track, and because if he looked too bored, Bruce would make a comment with three layers of disappointment in it.
Then you stepped onto the runway.
The room changed.
Jason hated that he noticed. He hated the hush that passed through the crowd, the way cameras lifted like worship, the way people leaned forward as if beauty could be breathed in through proximity. You wore a black gown cut clean across your shoulders, the fabric fitted through your body before falling loose around your legs. Diamonds flashed at your ears. Your hair was swept back from your face, leaving every expression visible and somehow revealing nothing at all.
You were beautiful. That was obvious, and Jason did not trust obvious things.
What caught him was the way you moved.
You walked like the room belonged to the idea of you, but your body knew better than to believe it. Every step was smooth, every turn controlled, but there was something beneath it that did not belong only to a runway. Your weight settled like someone who could pivot fast. Your gaze drifted over the room without seeming to search it, pausing for a fraction of a second at the east service corridor, the balcony door, the emergency exit half-hidden behind flowers.
Jason straightened.
Your face was familiar because Gotham had made it impossible for it not to be. He had ridden beneath it, past it, around it for years. Your campaigns filled the city. Perfume, jewelry, couture, charity appeals. You were a public myth in silk, the woman everyone seemed to know without knowing anything at all.
That was not why his mind caught.
Your right hand was covered in makeup.
He noticed because he had spent too much of his life hiding split knuckles to miss it. Foundation had been blended along the base of your fingers, careful and professional, but not enough to disguise the faint swelling near your middle knuckle. Your left shoulder sat a fraction too still beneath the gown. A pale mark near your jaw, mostly hidden by contour and light, looked very much like the edge of the cut he had taped closed two weeks earlier on the hood of a stolen van.
People talk in front of beautiful women.
Your eyes passed over him.
For one impossible second, Jason felt the same assessing attention he knew from rooftops. Not admiration. Not curiosity. Calculation. You looked at him and seemed to measure the distance between him and the exits, the breadth of his shoulders beneath the suit, the way he kept his left hand free. Then your gaze moved on with such perfect disinterest that half the room probably believed it.
Jason stood very still.
Bruce appeared at his side like an expensive haunting. “You saw it.”
Jason did not look at him. “Saw what?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Don’t be cryptic at fashion shows.”
“I’ve suspected for some time,” Bruce said.
That made Jason turn his head slowly. “You what?”
Bruce’s gaze remained on the runway. “There are patterns.”
“There are always patterns with you.”
“She has donated anonymously to clinics in neighborhoods that overlap with Mirage’s activity. Her travel schedule contains gaps that correspond to several interventions in trafficking cases. Men connected to private events she attended have later been found injured, frightened, and far more cooperative with investigators than expected.”
Jason stared at him. “And you didn’t say anything?”
“I didn’t know.”
“You’re Batman.”
“I suspected,” Bruce corrected quietly. “There’s a difference.”
Jason looked back at you as you reached the end of the runway and turned beneath the lights. The gown moved around you like shadow poured into silk.
Across the theater, a man stumbled into the path of a waiter. The tray tipped. A champagne flute slid loose.
You caught it by the stem without looking away from the cameras.
Jason heard Bruce breathe out softly beside him.
“Careful,” Bruce said.
Jason’s jaw tightened. “With her?”
“With yourself.”
That was worse.
After the show, the theater rearranged itself into a party. The runway disappeared beneath donors, photographers, stylists, politicians, and the kind of men Jason would have preferred to meet in alleys rather than under chandeliers. He kept you in sight without meaning to. You moved through the room like you had been trained for it, smiling at the right moments, touching a reporter’s arm, leaning toward a donor, turning your face toward cameras as if offering them exactly what they wanted while keeping everything else behind your teeth.
A man with silver hair and a senator’s pin kissed your hand near the champagne table.
Jason watched your shoulders go still.
Only for a second. Less than that, maybe. Then you smiled.
Mirage, his mind said.
The senator smiled back.
Jason wanted to break his fingers and did not know why.
Across the room, a man with perfect makeup and a black turtleneck watched Jason watching you.
His expression turned bright and sharp.
Jason had been threatened by assassins, mob bosses, ancient cultists, and Bruce in a bad mood. Somehow, the makeup artist’s smile still managed to feel personal.
You slipped away to a side corridor ten minutes later.
Jason followed.
He found you in a temporary dressing room behind the stage, one hand braced on the makeup counter while the makeup artist stood in front of you with a brush in one hand and murder in his eyes.
“I cannot fix a hand if you keep making a fist,” the makeup artist said.
“I’m not making a fist.”
“You are emotionally making a fist, and your body is following.”
“I need five minutes.”
“You need a therapist, eight hours of sleep, and possibly a priest, but we work with what we have.”
Jason stopped in the doorway.
The makeup artist’s eyes lifted in the mirror.
There it was again. That smile. Bright, professional, sharp enough to draw blood.
“Mr. Todd,” he said, sweeping concealer over the split skin at your knuckle with flawless precision. “You’re staring.”
You went still.
Slowly, your gaze rose to the mirror and found Jason behind you.
He should have said something casual. He had not survived this long without knowing how to lie with a straight face. But the sight of you seated in front of a mirror, black gown pooled around your legs, bruised hand held in makeup artist’s careful grip while he painted the evidence away, unsettled him more than any mask could have.
There were garment bags along one wall. A tray of makeup arranged like surgical instruments. A first-aid kit open beneath the counter. A pair of black tactical gloves half-hidden under a silk scarf.
Your world, Jason realized, was not divided cleanly between glamour and violence.
It was stitched together by people who knew exactly where the seams were.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said.
The makeup artist’s expression suggested he absolutely believed Jason had meant to do several things, most of them suspicious.
“You did,” he said.
“Devin,” you warned softly.
“Oh, don’t “Devin” me. You let a Wayne boy into the dressing room while I’m covering what is very clearly not a backstage injury. I am allowed this complaint.”
Jason’s brows rose. “Wayne boy?”
“You heard me.”
You sighed. “Jason, this is Devin.”
“Makeup artist?” Jason asked.
“Artist, miracle worker, bisexual icon, emotional support menace,” Devin said. “And currently the only thing standing between her and tomorrow’s headline being ‘Gotham Darling Loses Fight with Door.’”
Jason looked at your hand. “Door?”
“You should hear some of her worse lies. Once she told Vogue she fell into a fountain.”
“I did fall into a fountain.”
“You were thrown through decorative water by a man with brass knuckles and no skincare routine.”
“That was one time.”
Devin looked at Jason. “It was not one time.”
Despite himself, Jason almost smiled.
You saw it in the mirror and narrowed your eyes.
Marisol entered then with a tablet in one hand and a phone in the other. She was beautifully dressed, visibly exhausted, and possessed of the kind of authority that made Jason stand straighter before he decided whether he wanted to. Her gaze moved from you to Devin to Jason, then returned to you with terrifying calm.
“Is this a problem?”
You opened your mouth.
Jason answered first. “No.”
Marisol looked at him. “That was not directed at you.”
“I’m figuring that out.”
“Good.” She smiled thinly. “Keep going.”
You pressed your lips together like you were fighting not to laugh. Jason decided, with a strange sense of alarm, that your civilian life might be more dangerous than your vigilante one.
“He knows,” you said.
Marisol’s face went still.
Devin’s brush stopped.
Jason looked at you in the mirror. “I don’t know anything you haven’t let me know.”
That shifted something in the room.
Devin’s gaze flicked toward him, assessing and no longer quite so amused. Marisol studied him as if deciding whether his body would fit in a garment trunk.
You looked away first.
“Who else knows?” Marisol asked.
Jason’s jaw tightened. “No one.”
“Anyone suspect?”
His silence lasted half a second too long.
Marisol’s eyes narrowed. “That was not a comforting pause.”
“People in my family are nosy.”
Devin resumed blending your knuckles. “Do we hate him?”
“Jason?” you asked.
“Obviously Jason. Keep up, babe. The nosy family can wait their turn.”
Jason looked at you.
You looked down at your hand, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you. “Not yet.”
“Progress,” Jason said.
“No one said that.”
Devin made a thoughtful sound. “I hate him a little less now.”
“How generous.”
“It is. I’m normally very good at first impressions.”
Jason glanced at the open first-aid kit, the hidden gloves, the bruises disappearing under Devin’s brush. “You all know.”
Marisol’s expression softened around the edges, but not enough to become harmless. “Someone has to.”
That landed somewhere Jason did not expect.
He had assumed Mirage was alone because Mirage disappeared alone. He had built that assumption out of his own reflection, out of years of leaving rooftops before anyone could see him bleed. But here you were, surrounded by people who knew what to pack in your garment bags, how to cover bruises, how to kill a story, how to turn a gown into cover and a schedule into an alibi. Not soldiers. Not Bats. A found family armed with concealer, contracts, exit routes, and love sharp enough to bruise.
It made something in him ache.
The dressing room door opened again, and a woman with silver pins clipped to the neckline of her blouse leaned in.
“Talia says the senator wants a photo before the private preview,” she said, then saw Jason and paused. “Oh. Is this Red Hood?”
Jason stared at her.
You put your face in your uninjured hand.
Devin, delighted, said, “Nadia, you can’t just ask people that.”
“Why? He has the shoulders.”
Jason looked at you. “The shoulders?”
“I said nothing.”
“You told them about my shoulders?”
“No,” Devin said. “She has taste, and we have eyes.”
Marisol pinched the bridge of her nose. “Everyone out who does not need to be in here. Nadia, tell Talia we need the black gloves. Devin, finish the hand. Jason Todd, if you are going to stand there looking like unresolved trauma in a suit, at least block the door from photographers.”
Jason blinked.
Then he moved to block the door.
You watched him in the mirror, and the expression on your face was too soft before you caught it.
Devin caught it too.
He lowered his voice, just enough. “Careful.”
“I know.”
“I’m not saying don’t.”
You looked up at him.
Devin’s smile faded into something gentler. “I’m saying make sure he knows what he’s holding.”
Your throat tightened.
Jason, pretending not to listen by the door, looked at the floor.
The private preview began at midnight.
By then, Devin had hidden your bruised knuckles beneath black opera gloves, Talia had altered the fall of your gown to account for your tight shoulder, Nadia had arranged your hair to conceal a comm, and Marisol had created a plausible gap in your schedule large enough to contain either a bathroom break or a small war. Marcus waited at the side entrance with the car running and three different routes out of the theater loaded into his phone.
Jason watched it all with a strange mix of admiration and discomfort.
Your people did not ask whether you were going to stop. They asked where the exits were. They checked your breathing, tightened a hidden strap, pressed a card into your hand with emergency contacts printed in tiny elegant font, and loved you with the exhausted competence of people who had accepted the impossible and built a system around it.
“You good?” Jason asked quietly when the others stepped away.
You looked at him, black gown brushing the floor, diamonds at your ears, baton hidden beneath silk. Mirage had not put on the mask, but she was standing behind your eyes.
“Usually,” you said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one I have.”
Jason’s gaze dropped to your gloved hand. “The senator. Who is he?”
You looked toward the ballroom.
Senator Harlan Crowe stood beneath a chandelier, smiling benevolently while a photographer adjusted the angle. By daylight, Gotham praised him when it needed to feel good about itself. He funded clinics, shook hands with survivors, gave speeches about protecting vulnerable women, and built his career out of language polished smooth enough to hide the bones beneath it. He had kissed your hand six months earlier at a donor dinner and told you your advocacy work was inspiring.
His fingers had been warm, soft, and manicured.
His eyes had lingered too long.
“Someone who thinks public virtue is a locked door,” you said.
Jason followed your gaze. “And private vice is the room behind it.”
“You do have poetry in there somewhere.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“I would never ruin your reputation.”
His mouth curved faintly, but his eyes stayed on Crowe. “He hurt you?”
“Not directly.”
That was honest enough to make Jason’s jaw flex.
You touched his sleeve before he could move. The gesture surprised both of you. His gaze dropped to your hand, black glove against black wool.
“Not here,” you said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His eyes met yours.
Whatever answer he would have given vanished when Crowe lifted his champagne glass and looked directly at you.
Recognition did not show on his face. Not real recognition. He knew the public version of you, like everyone did. He knew your name, your campaigns, your usefulness at events like this. He knew how cameras loved you and how donors loved standing near whatever cameras loved.
He did not know that Mirage was looking back at him.
You smiled.
Crowe smiled in return.
Jason felt something cold move through the room.
The preview took place in the restored lower gallery beneath the theater, a private exhibition space lined with photographs from the campaign and couture pieces displayed like artifacts. Attendance was invitation-only, which meant wealthy enough to be careless or useful enough to be bought. Marisol kept you near the center of the room, circulating when necessary, letting you become the thing everyone expected you to be. Beautiful. Polished. Untouchable.
Jason stayed at the edges.
He was good at edges.
He watched Crowe. He watched the man with the cufflinks shaped like knives. He watched two private security guards who did not move like event staff. He watched Devin appear beside you every fifteen minutes with powder and a warning glance, fixing what no one else could see. He watched Marisol run interference with reporters and donors so smoothly that he understood why you trusted her with your life.
Then one of Crowe’s aides disappeared through a staff door with a young model from the event.
The girl was smiling too brightly.
You moved before Jason did.
He caught up to you in the corridor, where the music from the gallery faded into the hum of old pipes and emergency lights.
He said your name under his breath.
Not Mirage. Not the name Gotham’s criminals whispered after the smoke cleared. Your real name, the one printed on campaign contracts and shouted by photographers outside the theater. He said it softly, urgently, and with enough recognition beneath it that it felt more dangerous than the mask.
You did not stop. “Not here.”
“I know where we are,” Jason said. “That’s why I’m using the name everyone else knows.”
That almost made you look at him.
Almost.
“You’re moving like Mirage,” he said.
That stopped you.
For half a second, the corridor seemed too narrow for both versions of you. The public woman in the black gown. The vigilante beneath the silk. Jason in his suit, Red Hood in the way he held himself. He was not threatening to expose you. That was the problem. He was being careful, and somehow that made it harder to keep walking like he had not seen through you.
You turned your head. “You wouldn’t.”
“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”
The certainty in his voice did more to disarm you than the threat ever could have.
A muffled cry came from behind the staff door.
You moved again.
The door opened into a narrow backstage dressing room cluttered with garment bags, lighting cases, a makeup counter, and a rack of unused costumes from whatever production the Novick had last hosted before money turned it into a venue for rich people with guilty consciences. Crowe’s aide had the girl pinned against the wall with one hand clamped around her upper arm and the other over her mouth. There was a syringe on the counter beside them.
Jason’s entire body went still.
You got there first.
The aide hit the floor hard enough that the mirror rattled. You put one heel on his wrist and pressed until he stopped reaching for the syringe. The girl stumbled toward Jason, who caught her carefully and moved her behind him with a gentleness that did not match the look on his face.
You kicked the door shut behind you.
Jason reached back and turned the lock without taking his eyes off the aide.
“Cameras?” he asked.
“Not in here.” You tapped the comm hidden behind your ear. “Nadia, kill the hallway feed outside prep room three.”
There was a faint crackle, then Nadia’s voice came through, calm and clipped. “Already on it. You have four minutes before someone notices the loop.”
“Make it six.”
“Do not start negotiating with me while committing crimes in couture.”
Jason glanced at you.
You ignored him.
The girl’s breathing came too fast, sharp enough to hurt. You softened your voice when you turned to her, though the anger in your chest had gone cold and steady.
“You’re safe,” you told her. “Dressing room at the end of the hall. Lock the door behind you. Call this number.” You pulled a card from the hidden slit inside your glove and handed it to her. “Tell them Marisol sent you.”
The girl nodded, shaking.
Jason stepped aside just enough to let her pass. He opened the door a few inches, checked the corridor, then let her slip out. The second she was gone, he shut the door and locked it again.
The aide made a small, frightened sound beneath your heel.
Jason looked down at him. “Talk.”
The aide looked at you, then at Jason. Whatever he saw between the two of you made him pale.
He broke quickly.
Men like him usually did once separated from their pack. He gave up the basement level, the shipment, Crowe’s private security, and the fact that the preview event upstairs was not only cover. It was a marketplace. Blackmail files, weapons, girls, names traded with champagne still on men’s breath. Not all of it would happen tonight. Enough would.
You listened without moving.
Jason watched your face.
The public mask did not crack, exactly. It emptied.
That frightened him more.
“Where?” you asked.
The aide swallowed. “Below the stage. Old trap room. Please, I swear, I don’t—”
You pressed your heel down once.
He stopped.
Jason crouched and zip-tied the aide with his own belt. “Anything else?”
The aide shook his head frantically. “No. No, I swear, that’s everything.”
Jason looked at you.
You gave a small nod.
The aide had enough time to look relieved before Jason struck him once, clean and controlled. His eyes rolled back, and he slumped sideways against the wall, unconscious before his shoulder hit the floor.
You looked down at him. “Was that necessary?”
“He saw us, heard enough to be useful, and was two seconds from screaming the second we left him alone.” Jason checked his pulse with two fingers, then stood. “Yes.”
You could not argue with that.
The room was quiet for half a breath. The locked door muffled the distant music from the gallery. Somewhere above you, people were still laughing over champagne while Crowe moved girls, weapons, and blackmail files beneath their feet.
You reached beneath the slit of your gown, fingers finding the hidden fastening at your thigh.
Jason’s gaze dropped.
“Turn around,” you said.
His eyes lifted back to yours.
For one strange second, neither of you moved. Then Jason turned without a word and took up position by the locked door, one hand close to the weapon beneath his jacket while you worked behind him.
That was the part that should not have affected you.
The fight was waiting below. You did not have time to linger over trust, especially not here, with your gown still brushing the floor and danger moving beneath the theater.
Still, Jason turned around the second you asked.
Behind him, silk whispered to the floor. He heard the soft clicks of hidden fastenings, the slide of armor pulled from seams, the controlled rhythm of your breathing. The absurdity of it should have been funny: standing guard in a theater corridor while one of Gotham’s most famous women stepped out of couture and into vigilante gear behind him.
It was not funny.
It felt like being trusted with the door.
“You can turn around,” you said.
Mirage stood where the model had been.
The gown lay over one arm, black silk gleaming like spilled ink. Beneath it, you wore the flexible base layer Jason knew too well, reinforced pieces clipped along your ribs and shoulders, your mask still absent but tucked in your hand. You had not fully crossed from one life into the other. Not yet.
Jason looked from the unconscious aide to the gown. “That was dramatic.”
“You knocked him out.”
“You changed clothes in the middle of a crime scene.”
“You like dramatic.”
“I like efficient.”
“It can be both.”
He loosened his cuffs and removed his jacket. Beneath the suit, he had enough armor to make your brows lift.
“You wore body armor to a benefit.”
“You wore a vigilante suit under couture.”
“That was practical.”
“That was insane.”
“You’re one to talk.”
Jason smiled, quick and unwilling.
You lifted the mask from your hand, but one of the damaged straps caught against your glove before you could fasten it. Jason stepped closer without a word, his fingers careful as he freed the clasp and let you secure it yourself.
The second it settled into place, something shifted between you. Not distance this time.
Understanding.
The fight below the stage was ugly.
Crowe had prepared for police, not vigilantes, but Gotham criminals adapted quickly when terrified. The basement level was a maze of storage rooms, trap mechanisms, old dressing areas, and reinforced crates marked as lighting equipment. Some held weapons. Some held files. One held two girls with zip ties around their wrists and tape over their mouths.
You went very quiet when you found them.
Jason noticed.
He always noticed.
“Get them out,” he said.
“Crowe is mine.”
“Mirage.”
You turned on him. “He is mine.”
Jason’s expression tightened behind the red mask and domino he had pulled on somewhere between the corridor and the stairs. “I’m not arguing that. I’m saying get them out first.”
You hated that he was right.
You hated more that he knew why you needed him to say it.
You cut the girls loose while Jason held the doorway. Gunfire cracked through the basement, loud enough to rattle the pipes overhead. You guided the girls through the side passage and sent them toward the emergency stairs, where Marcus would be waiting because Marisol had already received your coded alert and your people knew what to do when the night turned its teeth on you.
One of the girls clung to your hand for half a second before running.
By the time you returned, Jason was in the middle of the room with blood darkening the edge of his mask and three men on the floor.
“You’re bleeding,” you said.
“You’re late.”
“To your fight?”
“To subtlety as a concept.”
Despite everything, you almost smiled.
Then Crowe stepped out from behind a row of crates with a gun in one hand and a detonator in the other.
The room went still.
He looked different without cameras. Smaller, somehow, even with the weapon. Men like him always did when the performance ended. His expensive suit was rumpled, his benevolent smile gone flat and mean.
“Well,” Crowe said. “This is disappointing.”
Jason raised his gun. “Drop it.”
“If I do, you shoot me.”
“Probably.”
“Honesty from a masked criminal. Gotham really is changing.”
Your eyes moved over the detonator, then the wires trailing toward the crates. Enough explosives to bury the basement. Not enough to level the theater. Crowe wanted leverage, not martyrdom.
His gaze shifted to you.
The way he looked at your body in the armor made your skin crawl even more than it had at the gala.
“You,” he said slowly. “I know something about you.”
Jason moved half a step forward, placing himself just enough between you and Crowe to make a point.
Crowe smiled. “Protective.”
“Bored,” Jason said. “You going to monologue or bleed quietly?”
Crowe ignored him. His eyes stayed on you. “You have familiar posture. That sounds absurd, doesn’t it? But I spend a great deal of time watching women pretend not to hate rooms they willingly entered.”
Your fingers tightened around your baton.
Jason’s voice lowered. “Don’t listen to him.”
Crowe’s smile sharpened. “Ah. There it is.”
You moved first.
The gun fired.
Pain burned across your side, hot and bright where the bullet grazed the seam in your armor. Jason slammed into Crowe before he could fire again, driving him into the crates hard enough to splinter wood. The detonator clattered, skidding across the floor. You lunged for it.
Crowe caught your hood.
The fabric yanked tight. You twisted, but his fingers hooked the edge of your mask before you could break his grip. The fastening snapped with a sharp, ugly sound.
You hit him across the jaw with your baton.
He fell.
Your mask loosened.
For half a second, you caught it with one hand.
Then the broken strap gave way.
It hit the floor between you and Jason.
The basement went silent.
Jason stared at your face.
At the same moment, Crowe laughed through the blood in his mouth.
“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, that is rich.”
Jason’s gun lowered toward him with lethal calm. “Don’t.”
Crowe grinned up at you from the floor. “Gotham’s darling. The girl on every billboard. Does your agency know what you do after parties? Do your sponsors know? Do all those little girls buying your perfume know their idol spends her nights playing hero in basements?”
You reached for the mask.
Jason got there first.
He picked it up, stepped close, and turned his body so the security camera in the corner caught only his back. His hood was still up, the red mask still covering the lower half of his face. With his free hand, he peeled the domino from around his eyes and pressed it into your palm.
Your breath caught.
His voice was low enough that only you could hear it. “Cameras.”
You stared at him.
Jason Todd stood in front of you in the basement light, hood shadowing his face, red mask still in place, his domino in your hand and your broken mask in his. He had not given you everything. He was not reckless enough for that. But he had given you the part of his disguise that could still save yours.
It was practical.
It was dangerous.
It was the first thing anyone had done all night that made you feel safe.
“Put it on,” he said.
Your hands shook only once.
You secured his domino over your eyes while he stood close enough to shield you from the camera, his body turned deliberately between your face and the lens. Your broken mask hung from his other hand, the snapped strap dangling against his knuckles.
It did not hide you the same way, not really, but it was enough. Enough for grainy footage. Enough for plausible denial. Enough for a man like Crowe to lose the certainty he had been so thrilled to hold.
Jason looked down at him.
Crowe stopped laughing.
“Now,” Jason said, very softly, the voice modulator in his mask turning his voice into something colder, “you were saying?”
By the time the GCPD reached the basement, Crowe was unconscious, the detonator was disabled, the girls were safe, and the evidence against half of Gotham’s philanthropic class was arranged neatly on a crate. Red Hood and Mirage were gone before Gordon could decide whether to be furious or grateful.
You made it as far as the side entrance before your crew descended.
Marisol reached you first.
She did not scream. She did not panic. She looked at the blood on your side, the broken mask in Jason’s hand, the domino across your eyes, and made three decisions in less than a second.
“Marcus, car. Devin, kit. Talia, coat. Nadia, kill every camera angle between here and the east door.”
Nadia was already moving. “On it.”
Devin appeared with the emergency bag, took one look at Jason, and said, “Oh, I hate this.”
Jason blinked. “Me?”
“The situation, mostly. You a little.” Devin turned your chin with a gentleness that did not soften his expression. “Baby, why are you wearing his domino?”
“It was a camera thing.”
“A camera thing,” Devin repeated, in the tone of a man being asked to accept a raccoon as a handbag. “Wonderful. Love that. Very normal evening in fashion.”
Marisol pulled a long coat around your shoulders, hiding the armor and blood from view. “Can you walk?”
“Yes.”
Jason said, “Barely.”
You glared at him through his domino. “Not helping.”
“I’m helping accurately.”
Marisol looked between you. “You can flirt after we prevent a scandal and possible organ damage.”
“We’re not flirting,” you and Jason said at the same time.
Devin made an offended sound. “Do not insult me while I’m trying to save your career.”
Marcus brought the car around to the service entrance, blocking the view with his body while Talia gathered the ruined gown and bundled it beneath another coat. Your people moved around you with terrifying efficiency, turning disaster into logistics. Jason had seen combat teams less coordinated under pressure.
He helped you into the car because you let him.
That was the part that made everyone notice.
Marisol slid in beside you. Devin followed with the kit, muttering about antiseptic and fools. Jason started to step back, because this was your world and he had already pushed too far into it.
Your hand caught his sleeve.
“Come with me,” you said.
The car went very quiet.
Jason looked down at your hand.
Then at you.
Devin whispered, “Oh, she is down bad.”
“Devin,” Marisol said.
“What? Am I wrong?”
Jason got in.
For three seconds, the car was silent except for the hiss of Devin opening an antiseptic wipe.
Then you said, “Crowe saw my face.”
No one pretended not to understand.
Jason’s head turned toward you, his hood still up, the red mask covering the lower half of his face. The domino was still over your eyes. It felt strange there, too warm from his skin, too intimate for something meant to be practical.
Marisol looked at you from the opposite seat. “Crowe thinks he saw your face.”
“He knows.”
“He knows something,” she said. “That is not the same as having proof.”
“He said my name.”
“He said a lot of things while bleeding on a basement floor surrounded by evidence of human trafficking, illegal weapons, explosives, and attempted abduction.” Marisol’s voice stayed calm, which meant she had already started building a strategy. “If he starts screaming that Gotham’s favorite model is a vigilante, half the city will think he’s desperate, the other half will think he’s concussed, and the tabloids will call it a breakdown.”
“He had cameras.”
“Nadia?” Marisol said.
From the front passenger seat, Nadia did not look up from her phone. “Bad angle. Worse lighting. Red Hood blocked the only clean shot, which I will be thanking him for never. The rest is motion blur, smoke, his back, and her wearing the domino before the camera gets anything useful.”
Jason glanced toward her. “Never?”
“Do not make this emotional.”
Devin pressed the antiseptic wipe to your side and ignored the way you hissed through your teeth. “Also, people believe nonsense faster when there are options. We give them options.”
You looked at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Marisol said, “we flood the zone.”
“With what?”
“Other theories,” Nadia said, still typing. “Mirage is your body double. Mirage is your secret sister. Mirage is an ex-model with a vendetta. Mirage is actually three people. Mirage is a Wayne-funded performance art protest.”
Jason went very still. “Do not put Wayne in it.”
Marisol’s mouth curved. “Relax. We’ll keep it ridiculous.”
Devin brightened. “Bruce Wayne is Batman.”
Jason stared at him.
“What?” Devin said. “Too ridiculous?”
From the driver’s seat, Marcus said, “Clark Kent is Superman.”
Nadia snorted. “Please. The reporter from Metropolis?”
“He is tall,” Marcus said.
“So are lampposts.”
Despite the pain in your side and the fear still sitting cold beneath your ribs, a laugh escaped you.
Jason looked around the car as if he had accidentally climbed into a vehicle full of lunatics. “This is your damage-control plan?”
“This is step one,” Marisol said. “Step two is legal pressure. Step three is every sponsor and charity board calling Crowe unstable before breakfast. Step four is making sure any real footage becomes one more blurry clip in a sea of conspiracy edits.”
“You make that sound easy,” Jason said.
Marisol smiled at him. “I am very good at my job.”
You looked down at the broken mask in Jason’s hand. The snapped strap hung loose against his knuckles.
“He still knows,” you said quietly.
Jason’s gloved hand closed around the broken mask. “Then he lives with knowing something no one will believe.”
His voice was still altered by the red mask, low and rough and cold enough to belong to the man Gotham feared. Then his gaze dropped to the hand you still had curled in his sleeve. Carefully, he covered it with his own.
“And if he tries to use it,” he said, “he deals with all of us.”
Devin made a small sound. “Oh, I hate that I liked that.”
Marisol looked at Jason for a long moment, then nodded once, as if he had passed some test he had not known he was taking.
“Fine,” she said. “He can come upstairs.”
Your apartment looked different with him in it.
It was too clean, too high above the city, too full of expensive silence. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over Gotham. Across the avenue, one of your billboards glowed above the traffic, the campaign image enormous and flawless. In it, you wore red silk and a mouth painted to match. The woman in the advertisement looked untouchable.
Jason noticed.
Your crew swept in behind you and transformed the space with the ease of people who had done this before. Devin set up at the kitchen island with the medical kit. Marisol took phone calls in a voice so calm it became threatening. Talia disappeared into your bedroom and returned with soft clothes. Nadia checked the security feed. Marcus stood near the door, arms crossed, like any paparazzo foolish enough to approach would be introduced to the architecture.
Jason stood in the middle of it all, too large and too quiet.
You sat on the edge of the couch while Devin cut away the damaged portion of your base layer with small silver scissors.
“You are not allowed to bleed on custom fabric this often,” he said.
“I’ll put it on my calendar.”
“Add sleep while you’re there.”
“Unrealistic.”
“Selfish.”
Jason watched Devin clean the wound with practiced hands. “You’ve done this a lot.”
Devin did not look up. “I’m amazing at many things. Unfortunately, field medicine became one of them.”
“It was never supposed to,” you said softly.
“No, babe.” Devin’s voice gentled without losing its bite. “A lot of things weren’t supposed to happen.”
That silence carried history Jason did not know.
He looked away.
Marisol ended a call near the window. “The story is controlled. Crowe had a medical emergency. The police response is being attributed to a credible threat. You left early due to exhaustion.”
“I did?”
“You will. Publicly.” Marisol looked at Jason. “Bruce Wayne is asking if his son is alive.”
Jason sighed. “How did he get your number?”
Marisol smiled. “I’m very good at my job.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“Yes.”
She handed him the phone.
Jason took it and walked toward the window. “I’m alive.”
Even from the couch, you heard Bruce’s low voice on the other end.
Jason looked tired suddenly. Younger and older at once.
“No, I didn’t compromise the case.” A pause. “No, I’m not at the theater.” Another pause, longer this time. “She’s alive too.”
You looked down at Devin’s hands.
Devin looked at you.
His brows rose.
You mouthed, Don’t.
He mouthed back, Pathetic.
Jason ended the call and returned the phone to Marisol. “He says thank you.”
“No, he didn’t,” Marisol said.
Jason’s mouth twitched. “He implied it in emotionally repressed billionaire.”
“I’ll bill him for the translation.”
Devin finished taping gauze over your side and leaned back. “There. You’ll live, though I am begging you to consider a hobby like ceramics or adultery. Something less hard on the face.”
“You always suggest adultery.”
“It has costumes, secrets, dramatic entrances. It’s practically the same thing, but fewer concussions.”
Jason made a sound that might have been a laugh.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Marisol saw it. Devin saw it. Talia and Nadia definitely saw it. Marcus looked at the ceiling as if he were asking God for professional strength.
Your found family, traitorous and beloved, began making excuses to leave.
Marisol claimed she needed to handle the press. Devin said he needed to save the gown from bloodstains and bad decisions. Talia gathered the ruined fabric. Nadia said something about security footage. Marcus announced he would be outside the door for twenty minutes and then downstairs, which was both a statement and a threat.
Devin paused before leaving.
He pointed a makeup brush at Jason. “You.”
Jason lifted his brows.
“She loves like she’s making contingency plans, which means she will try to turn this into strategy if you let her. Don’t be an idiot.”
Your face went hot. “Devin.”
“And you,” he said, turning to you, “do not use emotional intelligence exclusively on criminals and then act surprised when your personal life looks like a warehouse fire.”
“Are you finished?”
“For now.” Devin leaned down, kissed your forehead, and softened just enough. “Call me if the bleeding gets worse.”
“I will.”
“You won’t, but I love pretending.”
Then he left.
The apartment became quiet around you and Jason.
Not empty. Your people had been there too vividly to leave emptiness behind. Their coats, their voices, their care still lingered in the air. But the door closed, and for the first time all night, you were alone with him.
Jason stood near the coffee table, still in his torn shirt and half-hidden armor, his domino gone, his face bare. He looked at the closed door, then at you.
“They really love you,” he said.
“They’re nosy.”
“That too.”
You pulled Marisol’s coat tighter around your shoulders. “They saved my life before they knew what I was doing with it.”
Jason sat beside you, leaving space. He was always careful at the worst possible times. “Why tell them?”
“I didn’t. Not at first. Devin figured it out because I kept coming to shoots with injuries makeup couldn’t explain. Marisol figured it out because nobody gets food poisoning before every suspicious gap in their schedule. Talia found a knife in a gown lining. Nadia found blood in my hair. Marcus saw someone follow me from an event and handled it before I could.”
“You let them stay.”
“They refused to leave.”
“Smart people.”
“They’re idiots.”
“They’re family,” Jason said.
You looked at him.
His gaze was on the billboard across the avenue. Your own face looked back from the glass, distant and perfect and impossibly smooth. “I thought Mirage was alone.”
“So did I, once.”
“What changed?”
“They didn’t ask permission to love me.”
Jason went very still.
You had not meant to say it that plainly. The truth sat between you now, too large to pretend it belonged to the room and not to both of you.
Jason looked down at his hands. The knuckles were bruised. There was blood beneath one nail, though you were not sure whether it was his or someone else’s.
“Must be nice,” he said, and then his mouth tightened as if he hated himself for it.
“It is,” you said. “It’s also terrifying.”
He glanced at you.
“When people love you, you become something that can be lost.”
Jason’s expression changed, not dramatically. He was too practiced for that. But the words landed. You saw it in the small shift of his jaw, the slight lowering of his gaze, the way he absorbed the sentence like it had found an old wound and pressed gently.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the part no one advertises.”
You laughed softly.
It hurt your side.
Jason noticed and moved closer without thinking. His hand hovered near your waist, then stopped before touching. The hesitation undid you more than contact would have.
“You can,” you said.
His eyes lifted to yours.
“Touch me,” you clarified, because you were tired and hurt and done speaking in code.
Jason’s hand settled carefully against your uninjured side.
Warmth moved through you, startling in its simplicity.
He looked at you for a long moment. “You sure?”
“No.”
His hand started to withdraw.
You caught it.
“I’m sure I want you to,” you said. “I’m not sure I know how to be normal about it.”
Jason’s mouth curved, sad and fond at once. “Normal’s overrated.”
“You would think that.”
“I died. I get some perspective.”
“You make jokes at terrible times.”
“Yeah.” His thumb moved once, slow against the fabric of the coat. “And you hide behind sarcasm when you’re scared.”
You wanted to deny it. You were good at denial. You had made a career out of making people believe the face you gave them.
Jason looked at you like he would let you lie if you needed to, but he would know.
“I don’t know what you want from me now,” you said.
“That depends.”
“On?”
“What you’re offering.”
Your breath caught.
His hand stayed where it was, steady and warm.
You looked at his mouth. Jason noticed because he always noticed, and the air between you changed. It had been changing for years, maybe. On rooftops, in alleys, in the space between his hand holding gauze to your skin and yours closing around his wrist before you let go too quickly. Suspicion had become familiarity. Familiarity had become trust in motion. Trust had become something neither of you named because naming gave a thing edges, and edges could cut.
“I’m tired of disappearing,” you said.
Jason’s eyes softened. “Then don’t.”
It was not that simple.
It was also exactly that simple.
You leaned in.
Jason met you halfway.
The first kiss was careful, almost unbearably so. His mouth was warm and firm against yours, his hand lifting to your jaw without touching the bruise Devin had painted over that morning. You felt the restraint in him, the strength held back so tightly it trembled. Red Hood was violence in a mask. Jason kissed like someone terrified of becoming a weapon in the wrong hands.
You made a small sound against his mouth.
His breath caught.
He pulled back just far enough to look at you. “Tell me if your side hurts.”
“My side hurts.”
His mouth twitched. “Then tell me if it gets worse.”
“Bossy.”
“Alive,” he said. “I want you to stay that way.”
Something inside you opened painfully.
You kissed him again, less carefully this time. Jason’s hand slid into your hair, dislodging what remained of Nadia’s careful work, and you loved that more than you should have. His other hand settled at your waist, warm through the coat and the thin fabric beneath, careful around the bandage Devin had just placed. Even that felt like a question.
You answered by shifting closer.
Jason made a low sound and broke the kiss to rest his forehead against yours. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t say yes because tonight was bad.”
“I’m not.”
“Don’t say it because I know now.”
Your throat tightened.
You touched his face, fingers brushing the white streak in his hair before settling along his jaw. “I’m saying yes because you knew enough to protect me before you asked for anything. I’m saying yes because you gave me your mask when mine broke. I’m saying yes because I want you.”
Jason closed his eyes for a second, like the words had struck somewhere deep.
When he opened them again, the green was almost too much to bear.
“Okay,” he said softly.
He kissed you as if permission were sacred.
The pace changed after that, though it did not become rushed. He helped you stand and move toward the bedroom, one arm around your waist, patient with your bruises, careful when your breath hitched. Your bed was still unmade from the morning, a black garment bag thrown across the bench at the foot of it, a pair of heels abandoned near the dresser. The room looked too human after the polished silence of the living room. Jason seemed to notice that too.
He paused by the bed. “Still okay?”
“Yes.”
“You can change your mind.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
You looked at him, at the blood on his hairline, the bruising along his jaw, the worry he was trying to turn into patience. “I trust you.”
Jason went still.
The words were not grand. They were not dramatic. But in your mouth, after years of vanishing, they were almost obscene in their honesty.
He touched your face with the back of his fingers. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He kissed you again, softer than before.
He helped you out of the coat first, then the damaged armor piece by piece, pausing whenever your breath caught for the wrong reason. His hands learned you through caution before desire: the curve of your shoulder, the bruises along your ribs, the line of your spine, the places that made you lean closer and the places that made you wince. You had been undressed professionally under bright lights, unzipped and pinned and arranged until your body felt less like yours than a garment someone else had borrowed.
Jason undressed you like he was returning you to yourself.
When the torn top came off, his gaze moved over you with open want and visible restraint. The wanting made heat rise beneath your skin. The restraint made you trust him more. He touched your uninjured side first, then your hip, then the soft skin below your ribs, his fingers callused and reverent.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
You laughed faintly, defensive before you could help it. “That’s the general consensus.”
Jason’s gaze returned to your face. “I don’t care what they think.”
The words stole the smile from your mouth.
He leaned in and kissed the corner of your lips, your cheek, the place beneath your jaw where the mask usually sat. “I’m telling you.”
Your eyes fluttered shut.
He kissed down your throat with a tenderness that made your hands curl in the sheets. You felt too exposed and somehow not exposed enough, caught between the woman Gotham touched with its eyes and the woman Jason touched with his mouth, as if both of them deserved gentleness. His hand slid to your thigh, then higher, slow enough that you could stop him.
You did not.
“Still okay?” he asked against your skin.
“Yes.”
“Good.” His mouth brushed your collarbone. “Keep telling me.”
Your laugh turned into a gasp when his fingers dipped beneath the last layer of fabric.
Jason watched your face as he touched you, learning each reaction with the same focus he brought to rooftops and violence. It should have embarrassed you to be seen that closely, but his attention did not feel like a camera. It did not take you apart for consumption. It gathered evidence of what made you feel good and treated the information like something precious.
You caught his wrist, not to stop him, only to hold on.
His thumb moved in a slow circle, patient and sure, until your hips shifted despite the ache in your side. He kissed your mouth, swallowing the sound you made, then kissed down again, over your chest, your stomach, the safe path around your bandage. He looked up from between your thighs, hair falling over his forehead, eyes dark with want.
“You don’t have to,” you whispered.
“I want to.” His hands moved along your thighs. “Unless you don’t.”
You swallowed. “I want you to.”
His mouth curved. “Then lie back, sweetheart.”
The endearment should have sounded too easy. From him, roughened by want and softened by care, it slipped beneath your skin like warmth.
You lay back against the pillows, his hands careful as he settled between your legs. The first touch of his mouth made you breathe his name. He paused as if the sound mattered, then did it again until your fingers found his hair and held on. He was patient in a way you had not expected from him, thorough and attentive, one arm braced carefully across your hips to keep you from twisting against your injured side.
The city watched itself in the windows.
Your billboard glowed across the avenue, bright and false and impossibly far away.
For once, you did not feel trapped beneath your own face.
Jason made you feel present. His mouth, his hands, the low approving sound he made when you stopped trying to swallow your pleasure. Heat built slowly, then all at once, your body tightening beneath him until you were shaking with it. He laced his fingers through yours when you came, holding your hand against the mattress while his mouth eased you through the aftershocks.
When he climbed back up your body, you pulled him into a kiss and tasted yourself on his lips.
He groaned softly, and the sound broke some last fragile thread between restraint and need. You reached for his shirt, clumsy with urgency, and he helped because there was still too much between you. Fabric, armor, weapons, grief. You wanted skin. You wanted weight. You wanted proof that he was real in a way Gotham could not take from you.
Jason stripped down with less ceremony than he had given you, but there was a moment when his shirt came off, and your hands stilled against his chest.
Scars crossed him in pale lines and rough patches, old wounds layered over newer ones, a history written in damage. Your fingers hovered before touching.
He watched you carefully.
You traced one scar near his ribs, then another along his shoulder. “Can I?”
His throat moved. “Yeah.”
You kissed the scar beneath your fingers.
Jason went still in a way that had nothing to do with danger.
You kissed another, then the center of his chest, then the place over his heart because you could not help yourself. His hand slid into your hair. He did not push. He only held you there, breathing unevenly while you gave gentleness back to him in the only language either of you seemed to understand.
By the time he eased you down again, both of you were shaking.
He moved over you carefully, mindful of your side, one forearm braced beside your head so his weight did not press where you were hurt. You guided him closer with your legs around his hips, and he looked down at you with an expression so open it made your chest ache.
“I’ve got you,” he said.
You believed him.
The first slow press of him inside you made your mouth part around a breath you could not quite catch. Jason lowered his forehead to yours, giving you time, his body tense with the effort of holding still. You slid your hands up his back, feeling muscle shift beneath scarred skin.
“Move,” you whispered.
He did, slowly at first, each thrust deep and controlled, his mouth brushing yours without quite becoming a kiss. Softness did not make him less intense. If anything, it made him more devastating. Jason touched you like every sound mattered, like every gasp was a confession he intended to keep safe. He murmured praise against your cheek, your throat, your mouth, low words that made heat pool beneath your skin.
“Beautiful like this,” he said, voice rough. “Not for them. Just here. Just you.”
Your eyes stung.
You pulled him down into a kiss before the feeling could become too large to survive. He let you hide in it for a moment, but only a moment. Then he kissed the corner of your mouth and slowed until you had to look at him again.
“I see you,” he whispered.
You came apart with his name caught in your throat.
Jason followed soon after, his rhythm breaking, his breath shuddering against your neck as he held himself over you and let go. For a long moment afterward, neither of you moved. The rain had softened outside. The city was still there, still hungry, still full of men like Crowe and masks that broke at the worst possible time.
But Jason was warm above you.
He eased away with a care that made you ache for reasons more emotional than physical, then returned with a damp cloth and the medical kit because apparently even sex could not stop him from being irritatingly practical. You complained about this. He told you to hush and checked your bandage anyway.
Afterward, he climbed into bed beside you.
You expected awkwardness. A joke, maybe. Some retreat behind sarcasm now that the wanting had been answered and the room was too quiet.
Instead, Jason pulled the blanket over both of you and gathered you carefully against his chest, one arm warm around your waist and gentle enough not to press against your bandaged side.
You let him.
Your head rested against his chest, your palm spread over one of his scars. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear. That felt impossible and precious enough that you stayed very still, as if sudden movement might wake you from it.
Across the avenue, your billboard continued to shine.
Jason followed your gaze. “She looks lonely.”
You blinked. “What?”
“The billboard girl.” His fingers moved slowly along your arm. “She looks like she’s waiting for someone to tell her she can stay.”
You did not answer for a while.
Then you said, “Maybe she is.”
Jason pressed a kiss to your hair. “Then let her.”
The words settled over you with the warmth of his body and the ache of your own.
Morning came quietly.
You woke to pale light touching the windows and Jason’s arm heavy around your waist. For once, you had not vanished before sunrise. Your broken mask lay on the bedside table beside his domino and red mask, both of them useless in the honest light.
Jason was awake. You could tell by his breathing.
“You staring at me?” you murmured.
“Investigating.”
You smiled into the pillow. “Find anything useful?”
“Yeah.” His hand slid carefully over your hip, warm and possessive in a way that felt less like ownership than wonder. “You drool.”
You turned your head and glared at him. “I do not.”
“Little bit.”
“I regret trusting you.”
“No, you don’t.”
You should have. It would have been smarter. Safer. Easier.
Instead, you rolled carefully toward him, mindful of your side, and found him watching you with a softness that made the whole city outside feel distant. His hair was a mess. There was a bruise along his jaw. He looked nothing like the ghost Gotham had made of him and everything like the man who had held your mask in place before asking who you were.
“No,” you admitted. “I don’t.”
His smile was small and real.
Your phone began buzzing somewhere on the floor. Then Jason’s chirped from the pile of discarded armor.
Gotham, impatient as ever, came knocking at the edges of the room.
Neither of you moved immediately.
Then a key turned in the front door.
Jason’s entire body went alert.
You caught his wrist. “Don’t shoot my agent.”
The bedroom door was still mostly closed, but Marisol’s voice carried from the living room. “I heard that, and I appreciate the warning.”
Devin followed a second later. “If he shoots me, I will haunt both of you with contour advice.”
Jason stared at the ceiling. “They have keys.”
“They have emergency keys.”
“Of course they do.”
“They also have breakfast.”
That made him pause.
From the living room, Devin called, “And coffee, because some of us contribute positively to society.”
You smiled against Jason’s shoulder. “You can run if you want.”
Jason looked at the broken mask on the bedside table, the billboard beyond the window, the door behind which your found family was pretending not to give you privacy while absolutely listening. Then he looked at you.
“I’m good,” he said.
Your chest warmed.
“You sure?” you asked.
His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist. “Yeah.”
Devin knocked once and opened the door without waiting for an answer. He took in the bed, Jason, your bandage, your hair, the general state of the room, and placed one hand over his heart.
“Oh, thank God,” he said. “The sexual tension was becoming a hostile work environment.”
You threw a pillow at him.
He caught it. “Please. I’m an artist.”
Marisol appeared behind him with coffee trays and an expression of long-suffering victory. “I assume everyone is alive?”
Jason lifted a hand. “Mostly.”
“Good. Bruce Wayne has called twice, Crowe is in custody, three sponsors want statements, and TMZ is convinced you left the event because you’re secretly pregnant, feuding with another model, or joining a cult.”
You sat up carefully. “Which cult?”
“I told them nothing, obviously, but if we need to choose, I can work with cult. It has mystery.”
Devin pointed at Jason. “He looks like a cult.”
Jason, still shirtless and scarred in your bed, looked at him flatly. “Thanks.”
“It was not a compliment, but you’re welcome.”
Marisol set the trays on the dresser, then looked at you. Her expression softened in that dangerous way that always made you want to hide. “How’s the wound?”
“Fine.”
Jason said, “Not fine, but stable.”
You glared at him. “Traitor.”
Marisol smiled at him. “I like him.”
“You do not get to like him before I decide what I’m doing.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Devin said, handing you coffee you did not remember asking for. “You decided somewhere between letting him into the car and letting him ruin Nadia’s work.”
Jason glanced at your hair. “It looks good.”
Devin pointed at him again. “Correct answer. Hate him less.”
The morning unfolded around you in a way that should have felt impossible.
Marisol took calls in the kitchen while Marcus guarded the hallway and Nadia scrubbed security feeds from a laptop. Talia arrived with a soft robe, a replacement mask, and the ruined black gown sealed in a garment bag like evidence. Devin sat at the foot of your bed and fixed the bruising near Jason’s jaw because, apparently, “if he’s going to be photographed leaving the building, he will not do it looking like a back-alley divorce.”
Jason submitted to the brush with visible suspicion.
“You’re tense,” Devin said.
“I don’t usually get makeup done.”
“Everyone says that until they see themselves with properly corrected under-eyes.”
“I wear a mask.”
“And yet your pores persist.”
You laughed so hard your side hurt.
Jason looked at you, and the annoyance left his face.
Devin saw that too. Of course he did. This time, he said nothing.
Later, when the calls slowed and the coffee went cold, you found Jason standing by the window. He was wearing his shirt again, though it hung open at the collar, and one of Devin’s tiny flesh-colored bandages sat over the cut near his cheekbone. Across the avenue, your billboard watched the city with manufactured longing.
“She’s not going anywhere,” you said.
Jason looked over his shoulder. “The billboard girl?”
You looked at your own face in the distance. “I don’t hate her. Sometimes I think I should, but I don’t. She gets into rooms Mirage can’t. She makes people underestimate me. She protects the people who protect me.”
“She’s part of you,” Jason said.
“So is Mirage.”
“I know.”
You turned your head. “Do you?”
Jason looked at you then, and there was no mask, no domino, nothing but the man who had seen both of your masks break and still chosen to stand in front of the camera.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
The answer was simple enough to be terrifying.
You touched his hand where it rested near the glass. His fingers curled around yours.
Behind you, Devin yelled from the kitchen, “If you two are having a meaningful window moment, wrap it up. I need to discuss the press statement, and I refuse to let romance ruin my schedule.”
Jason closed his eyes.
You smiled. “Welcome to the family.”
He looked at you. “That a threat?”
“Usually.”
His laugh was low and warm.
Gotham still loved a beautiful lie. It would keep loving her. It would print her face, buy her perfume, whisper her name, and mistake distance for grace. It would look at the woman on every billboard and think it knew her.
Jason Todd knew better now.
So did Devin, and Marisol, and the small, ferocious family waiting in your kitchen with coffee, cover stories, and three different plans for getting Red Hood out of your apartment without being photographed.
The city would keep looking.
Let it.
For once, when morning found you, you did not vanish.
credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @toxisyddy for the Red Hood divider ❤️💛
after what felt like months, katsuki finally got a day off, so with that being said, he happily had the opportunity to cook, washed a few things before settling down and watch tv.
the silence of his home didn’t last long as he heard the front door break open. now very alert, he quickly got up to investigate but before he could do so he heard his name being called from outside.
confused, he pushes the door wider and looks down at Denki, who looked shaken. just as katsuki was about to yell at him about the door, you suddenly lunge at him, hungry eyes and glowing irises, kissing him all over.
“she got hit by some kind of aphrodisiac quirk! we quickly had to bring her back before she jumped all of us” denki yelled back, nervousness showing in his voice. he got back in the car along with mina, before katsuki spoke back.
“the fuck? how long is she gonna be like that?” he said out of breath, watching you quickly get on your knees, kissing his chest all the way down to his waistband, teary eyes looking up at him, almost as if you were hurt by something.
“dunno, but usually the shock usually lasts about a week, plus she barely understands what happened to her, it’s almost like her mind is clouded?” Mina replied back, eyes avoiding the obvious position that you’re in right now.
katsuki, visibly confused, still doesn’t understand a single thing that has happened for the past 5 minutes.
still, denki and mina wishes him good luck before they drive off, scared they’ll see something they’re not supposed to.
“babe, what’s going on? are you okay?”
“use me, please play with me, i beg you, katsuki i- sir please!”
he paused. “sir? you never called me that before.”
sure, you guys had good sex, some kinks here and there but this? this was new, you were a completely different person, eyes wide open staring at him, completely at his mercy. you were willing to take anything he gives you right there and then.
only, he didn’t know for how long.
you followed him on all fours to the living room as he sat down on the couch. you never did that before, katsuki could not believe it, should he get used to this?
you quickly took his sweatpants off alongside his boxers, so close to freeing his cock from the confines before he stops you. he dryly laughs as you pout.
“what is the matter with you?” he combs his hand through his hair, while his other caresses your cheek.
you try and think rationally, but you feel this hunger inside you grow bigger with each minute that passes. the quirk you got hit with was more powerful than you imagined, therefore made it impossible to communicate properly with him.
you had to suck him off and you had to do it now.
“m'sorry kat, just- i just need you so much, need to have you everyday… all the time!” you babbled, clearly not in your right mind.
katsuki was still shocked at how much you wanted him. he could tell your mind was fogged with need, so he didn’t let you wait any longer. that stupid quirk definitely messed with your thinking but y’know, he wasn’t complaining.
you squealed at his hard cock, irises glowing brighter at the sight. you happily took him in your warm mouth, all worries melting away as you sucked him off.
you grabbed his thighs as you took him deeper, earning a curse from him. tears fell on your cheeks as you thanked him between deep breaths.
that was just the beginning too; god was he about to have a long week.
