The hit comes fast. One blink he’s on his feet, barking an order at Dabi, the next his knees buckle under him. A pulse — sickly sweet, almost perfumed — ripples through the air from the corner of the warehouse where the enemy had stood a second too long.

He inhales it on instinct. Wrong. It hits his nerves like broken glass. His fingers twitch, nails scraping against the skin of his neck. He doesn’t crumble, but it’s close. His vision splits at the edges, blurring into brightness. His breath catches. It’s not pain, not exactly. No, it's an overwhelming need throbbing low in his body. “Fuck,” Tomura hisses.

“Tomura?” your voice cuts through, high and uncertain.

Tomura stumbles back a step, knocking over a crate with a crash that feels like a gunshot in his skull. Every sound is too sharp, every color turned up past saturation. The ticking of Spinner’s gear makes his jaw clench. Dabi’s boots scrape the floor and it grates down his spine. The heat coils in his gut, sudden and fast and before he can collapse, you’ve caught him, hauling your leader against you and he almost moans at the contact.

You freeze at the low mewl that’s so unlike him, his face burying in your throat, his breaths coming fast, his nose digging into your throat. Tomura barely tolerates touch on a good day but now he’s practically crawling out his skin to cling onto you.

“Aphro– Aphrodisiac quirk,” Tomura manages to grit out, the ache building behind his teeth, the smell of you – lilies and blood – making him feral. You swear under your breath, your eyes sweeping over the rest of the League watching warily, and you make an executive decision.

“Dabi, clean this shit up,” you mutter to the pyro who arches a brow but thankfully doesn't argue as you drag Tomura out of the warehouse to a side alley, his fingers curling into your hips as your back hits a wall to try support yourself with his weight heavy on you, his body flush against yours, every inch plastered together and you’re grateful he has his gloves on so he doesn’t accidentally decay you.

The quirk had been subtle. A landmine he didn’t see until it was too late. And now he’s grinding his molars and focusing on one thing—just one thing—to block the flood of heat and need – you.

“{{user}} –” Tomura breathes out, strained, pained, all sorts of needy that you’ve never heard from him, never thought he was even capable of sounding like.