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Shouta despised social interaction on a good day, but being crammed in with the person who'd been the biggest thorn in his side lately? Pure torture. Getting trapped in a collapsed building would've been bearable with almost anyone else, but of all people, why did it have to be Knuckleduster?
The guy was all raw muscle and overconfidence, everything Shouta couldn't stand. It didn't help that Knuckleduster operated outside the law, completely contradictory to Shouta's principles. There was a world of difference between being an underground hero and a vigilante — Shouta had earned his credentials, fought through the training, and secured his license. This dumbass? He'd simply woken up one morning, decided to play hero, and clung to it stubbornly ever since.
Like a leech.
To make matters worse, Shouta found himself squished against Knuckleduster's broad chest, the lack of space making any attempt at distance impossible.
The rubble had forced them into this awkward proximity, leaving barely enough room to breathe, let alone keep personal space. Shouta silently fumed at how solid the vigilante's frame felt — another irritating reminder of the man's brute-force approach to everything.
Shouta huffed out a breath, trying to ignore the vigilante's steady heartbeat against his ear. It wasn't just the physical confinement that bothered him — it was being forced to acknowledge the man as a living, breathing person rather than just an annoying concept.
He had to admit, begrudgingly, that Knuckleduster's body heat was the only thing keeping the chill of the concrete at bay.
The irony wasn't lost on him. He'd spent weeks trying to apprehend this vigilante, and now they were practically cuddlingfor survival. If anyone he knew could see him now, he'd never hear the end of it.
"So, this cozy enough for you?" Knuckleduster's deep voice vibrated through Shouta's chest, sending an unwelcome warmth up his neck.
"Just... don't talk," Shouta muttered. He froze as the vigilante's grip tightened, pulling him flush against the man's chest.
"No need to be so cold, Eraser. We're stuck in this mess together — might as well make the best of it!"
Shouta tilted his head up, ready with a sharp retort, only for his words to die in his throat as he realised just how little space remained between their faces.
Shouta swallowed hard, acutely aware of Knuckleduster's stubbled jaw mere inches from his own. The vigilante's eyes gleamed with amusement in the dim light filtering through the rubble, and for a moment, Shouta forgot to be annoyed. Something unfamiliar sparked between them in that cramped space, making his heart rate pick up.
"Hey," Knuckleduster murmured, his voice dropping an octave lower, "your face is flushed. Running a fever or just enjoying my company?"
I’m going to kill him when we get out of this.
Any retort Shouta had planned died on his lips as a small shift in the rubble above sent dust raining down on them. Knuckleduster's arm instinctively tightened around him, drawing him closer in a protective gesture that was as infuriating as it was... stupidly reassuring. This close, Shouta could smell the faint scent of sweat and cologne clung to the vigilante's skin, making it increasingly difficult to maintain his professional disliking.
The worst part wasn't being pressed against this asshole, it was the creeping realisation that something about this proximity felt right.
Shouta's tired mind betrayed him with fleeting thoughts of what those rough hands might feel like if they weren't just holding him for survival. He quickly buried the thought, blaming it on oxygen deprivation and the stress of their situation.
But then more unwelcome thoughts crept in. What would those strong arms feel like wrapped around him through the night? Not just pressed together out of necessity, but deliberately wrapped together, that solid warmth a shield against the darkened night.
Shouta's mind painted vivid pictures of being tucked against that broad chest willingly, finding unexpected safety there.
"You okay?" Something in Knuckleduster's tone had softened, a level of genuine that caught Shouta off guard and sent an irritating flutter through his chest.
"I'm surviving," he muttered, jaw tight.
Another sudden shift in the rubble made them both tense, and when Knuckleduster's arms tightened protectively around him again, Shouta couldn't muster his annoyance anymore. Maybe it was the adrenaline or the lack of oxygen, but he found himself leaning into the vigilante's embrace rather than attempting to pull away.
"You're safe," Knuckleduster whispered against his scalp, his muscles quickly surrendering further to the embrace in response.
What's happening to me?
And why does my chest feel so tight?
Without warning, panic clawed its way up Shouta’s throat. Images of him flickered through his mind — his best friend, crushed under debris that looked too much like this. The wound felt raw, like it had happened yesterday instead of years ago. Now history seemed determined to repeat itself, trapping Shouta in the same nightmare. It wasn't the vigilante pressing against him that was the real issue — it was his own mind.
His breath became shallow, heart pounding painfully against his ribs as memories of Oboro merged with the present.
A cold sweat broke across his forehead, his fingers unconsciously digging into Knuckleduster's shirt. The vigilante seemed to sense the shift immediately, one calloused hand moving to cup the back of Shouta's head in a gesture so unexpectedly gentle it nearly broke him.
"Breathe with me," Knuckleduster murmured, his breath warm against Shouta's ear. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. That's it."
The low rumble of his voice anchored Shouta to the present, pulling him back from the edge of his memories. He focused on the steady rise and fall of the vigilante's chest pressed against his own, using it as a guide to regulate his breathing.
The vigilante's presence had turned from irritation to lifeline, grounding him.
Vulnerability wasn't something Shouta allowed often, especially not in front of someone he considered an enemy. Yet here he was, finding comfort in the steady presence of a man he'd sworn to arrest. The irony wasn't lost on him, but survival trumped pride, at least for now. He hated to admit it, but maybe there was more to this ass than Shouta had been willing to acknowledge.
"I've got you doll," the nickname slipped from his lips, and instead of bristling at it like he should’ve, Shouta felt something inside him soften. It should have made him recoil, but instead, he leaned in closer, allowing himself a brief moment of connection. Something fundamental was shifting between them in this cramped space.
He wanted to hate it, but just couldn’t.
The distant sound of shifting rubble brought Shouta back to reality. Rescue would come eventually; they just had to hold on.
"Don't normally run my mouth about personal shit," Knuckleduster mumbled, his rough fingers threading absently through Shouta's tangled hair. "But... the name's Oguro, if you're interested."
Shouta let the silence stretch between them, weighing his response against years of professional distance. "Aizawa," he finally offered.
"Listen, we've been at each other's throats for a while, but now? That doesn't matter. I'm here, you're here, and I ain't letting anything happen to you while we're trapped in this mess. The situation’s different... so just let me look after you till we see daylight again, yeah?"
The offer hung between them, unexpectedly tender despite their surroundings and their relationship. Shouta closed his eyes.
"Fine," Shouta whispered, the single word carrying more weight than he'd intended.
"Maybe when we get out of here, we could grab a coffee. Or something stronger."
Shouta's pulse quickened. "Don't push it," he muttered, though the usual edge in his voice had softened to something almost fond.
Why is he so stupidly endearing? Shouta knew he'd be kicking himself for this later.