blue archive.

it’s in the way you’d bring a cup of coffee for him on your early morning training sessions — you had engraved the sight of him brewing a cup the last time he visited your dorm and subconsciously memorized his order.  

your classmates would call you insane when they spot you in the kitchen — with sugar, coffee beans, and measuring utensils splayed all out on the counter. you hovering over the measurements as if an unneeded speck of sugar falling into his cup would lead to your demise.  

to you, it would.  

aizawa, oblivious to it all, accepts your coffee graciously every time. a small smile gracing his lips  as his palm clasps around the mug. a soft thank you is muttered — voice still laced heavily with sleep but sincere. 

and it’s his sincerity, his appreciation for you going out of your way to make him this every morning — that gets you through your training every time.  

mornings to you, with him — always feels like possibility and hope, the day still untinged — so many things can happen.  

and as you take your first sip of coffee, your heart goes warm — but there’s a bitterness on your tongue — a reminder, as you lose yourself in this pitiful fantasy every morning, that this small gesture — is one he doesn’t understand and probably will never. 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦

it’s in the way you go above and beyond — doing things you’ve never done before just for him. you heard through the grapevine that aizawa shota likes cookies.  

you have never baked in your life. 

sato, is as kind as ever to indulge you when you bring up the subject of baking cookies just for fun — he ends up giving you his most prized recipe and wishes you luck.  

and you have to wonder to yourself, how hard can it be?  

it takes you two hours to bake an edible batch. 

it’s 11pm and you’re in the dorm’s kitchen — counter littered with parchment paper, sugar, butter, eggs — and god, there’s flour everywhere.  

everything’s a mess.  

you’ve made almost six batches so far — some either too burnt or not baked enough. shoto, who has been sitting in the living room the entire time, has smelt the distasteful scent of burnt chocolate too many times tonight. 

“are you sure you’re following the recipe correctly?” he chirps from afar one time, and the frustrated glare you give him shuts him up for the night.  

the seventh batch in the oven right now holds all your hopes and dreams — if it ends up being inedible, you’re quite sure you’d break down.  

surprisingly (to you and shoto), it is a success. 

it’s thick and chewy — a golden brown color adorning the edges whilst the center remains soft.  and shoto, in all his childlike stupor, gobbles down a few immediately. 

“good job. i didn’t think you could do it.” he says earnestly whilst chewing.  

you roll your eyes at him as you clean the kitchen, packing away the ingredients used and ridding the counters of flour stains — you’re exhausted but absolutely thrilled at your mediocre baking skills. 

now, all that’s left to do is deliver it to him.  

after making sure the mess you made is thoroughly cleaned up, you grab a small brown paper bag and gently place the cookies inside — praying to god that none breaks or gets smushed.  

you opt to write a small note for him — nothing borderline creepy but something sincere — but the only thing that’s in your mind right now is how you’d wish to be the one sweetening his thoughts rather than these cookies. how you wish you were the one to make him feel so light and warm with each taste, rather than these cookies. 

you wish you never made them — they’re just a harsh reminder that shota aizawa is an unattainable person for you.  

and gosh, you’re breaking down over fucking cookies now — you thank god shoto returned to his room when you were cleaning.  

thanks for being a great teacher! xo  

short, simple & sweet. 

(it’s not even close to what you really wanted to say). 

you know he’s awake right now, most likely correcting papers but, you’d rather remain anonymous — not wanting to get caught trespassing in the teachers’ dorm building at this ungodly hour.  

plus, you don’t think you can handle explaining yourself to him right now.  

cookies? out of the blue? to your teacher?  

weird.  

you know it’s fruitless doing all of this but — shota aizawa is your idealized daydream, and you are empty without this.  

so alas, you leave them by his door — knocking gently then full-on sprinting out of the building.  

unbeknownst to the fact that as soon as aizawa opens his door, he’s met with a handwriting he knows all too well. 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦

it’s in the way you stay back after class on days when aizawa looks like he might pass out if he lifts his pen the wrong way. 

the way a quiet adoration seeps through you as you help him tidy up his desk — placing pens and pencils back into his stationery holder, stacking his papers neatly in a corner, and throwing away crumpled-up paper into a dustbin nearby.  

and aizawa indulges you — doesn’t have the energy to shoo you off as he’s too engrossed in the file he has been rereading for over ten minutes.  

“wanna hear a joke about paper?”  

his head rises — eyes locked on you as his eyebrows raise quizzically.  

he motions for you to continue. 

“nevermind, it’s tearable.”  

and aizawa huffs, his distaste for the joke showing evidently — until he sees a small grin forming on your lips, and suddenly he’s mirroring your expression — a soft smile gifted to you.  

he feels lighter now — after that lame joke cut through whatever tiredness he was feeling.  

and you can tell by the way he straightens his posture just a bit — then flips the paper to the other  side, eyes skimming through it quickly and snatching another paper from the stack you cleared up.  

you’re relieved — already reaching for your bag and on your way out of the room, not wanting to  disturb him anymore.  

but before your two feet are out the door, a soft mutter is heard from behind. 

“thank you.”  

and it melts your heart.  

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦

and if anybody ever asked shota if he had ever loved someone before, he would say no — he’s never allowed himself to indulge in something like that. 

hizashi? he’d have a different answer.  

because there’s you.  

you, who he has been quietly loving without even realizing it. 

it’s in the way aizawa subconsciously shifts his schedule. he remembers the one time you mentioned, in passing, that you train alone at USJ after lunch on tuesdays. and suddenly, he’s found himself pacing his steps alongside yours every tuesday.  

even though it’s out of his way and he knows he’s cutting it close to his next class. 

he tells himself it’s nothing, just a change of scenery, a breath of fresh air until he’s locked between four walls. but there’s something in the way he lingers a bit longer than he should, his steps slowing as you near the training grounds.  

you mutter a small thank you to him as usual, offering your kindest smile.

and aizawa revels in it each time, bidding you farewell with a nod before he locks eyes with hizashi atop the staircase.  

and the blonde is thoroughly confused.  

shota aizawa? walking?  

with a student? 

it has his gears turning, but it doesn’t take long for him to catch on.  

it’s reoccurring, consistent. the look in his bestfriend’s eyes each time you smile at him, and it’s no mistake — since you’ve started to reside in his eyes, they seem to be brighter, more vibrant.  

but he knows it’s something shota will never admit to himself.  

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦

it’s in the way aizawa pays attention to you — has learned your little quirks and habits unknowingly throughout the years, and knows how to satiate them. 

the second he sees you walk through his door with your hair undone — tangled in minute knots —  he knows you’re stressed — absolutely running yourself to the ground about something.  

but he never pries, only offers a soft, “you’re doing great, kid,” before you exit his class — and the way your eyes light up at his small praise leaves his stomach in knots. 

it’s the way he knows you always forget to bring your gloves when training on a monday — the way he watches you ruffle through your bag, brows furrowed as you search for them — and before you can even admit your blunder, he’s already tossing you one from his desk.  

and it’s always brand new — as if he has a pack of gloves stashed in his drawer for this exact moment. 

(he does). 

“thank you,” you mutter sheepishly — eyes full of warmth and a hint of heat in your cheeks. aizawa brushes it off as usual, with no admonishment on his lips, just a small sense of pride. 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦

it’s in the way shota’s a bit more protective of you, without realizing it. 

he’s already on his feet the second the lights turn red — emergency drill? invader? — he’s not sure exactly what’s happening but the alarm blaring over the intercom has his teeth on edge.  

his first instinct, unfortunately, is to look for you across the field.  

and there you are, sitting on a bench, bottled water between your legs as you glance around confusedly.  

shota shouts for everyone to stay calm and await instructions.  

but he’s already bolting in your direction without realizing it, his focus narrowed in a way it shouldn’t be. something in his mind telling him that having you within his line of sight is better for you. that he’s just trying to keep his students safe. 

the intercom crackles, something about a small fire in the main building and students should gather at the muster point — and aizawa’s shoulders loosen slightly, tension easing at the  announcement.  

no immediate threat.  

but he can’t shake the feeling, the way his chest constricted — seeing you in a red hue. panic coursing through his veins, rivaling only the strongest rivers at the thought of you alone, vulnerable, left to your own devices. 

and he shouldn’t feel this way. no — you’re a hero in training. you’re very much capable of  handling yourself — he quite literally trained you so he knows you pack a punch.  

so why does aizawa feel as if the thought of leaving you alone is synonymous with him giving away his breath? 

something’s not right here — but that thought is buried deep, completely hidden. 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦

three months after you graduated, shota receives an email that catches him off guard — the message is polite — simple, even. you’re just asking how things are and if he’d be able to grab a cup of coffee sometime to catch up.  

it’s innocent, no harm in coffee — right? 

wrong. 

because the minute he enters the cafe, he knows you and him have begun to blur — that the world has shifted beneath his feet. 

it’s hesitation oozing out of him as he makes his way towards your table, but not the kind that comes from doubt, the kind that comes from knowing. 

from knowing that the minute he sits across from you, something will begin to unravel — something he isn’t sure he’ll be able to put back together.  

his heart. 

shota knows better than this — to wrap himself up in such forbidden affairs. regardless if you’re no longer his student — the age gap is huge.  

but the second he locks eyes with you, nothing else matters. you’re different now, standing on your own, no longer his student. and yet, you’re still you. 

you, who has been silently screaming your love for him for years.  

“hi!” you chirp out, warmth radiating from the ceramic mug in your hands. you almost move to hug him, but he’s already settling into the seat across from you — eyes unreadable. 

you take a sip of your drink before speaking again. “it’s been a while.”  

aizawa nods, “around 3 months.” 

you raise an eyebrow. “counting, are we?” 

and a smirk tugs at his lips. 

the conversation flows easily from there — updates about work, about your old classmates, about anything that isn’t this.

but there’s an undercurrent beneath it all, something unspoken lingering between each exchange, thickening the air. 

and finally, you decide to address it. 

you set your cup down, tracing the rim absentmindedly as you meet his gaze. “i wasn’t sure if you’d actually come.” 

and aizawa stills, flexing his fingers around his cup — he feels like an angsty teenager. “i wouldn’t have come if I didn’t want to.” his voice is low, steady, but there's a hint of uncertainty laced within it.

your breath catches slightly.

“then, can i ask you something?” you lean forward just slightly, watching the way his eyes snap back to you. 

he nods.  

“can we date?” 

and oh my god, aizawa has never thought he’d be in a situation like this — being asked out so directly by his former student.  

he is stunned – but he’s not a fool, everything then had prepared him for the now.

his fingers tap against his cup, his jaw tightening. “you’re young.” 

you tilt your head, challenging. “i’m not a kid.” 

shota studies you carefully, as if weighing his next words. “no, you’re not.” 

and that’s the problem, isn’t it? you’re not a child. you’re not his student. you’re standing in front of him as your own person, asking for something real. 

asking for him. 

aizawa leans back in his chair, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “you should want someone who-” 

“don’t do that,” you cut him off, voice firm but not unkind. “don’t tell me what I should want.” 

for years, you’ve known exactly what you wanted — never faltering once. it’s one thing to reject you but, deciding for you? that’s just cruel. 

he exhales, long and slow. “this isn’t to be taken lightly,” 

“i know.” because god, this is all you’ve ever wanted, something serious with him. not a daydream.  

“if we do this,” he murmurs, voice lower now, rougher. “i’m not going to pretend there aren’t challenges.” 

you nod your head. that’s obvious, but you’re willing to put in the effort.  

“you might change your mind.” 

“i won’t.”

aizawa watches you, searching, waiting for something — a flicker of hesitation, a sign that you don’t fully understand what you’re asking. but all he sees is certainty. 

and maybe that’s what undoes him. 

he looks defeated.  

as if he’s wrestling against something in his mind, something that sprouts from his heart — but its vines constrict his throat. it’s almost as if he feels like he needs to disagree.  

to say no.  

that this isn’t right. 

but how long will he fight with himself?  

when will he allow himself some solace? 

now.  

and when he glances up to meet your eyes, he realizes that, yes — he has won over the whole world, but he’s lost himself to you.  

the effect you have on him is so strong, something he has never felt before — it’s as if he takes your name with each breath he breathes.  

what have you done to him? 

his fingers tighten once more around his cup, a slow exhale leaving his lips.  “sure.”  

you blink at him, lips parting slightly, “sure?” 

the corner of his mouth lifts, barely there. “you heard me.” 

and just like that, the world shifts again. 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦

and it was as if shota aizawa was made specifically for you. 

from the way his calloused fingers grasp yours — the way you can trace constellations on them for days — to the way his clothes drown you with a warmth you’ve never felt before. 

to the way he’s never stopped trying to woo you since you’ve both made it official. 

“you’ve become my destiny and destination.”  

stupid sappy words whispered between the two of you – as if it's your first time in love, and for the both of you, it is.

the minute he locked eyes with you, he’s everything you ever wanted — older, wiser, the kind of man who doesn’t let insecurity cloud his judgment, who doesn’t feel the need to mark his territory or stake his claim. he trusts you, respects you — and unwaveringly loves you. 

something you’d never get with a man your age. he’s in check with his emotions. a mentally stable man. a walking green flag.

and god he’s perfect for you in every way, but sometimes you’d wish he’d just — show some type of reaction to things. 

you’re young, generations apart, you get that but — sometimes you’d wish he’d be possessive, get a bit jealous — throw you up against a wall and ask you are you sure wanna wear that?  

it’s your naivety that craves a bit of toxicity. a thrill. nothing huge, just a small bit of possessiveness is hot, it’s able to rile you up.  

and so you try to do just that.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦

trial one.  

you know he’s watching you.  

observing as you gulp down not one, but three shots back to back — but he’s not watching for the right reasons. no, you know he’s only monitoring your alcohol intake, making sure you’re not overdoing it.  

you know his gears aren’t turning, not wondering for a second why katsuki has his arm slung lazily around your shoulder, fingers interlocked with yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

no, your boyfriend sits quietly in the booth, fingers tracing the rim of his glass as hizashi yaps about something he isn’t the slightest interested in — but his eyes never leave you.  

yet, they don’t narrow, his jaw doesn’t twitch, grip on his glass doesn’t get tighter when he sees his past student dropping his head just enough to murmur something low against your ear which makes you giggle.  

and maybe that makes him swallow a bit hard but, it’s not enough for him to get up off his seat to break you both up.  

and you let that thought fuck with your head as you down another shot — because why does he refuse to throw you a bone? 

any normal boyfriend would not let another man casually lock fingers with their girlfriend — why is he always so composed? it’s boring.  

you start to wonder if he’s just too secure. if he’s convinced you’ll never cheat, never stray — and while he’s right, couldn’t he at least pretend to worry? 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦ 

trial two.  

that is not your jacket. 

shota knows that, you know that.  

and yet, he doesn’t budge when he sees todoroki shrug it off and drape it over your shoulders. doesn’t even blink when you slip it on like you’ve done a million times, and maybe you have — the  way it fits you like a glove.  

the moment is soft, nostalgic, oozes with familiarity. almost too gentle to interrupt. 

it’s only natural, shota thinks — obviously you both have a bond, you literally grew up together. been through war together. but it’s all platonic, all brotherly-sisterly. 

shoto tucks a few strands of hair behind your ear — no hesitation, no second thoughts, almost as if it was pure muscle memory. you don’t check for shota’s reaction. you already know it. neutral — stoic, not a hint of possessiveness in sight. 

and it kills you. 

because shouldn’t this rattle him? shouldn’t the idea of you wrapped in someone else’s jacket — his own former student’s jacket — be enough to spark something? 

man, how hard is it to get a bit of toxicity here? just one glare, one shake of his head, some signal to tell you to take that shit off right now.  

but it never comes — because the man you love isn’t like that.  

he’s quiet. he’s patient. he has complete, unshakable trust in you — in your choices. you chose to be with him, and not the boy you stayed up numerous nights with to study for math.  

no, you made your bed, and he knows you will sleep in it.  

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦

trial three. 

midoriya is sentimental. 

so, when he places a pair of earrings on your lap — muttering something along the lines of, oh this reminded me of you, you can’t help but burst into tears. 

it’s too cute — everything about it, the thought, the earring, the boy you grew up with.

and next to you, shota remains quiet.  

not because he’s seething, not because he’s pretending to keep it together, but because he truly isn’t threatened. in fact, his eyes are soft, as if he’s watching a memory play out that he’s not a part of — but respects nonetheless.  

and maybe a part of you thinks you should count your blessings, that he’s just that type. any man your age would’ve flipped the entire table, start a fight, or even insult your friend.  

thank god you got a good guy.  

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦

trial four.  

and keigo is a breath of fresh air. 

the minute he spots you at his gala, he makes a beeline your way — a warm smile, sharp eyes, and a voice like silk. 

“so glad you made it,” a grin tugs at his lips as he pulls you into a hug, his cologne brushing your senses just before his voice dips closer to your ear. “you look stunning.” 

and your breath hitches, cheeks colored in sacred hues of surrender — like a little girl absolutely smitten by your high-school crush. but reality dawns the second you feel his presence behind you — the air thickening with the weight of his aura. it’s silent, heavy. 

a large hand presses to the small of your back, grounding, and anchoring you in place. 

“oh, keigo — have you met mr. eraserhead?” you question, ignoring the way your voice jumps an octave higher. 

shota thinks, what happened to boyfriend? when did you two become so well-acquainted? 

and keigo’s smile doesn’t falter when he sees shota’s arm wrap around your waist — almost protectively, possessively. thumb rubbing circles absentmindedly into your side, like a warning. 

“nice to meet you!” he says, extending his hand. 

and shota shakes it. 

but he doesn’t miss the way keigo’s eyes linger on you, nor the way you tuck your hair behind  your ear — almost shy.  

and then it starts clicking for him — you have a little crush, and it makes you look stupid.

“mr. eraserhead, huh?” shota murmurs, after keigo walks off to greet someone else. 

shota is not dense. he knows when to be concerned and when not to be. his past students he will never be envious of — but keigo, who is just a few years older than you — young and talented and someone of your generation has shota straightening his back a bit, chest puffed. 

almost like he has something to prove. 

“hm? that’s your name,” you say matter-of-factly — eyes still loosely trained on keigo. effortless charm oozing out of him as he works the room. you’re starstruck. 

“you might as well have called me aizawa-sensei.” he monotones, pulling you in closer to his side. you frown a little, “what do you mean?” 

“you forgot a small title,” he mentions, giving you a pointed look. that’s when you glance up at him, and shota can see the cogs turning now — he knows you’re smart, sees you playing with the idea of acting coy or not. 

“oh.” 

“oh?” he repeats — he has to laugh. 

shota thinks that little crush of yours has you forgetting who you belong to — has you thinking you’re still on the market, ready to be swooped away.  

and maybe that’s when you see a sprinkle of jealousy on his features. the way his hand on your waist tightens, stance solid and eyes narrowed on the winged hero in a way that’s not friendly. 

how fun — finally a reaction. 

and when you murmur, “he’s so pretty, though.” your boyfriend doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink — but the look in his eye screams don’t test me. 

his grip tightens almost imperceptibly, and his lips brush your ear, “keep playing with me, baby. see what happens.” 

and that’s all you ever do.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯✦

and shota tries to be gentle, he always does. but the second the door clicks shut at home, his patience runs thin.  

before you can even turn around, he’s on you — slamming you up against the wall — mouth claiming yours in a kiss that’s all give and take. muttering something along the lines of i fucking own you and it makes your pussy drip as he slides down — hands already discarding your underwear.  

shota hikes your legs over his broad shoulders and wraps his arms around your upper thighs firmly. his tongue makes slow orbits around your pussy, teasing your clit and slipping sinuously into your cunt, repeatedly — and you can’t keep quiet.  

“you think fucking keigo can get you wet like this? have you moaning like this?” it’s all rhetorical. you both know the answer to these questions.  

shota knows you’ve been fucking with him all this time. knows you were just itching for a reaction from him, wanted him to stake his claim on you.  

make you his.  

he pulls back just enough to glare up at you — lips wet with your arousal, eyes dark and glittering. “look at you,” he rasps, breath hot against your folds. “dripping for me. only me.” 

you whimper, one hand fisting the fabric of his shirt. and that’s all it takes — within seconds he’s up on his feet, throwing you over the sofa — legs spread wide, he has a couple of ideas on how he can mark you.  

and the moment his dick slips into your cunt, he knows exactly how to remind you who you belong to — how to brand you forever.  

“mine,” he hisses through gritted teeth, driving into you with bruising force. “say it.” and all you can manage is a soft whine, a plead, “y-yes yours!” 

he smiles — something sinister in his grin as he slams into you harder, setting a brutal pace that leaves you sobbing into the cushions. 

shota knows now that all you wanted was to be put in your place. 

and now you know to stop fucking with him – you got what you wanted.

The remaining sanity that your boyfriend was trying to preserve crumbled the moment you pressed his body deeper into the mattress, grinding your pussy onto him for what felt like the hundredth time. The slick that was dripping between your legs, a mixture of your juices from the rounds you had pushed him through, made every movement of yours effortless, your pussy clamping down on him and making him see stars as a strangled moan leaves his throat.

"Love, I think- I thinhaah! are you still n-not-" His cock throbs as you grind down in a particularly harsh manner, cutting off any of his protests. "Not satisfied? Of course not - you can still talk, honey." Your voice was sweet and teasing, yet your actions were anything but, your hands sliding over his torso and finding his nipples, the two pink buds perky and cold to the touch.

Watching his flushed face intently, you start to pinch and pull at his buds, the sudden gesture causing his eyes to roll back and his body to jerk into you, a high-pitched whine slipping past him before he could stop himself. Spurred on by his reaction, you pull harder, causing tears to well up at the corners of your doctor's eyes.

"I-It's too much, please it's too seehns'tive-!" Zayne's words were barely coherent at this point, his words slurred together as he cries and sniffles at all the sensations overwhelming him, from your pussy bullying his cock to your fingers rolling over his nipples and your heated gaze that wanted nothing but to see him driven to ruin - it was all too much, and the doctor found himself orgasming again, spurt after spurt of cum painting your walls and dripping down from you to his thighs.

The tears that he was just barely holding earlier were now spilling onto his red cheeks as broken sobs fell from his lips—pleas for mercy that completely contradicted how he remained rock-hard inside you. A condescending smirk curls up at your lips as your fingers trail up from his chest up to his jaw, tracing it lightly. Your voice dips into something low and sultry, amusement dancing in your heated gaze. "Your words say one thing and your dick says another....Now, I just don't know what to do."

Zayne, parting his lips to reply, gets cut off by a choked whine as you abruptly halt your movements. His teary eyes focus in on your self-satisfied smirk and hooded eyes. Fuck. He knew that look.

Your still-teasing fingers slide back down to toy with his oversensitive nipples, gentler this time but enough to pull a shaky breath from him. "I’ve gotta say, honey….If you really want me to stop because you can’t take anymore, well, I guess I have to respect my sweet doctor’s wishes."

His breath hitches and his expression falls, but he knew he had it coming with all the mindless babbles leaving him throughout the whole session. It only hits him how far you wanted to take it when you slowly start to lift yourself off his cock, a small whimper leaving him as his hands instantly move to your hips to stop you, a pleading look in his eyes. "I...I..." He starts out, the words catching in his throat.

"You….You....You what, Zay?"Your voice is thick with amusement, his hesitance deepening at the smirk on your face. "You have to use your words." To punctuate your statement, you roll your hips, letting the remainder of him inside you feel that brief, fleeting pleasure and earning yourself yet another wobbly gasp of your name.

For a few agonizing moments, his mouth opens and closes, nothing coming out—until he finally caves, his voice barely above a whisper.

"...Please." His fingers dig into your skin, his resolve crumbling entirely. "Keep on riding me…until I can’t think."

His admission brings a wicked grin to your face, one that the doctor knew only spelled ruin for him. Before he could brace himself, you slam your hips down onto his, changing your rhythm from slow, teasing grinds to an eager and relentless pace, your slick pussy easily moving up and down his cock as he writhes beneath you.

This time, his thoughts truly scatter, lost in the overwhelming pleasure of your movements, your voice, and the way you looked at him as you rode his cock—like he was nothing but a pretty toy for you to use.

And oh, that turned him on.

Small pleas and whimpers for more left him like he had never protested against you in the first place. He lets himself get fucked into oblivion, relishing in everything you so generously give him. In between his moans and mumbles of pleasure, a singular word leaves him that lets you know he'd fully given up control.

"Mistress...!"

That one desperate cry of your title sends heat flooding through you, your desire surging into overdrive. One of your hands slide from his chest to his abdomen, steadying yourself as you lean down, biting into the flushed skin of his neck. His breath hitches and breaks into tiny, high-pitched mewls, his hips jerking up instinctively to push deeper into you.

He was beautiful like this.

Wanting more of his delicious sounds, you keep your teeth against his skin, sinking in just enough to leave a mark—something for him to wear long after this was over. When you finally pull away, Zayne lets out a soft hic, his hazy, tear-filled eyes locking onto yours with a look of longing…and unmistakable desire.

You open your mouth to tease him about it, but before you can, he surprises you—his voice needy and utterly wrecked as he stumbles over his words. "M-Miss...please, I- ah-! N-Need more, want t' be marked-"

Even as his consciousness crumbles, his desires remain clear. He knew exactly what he wanted from you now, and he wasn’t afraid to beg for it with each of his shameless moans and hips that were desperately meeting yours with every thrust.

Unable to deny your lover's desperate plea, you bite down, canines marking him as yours once more. Your tongue follows, soothing over the fresh wound, and causing Zayne to break off into a series of fast-paced cries. His body trembles as pleasure courses through his veins, a whimper of gratitude escaping him and sobs wracking his body as he cums, filling you up again and sending a wave of bliss through you, your cunt fluttering in the tell-tale sign of orgasm to seal both your fates.

"....Cumming just from a bite? Oh honey, you really are gone, aren't you?" You receive no answer but Zayne's flushed face, tear-streaked cheeks, and violent hiccups of pleasure let you know exactly what he would have said, anyways. He was completely spent. Yet you keep moving, using his cock to chase the last of your high.

When you finally reach your peak, your body tenses, shuddering through the aftershocks. Even then, you don't pull away, merely slowing to a gentle grind as you catch your breath. By now, Zayne was barely conscious, a hazy look in his eyes as his body twitches from the overstimulation. He weakly attempts to pull away, not wanting to keep his cum in you for too long but you push him right back down, a soft snort of amusement breaking free from you.

"Don't worry about it, honey. Let me stay like this for a little while, alright?" He only whines reluctantly in response but makes no further moves to resist. Instead, he simply lies there, his body spent, mind floating.

As the minutes pass, the heavy rise and fall of Zayne’s chest gradually even out, though the occasional aftershock still runs through his arms or legs. His hands that were gripping you so desperately now rest limply, his fingers twitching with the lingering echoes of pleasure.

You brush a hand through his damp hair, smoothing it back from his sweat-slicked forehead. His half-lidded eyes flutter at the touch, unfocused but filled with something tender—something that made your heart clench despite what you had just made him go through.

“There you go,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “Breathe, love.”

A faint hum vibrates in his throat, and after a few slow blinks, his dazed expression melts contentment. His lips part, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. “…You're insatiable.”

A warmth spreads through your chest as you giggle, shifting just enough to lie against him without breaking the intimate connection you both shared. "...I know. But you liked it, didn't you?"

He scoffs lightly, burying his face in your hair. Even without a response, the way his hands soothingly rubbed over your skin said enough. And as his body finally relaxes beneath you, you hold him close—letting the night settle around you, wrapped in the heat of each other’s presence.