#alpha deku

His smile was sharp, predatory, white teeth showing in a way that shouldn’t have brought her arousal soaring as it did. But by then the omega in her was already excited at the prospect of an alpha, this alpha, chasing her. Catching her. Claiming her. There was excitement about proving herself to him, about showing just how good she was at running and hiding. She would make it hell for him, and she would enjoy every second of it.

“Okay.” Her voice was breathy, and she wanted to chastise herself for such a dumb answer, but really, her mind was already running a mile a minute trying to think of ways to make him lose her trail. Lia didn’t have a scent, and that would play a good part in helping her, but taking into account his own was hidden, just the sharp scent of alpha clinging to his skin… Well, he did have almost as much advantage as she had.

A sharp look was sent her way, one that had her turning towards the woods, not really waiting for an answer from him before starting to run. The terrain was unfamiliar but at the same time familiar, after all, they had spent a long time in woods similar to these. The bumps on the ground, the foliage scattered around that could easily lead to a slip. There were raised roots and hidden holes. But as much as it was against her in a sense, it was also a help with the thick cover of trees and winding path. If Lia could control her breath and her steps, there would be no reason for him to catch her, would there be?

So she just had to be smart, avoid the crisp leaves and fallen branches, be sure to stay just one step ahead of him.

Which would be easier said than done.

She could hear his footsteps when he began to run after her, the crackle of lightning that preluded the use of his quirk. There was some kind of excitement brewing inside of her, an anticipation that came from her knowing that there would be no way for her to outrun him, not if he was going to use his quirk. Not when her own quirk didn’t allow for her to be as quick as he was.

Oh, but Lia could make it harder for him. The light of the moon was enough so there were differences in the shadows, so they weren’t just a mass of darkness that she couldn’t control. Pale fingers touched the trees closest to her, knocked branches over so they would be on his path.

And still, against her better judgment, a sound of surprise broke through her throat and out her lips, breathing suddenly becoming heavier just by the knowledge that the alpha was indeed chasing after her.

There was laughter behind her, footsteps that foretold of crunched leaves and snapped branches. It dawned on her then that Izuku wasn’t trying to be subtle, he wasn’t trying to sneak up on her. The prince was doing his best to warn her of his presence, as if she wasn’t aware enough of it, as if she didn’t wish for his scent when her mind was between that awake and dream-like state. There were instincts inside of her that clamored for his attention, that warred with the logical part of herself that knew she was nothing but a pacing fancy.

Izuku wanted her to know that he was close, that he was more than capable of catching up to her, that he was just giving her time. Giving her hope that she would be able to evade him, for however long it took for his patience to wane and for the game to end.

It was not a question if he could catch her, find her in the dark woods without a sense of smell. Between the two of them, Lia had experience behind her belt, but Izuky had training. He was faster, stronger and knew the woods that surrounded the castle he was living in. Was there any kind of contest? No, there wasn’t.

And really, was there supposed to even be one? It had been obvious that he had planned this beforehand, that this kind of game was something that had been on his mind even before he set towards her window. But she had annoyed him, so maybe he wasn’t being as lenient as he had wanted to be. Or maybe she was supposed to have such a bad hand from the get-go.

The dress she normally wore around the day was light as it was almost summertime, temperatures slowly getting warmer from the mild ones from spring. But it was a dress, skirts flowy and long and getting stuck in random branches, making Lia grit her teeth as she did quick work of untangling herself. Still, it was giving him an advantage that she didn’t want to. A couple more minutes and Lia found a clearing, which in a normal stroll would have been quite nice, taking into account the more trees there were the best shot she had? It was fucking stupid.

“Found you.”

Small body whirled around in. the direction of the voice, green eyes widening as Izuku stood right at the edge of the woods, his clothing rumpled from his running, but definitively more put together than Lia felt.

Eyes narrowed at him, a step back being given even if he hadn’t moved an inch from his place. The air was tense, charged, they both were getting ready to move the moment the other did. It was obvious in the way that Izuku was holding himself, muscles tensed, just a trigger away from engaging and tackling her to the ground.

Lia flexed her fingers, her heartbeat was loud in her own ears, deafening her to the sounds of his own breathing. His pupils had swallowed the color of his eyes, turning forest green into a mirror of the trees around them. So dark, almost pitch black.

She had to wonder how her own looked to him, did she look as wild as he did? Ready to throw hands, teeth bared and ready to snap around his neck. Would he let her? Would he allow her teeth to draw blood or would he turn it around on her?

Electricity crackled between the two of them, not visible in the air but felt between the connection that she would never admit was between the two of them.

His nostrils flared, both bodies tensed. Muscles locking into place before suddenly they were released.

Lia turned on her heels, the same moment that Izuku moved towards her, small body bolting towards the side so his fingers barely missed her arm. A laugh was given as she escaped, once against setting into the forest, but now there were no doubts that he was hot in pursuit.

Were there any before?

His growl rocked through her body, tingling until it collected in her center, creating liquid heat in its wake. Pale fingers touched shadows that were just in reach, power weaving through them to pull branches into his path, easily splintered by his hands.

The sound of electricity crackling had her quickening her pace, but it was of no use, and though she wanted to claim that it was a ground-level root that took her footing, the truth was that Izuku had simply caught up with his longer legs. A shout was given as they tumbled onto the ground, a soft patch that was just beneath one of the trees, her head being protected from the brunt of the shock by his hand.

Her dress hiked up to her thighs, his bigger body fitting easily between her parted legs, keeping them open while he took advantage of her confusion to grab both wrists in one hand, pining her so effectively, that when Lia finally got her bearings together, she could only stare at him.

And there it was again, the same smile that Izuku had at the start of the hunt. Big, sharp, self-satisfied.

Lia was winded, chest falling and rising, body seemingly over-sensitive from the adrenaline, his touch so hot on her skin, she felt like there would be marks left.

He wasn’t speaking, only staring at her with that smile, eyes dark but almost shining in the darkness of the forest, leaving her even more winded, aware that besides his trousers and her undergarments, there was nothing between their lower parts. The warmth and following flush of her body weren’t all because of the run.

Her pink tongue swiped over her lips, his eyes tracking the movement in a way that had her body lighting up from the inside. She was too aware of him, his proximity, his weight on her. The fabric of his thighs chafed around her soft inner thighs as he pressed closer, allowing her legs to wrap around his hips. She should be trying to get him away from her, fighting, pushing him away. Instead, she was locking their positions.

The hand on his neck moved up, curled around her brown hair, tugged at the strands until her neck was bared to his attention. He still wasn’t talking but he was now moving, lips hot, so fucking hot against her skin. There was a hint of his tongue, as if he was tasting her skin before his teeth came out to play, scrapping over the soft expanse. Heart thrumming like hummingbird wings on her chest, mouth open and a soft sound escaping that had him groaning into her neck.

Not just a sound no, Lia had moaned. Sensitive, overwhelmed, almost trembling in his arms as he sucked and nibbled down to the crook of her neck. Her rationale was fractured by the adrenaline and him, instincts in the forefront, recognizing the alpha on top of her as someone she wanted. Fingers curled into fists, wishing to hold but unable to as he was still holding them captive.

And then he reached the bend of her neck, just before her shoulders began. The moan that left her was broken, body arching as his teeth sank down, not enough to break the skin, just shy of the scent gland that was inactive due to the concoction but still sensitive. Enough that she was melting underneath him, thighs quivering as her legs wrapped tighter around him, brought him closer. As if the prince himself wasn’t doing the same, grinding against her clothed center as he growled, tongue laving the spot that he had bitten.

Lia should have tried to get away the moment that she felt his teeth, should be upset that he had thought of leaving a mark behind, one that sober her would have to think of how to hide. Instead, she was moaning, back arching, breath heavy on her lungs as he kept grinding against her. He was hard, obvious even through the leather pants he was wearing, and the friction was heavenly against her. Even more when he angled his lips, just enough that whenever he pushed his hips against her covered cunt, the hardness of him pressed against her clit, sending tingles of pleasure and slowly but surely making her drenched.

She only noticed how hard her nipples were when his free hand moved to tug at them through the fabric of her dress. He wasn’t even undressing her and she was panting with need, instincts completely obscuring any qualms she would have if she was in her right mind. And for someone so usually quick to taunt and tease her, Izuku was silent, breath as labored as hers, eyes so dark that she thought they could envelop her.

A moan was given as his head traveled down, mouth attaching to one of her nipples and sucking hard, sensation dulled by her dress, but it wasn’t like she didn’t enjoy it nonetheless. He gave a growl against her chest before repeating the same sucking motion on the other, twin peaks of wetness on her garment making her nipples stand out even further.

And then suddenly, she felt the pressure in her wrists leave, hands instantaneously shooting to his hair as he moved further south. It wasn’t fair that his little growls and groans had her clenching, feeling so fucking empty. It was even less fair when he proceeded to hook his arms around her thighs, opening them wide, raising her hips from the ground.

Lia blinked before registering the heavy poofs of breaths against her cunt, shiver wracking through her body even before he nosed at the wetness already collected on the fabric.

There were no doubts about what he was planning to do, but it was still a surprise when he used his teeth to snap the fabric, fangs seemingly bigger than they were before. And yet, he was careful not to nick her skin, which was completely lost on her when his hot breath was puffing against her wet cunt. How could she focus on anything besides the throbbing of her clit? On the way her insides clenched and her thighs quivered in anticipation for when his mouth would finally fall on her.

And fuck, when it did, it brought out a startled sound out of her, not loud enough to be considered a scream, but oh so fucking close to it.

His tongue was hot and wet in a different way than her lower lips were, one that had her back arching as he dragged it out between the seam, intent on reaching her clit and wrapping his lips around the little nub. Izuku didn’t suck at first, instead, he lapped at it until he felt her relax in his grasp, lulled by the constant stream of pleasure. And only then, did he press his lips further, tighter, making a chocked out scream leave her lips.

The pleasure was greater than she thought it would be, but oh so fucking good. In a way that had her trashing on his hold, not really understanding if she wanted to get closer or pull away at the amount of stimulation. Neither situation would be tolerated by him, grip so tight around her that she could only move her upper body, arch her back, open her mouth so moans left until she was a shivering mess beneath him.

Between the way he licked her folds and teasingly dipped his tongue inside and the way he paid attention to her clit, Lia was lost in the whirlwind of pleasure that he gave her. At his pace and will, not her own.

White sparkled behind the lids that she didn’t even know she had closed, orgasm ripping through her body without any kind of warning. It hadn’t been a slow ascent like before, it was like one second there was pleasure but not strong enough and then there was just too much. Overflowing and too much and she was still twitching and Izuku was not stopping.

Her fingers found his hair, tugged on it, tried to get his mouth away from her sensitive cunt. But he seemed unwilling to part, green eyes meeting her own, if it could be considered green at all by then. Pupils blown wide, set on her face as he sucked on her clit, two fingers thrusting inside of her, the stretch pleasurable instead of painful due to her deep arousal.

Lia didn’t even know if there was a second orgasm or if it had been a continuation of the first, body trembling and breath so harsh it seemed to reverberate between her ears. It took her at least a minute to come down from the high, to finally be aware of the ground beneath, of the way his hands were rubbing her thighs. Her fingers were still clenched on his hair, arms moving up as he raised from his position, as if understanding that she was back down on earth.

There were still no words, just dark green eyes and a smile that even in the moonlight looked shiny. There was a beat, and then two, and her fuzzy brain finally understood just why they would look like that. And if she hadn’t been flushed before, she certainly was now.

Lia finally let go of his hair, covered her eyes with her arm “Wipe your face.” her voice sounded weird to her own ears, between breathy and high, colored by embarrassment and pleasure.

“No thank you?” his voice was amused, still with that low quality that sent a shiver down her spine, made her want to rock her hips against him. Maybe if she didn’t still feel out of sorts, floaty and out of her body, maybe then she would have. It was sort of a weird feeling to have, and she was trying really hard not to think about it, at least not yet.

Why would she want to wonder about her reasons for wanting him closer? It was best left as little snippets of a mind lost to pleasure, a mind that couldn’t help but allow for such closeness. She wouldn’t have any agency in it if she could leave it to instinct.

Izuku hummed at her unwillingness to rise to his teasing bait, and Lia could feel his fingers digging into the soft skin of her thighs, joining them before he moved her legs over one of his shoulders. The position was strange and it did make her move her arm, just enough that she could peer at him.

He was looking at her, as if he was waiting for that exact moment, for her to finally gaze back at him. And yet, she was unable to face him while her mind was still too deepset in that pleasurable fog. She looked down, which in reality was a mistake in itself.

Izuku held his cock in a lazy grip, and the second that Lia was looking at it, he gave a few cursory pumps, as if he was showing off. She had seen it before, back on the first night, the one where he had cornered her into a deal with him. And like on that night, for whatever reason that she was not going to try and name, she was taken by the sight of it.

There were still no words, only her breathing evening out, still deep in her chest but not as ragged. His own mirroring hers, a steady rise and fall of his chest that she could feel with her legs over her shoulder. His hands gripped her hips, moving her body so it was in front of him. She half expected him to enter her, finally fill her up with his thickness.

When he didn’t, Lia was confused, but just for a few seconds, until she felt the way that his length felt between her lower lips, heavy and hot against her own feverish skin. Her thighs were forced together, caging him in the space between them, giving him a nice plush tightness around his cock. He wasn’t going to fuck her, was he? Not if he was using her thighs.

She didn’t want to think of the way disappointment filled her body.

Izuku pulled his hips back, cock dragging against her skin, making her shiver, and when he thrust back, there was a surprised moan slipping her lips as the head of his cock met her sensitive clit. There was a hum of satisfaction, the green-haired man holding her legs together as he repeated his actions, a leisurely pace that was slowly becoming quicker.

It was nice, not as nice as his mouth had been, as his fingers a few nights back, but it still brought that wet warmth to her lower belly, still made her skin tingle. And Lia couldn’t take her eyes from his face, from the way his lips were parted and wet from her own juices, the groans leaving them and the twitches of pleasure that flushed his cheeks.

He was beautiful, even more when he clenched his teeth, fingers tight on their grip on her legs as he quickened his pace even further. There would be fingertip-shaped marks on her pale skin, a stark reminder of what he had done, a claim on her body that he shouldn’t do with his scent.

And there it was, with each of his thrusts, angled in the perfect way to stimulate her as much as it did him, Lia could feel the build-up of her orgasm coming. Not as strong as before, but still there, a gradual crescendo that still didn’t make her eyes leave his face.

His moan had her clenching around nothing, had her wondering if he would be as vocal when his cock was inside of her. It was difficult to rationalize the fact that she shouldn’t want it. That she shouldn’t want the alpha fucking her when all she could feel was him. When all she could hear were the sounds of pleasure that he made while using her body.

His eyes closed, lines appearing on his forehead as he groaned, and she wondered if that was a sign of how close he was to his own peak. Lia was close herself, but probably not like him. Would that mean that he would leave her unsatisfied again… Could he even leave her unsatisfied when the first thing he had done was bring out her own completion?

Her thighs trembled, and the growl that he released, chest rumbling against her legs, made her shiver. She was panting in time with him, her eyes slipping down to her closed thighs, the head of his cock coming into view after a particular deep trust. When the omega looked back to his face, his green eyes were on hers. It was deliberate, the way that he tilted his head to the side, gaze still on her, lips pressing against her calf.

She should have expected the parting of his mouth still against her body, but Lia was distracted by the sudden shift in the air. Moonclover became less effective the more it was used, timing between the need for a new dose decreasing. And it was obvious the prince abused it. His scent, which had only held the weight of alpha with it under its influence, was suddenly much heavier with pine and leather. And that fucking scent of lightning.

His teeth sank into her, hard enough to threaten to draw blood.

There was pain, and a shot of arousal that combined with everything sent her over the edge. The second orgasm wasn’t as strong as the first, but it still left her breathless, eyes downcast and catching the moment that he reached his own. Cum spurted from his tip, high enough to stain the fabric bunched under her breasts, but most of it fell on her stomach.

No words once more. But this time she wasn’t the only one panting, both of their breathing heavy in the night air. His scent was still potent from arousal and it was making her dizzy, needy in a way, or at least that would be the excuse she gave for the reason she reached for him.

Izuku only moved when her legs were safely on the ground, allowing her fingers to clutch onto the fabric of his shirt. Lia still held enough self-awareness to not search for more, and he might have noticed she was holding herself back by the way his fingers wrapped around her wrists, thumb rubbing over the sensitive skin near her scent glands.

Her reaction seemed to be automatic when it came to him, a soft purr rolling from her chest. His smile was radiant, and in a bid to keep herself detached from the whole ordeal, Lia rolled her eyes.

“Do not comment.” the cum on her stomach was cooling, slightly drying in the night air. It was a strange feeling that she certainly didn’t like. One hand let go of his shirt, and he allowed her to take it away, long fingers relaxing their hold. The brunette swept her hand over her stomach, a flick of it throwing most of the semen collected on it to the forest ground, though there were still a couple of drops clinging to her digits.

“Are you going to taste it?” his words were teasing, making Lia look back up at him.

Her eyes narrowed, it wasn’t that it was badly natured. But the fact was that now that the pleasure was slowly seeping from her body, reality was starting to rear its head. “No.” it wasn’t that she was quicker than Izuku, but he didn’t expect her to clean her hand on his face before wiggling herself free of his weight.

Back on her feet, she righted her clothes to his laughter. The prince was now sitting on his haunches, cock still soft and out of his pants. His scent clung to her clothes, foliage to her hair, maybe a stick or two. She would need a bath when she went back to her room, wouldn’t she? The omega inside of her whined at the thought of it going away.

Lia shut it down.

“You’re a brat.” Izuku was still laughing as he rose to his feet, she turned away as he put himself back on his pants, rolling her eyes at the alpha.

“Yeah, you keep saying that.” and apparently not being upset at all over it. But she was going to be corteous and not comment on it. Maybe he should learn a thing or two from her. Looking around, she frowned, there weren’t any lights from what she could see. Did they get lost in the woods? “Do you know the way back?”

“Of course.” she waited for him to continue, tell her which way to go. When he didn’t, Lia gave him a pointed look to which Izuku only smiled.

“Whatever.” a roll of her eyes, direction picked at random. “Stay there for all I care.”

Two steps was all she could take, not because her legs still felt heavy from the two orgasms, but because it was how long it took for him to pick her up, another laugh being given at her sound of distress.

“What the fuck?”

“You also have a nasty mouth.” his comment had her looking towards the sky, mostly so she didn’t roll her eyes yet again at him.

“I can walk.” Lia shook her head at him, expecting him to put her down.

It was Izuku they were talking about, he tightened his grip on her. “Yeah, but you can’t fly.” her surprised look was met with a wide grin, her arms wrapping tight around his neck as he jumped up.

It was far enough that they were above the canopy of trees, the castle now easily seen from their position. And though she expected them to drop even after his words, the fact was that they were floating in midair. Lia knew better than to look down, and yet she still did, dizziness sudden as she noticed how far below the ground really was.

“Have I told you, you’re insane?” his laughter didn’t stop until he dropped her off.

****

The activity on the castle had begun to increase, by the time Lia had reached the library, she had already been run over by two maids and had stared at a male servant for a good two-minute span as she watched him dust the chandelier that hung on a barely used corridor. She didn’t understand why until much later on the day, as she shared a light lunch with Nezu, her boss back in his animal form and eating the cold-cut sandwiches with gusto.

“The king’s birthday is nearing.” he commented lightly, almost airily, one small leg crossing over the other “You’re new so of course you wouldn’t know of it. It’s a grand affair that is used to make new alliances.”

“How?” she couldn’t see how a party could hold any kind of political scheming, at least not from a deep standpoint. After all, wasn’t it more of a hedonistic kind of viewpoint? Celebrate life and all that. But she also didn’t really understand court politics and didn’t need to. Her job was to tend the library and the archives, not really rub elbows with the elite.

The prince was an outlier, not the norm. One that had been forced on her, mind you.

“There’s going to be a grand ball, many dignitaries from allied and undecided nations will come. It’s a great place to forge new alliances and further the ones already there.” a thoughtful hum. “The Todoroki family have been allies for a long while, more on the neutral side as King Enji did not really see eye to eye with our dear King, but his heir is much more lenient in his views. He and the prince have a good friendship going.”

“Him and Prince Bakugo?” somehow Lia couldn’t really see it, hadn’t the explosive blond said something about the other prince avoiding him? Not like Lia had been paying attention to his words when she had been too afraid of him burning down the library.

Nezu laughed, loud and boisterous and the brunette almost wanted to shush him, she did blush in embarrassment “No, not Prince Katsuki, his brother. They met once when King Yagi went to the Todoroki’s kingdom and they stroke a very good friendship, Katsuki is probably quite envious of it only due to the fact that he lost once or twice to Prince Shoto. He has never been good with defeat.”

“I don’t think he’s good with victory either.” He was a gloater, she had seen it while strolling the grounds, the sounds of his explosions catching her eye and allowing her to see just how he celebrated his victories. Even in silly pretend battles with his friends.

Another full-bodied laugh from Nezu “There’s nothing tame about the second in line, doesn’t matter the situation. But he’s an honest man, with a big heart that he hides behind sneers and callous words. Don’t take what he says to heart, he rarely means any of it.”

“Sounds like you have experience settling ruffled feathers from his behavior.”

“I have taught both princes when they were small, so I know how they act.” his eyes settled on her with an intensity that was unsettling before he lightened up once more. “All of the castle staff is invited to the party, you know? Guards will be on a short-duty roster so they can enjoy the festivities. It’s a nice time for everyone, not only the higher levels of society.”

“That’s nice.” and she was being truthful. There wouldn’t be many Kings allowing the rabble to mix in with nobility, especially not on such an important day as the king’s own birthday.

“There is also a festival that will be held in the town, though that one lasts for three days. Us servants still don’t miss the ball for the King’s anniversary, but you should check it out.”

“I’ll speak with Ochako and Mina.” that same heavy stare as if he knew something but was keeping it silent because he didn’t want to pry. Had she and the prince been caught already? Would that mean that she was going to get thrown out, secret released to the masses?

“I believe you will have plenty of options for company.” there was a smile hidden by a teacup, Lia was sure of it.

****

“I’ll be really busy for the next week or so.” Lia turned to Izuku with a curious look, the book she had been reaching for forgotten while halfway out of the shelf.

“Shouldn’t you already be busy? You’re the crown prince.” since he had found out that she was an omega, he had spent quite a lot of time at the library. Even before, the prince had been quite a fixture of both the library and the Hall of Records. Didn’t he have studies and meetings with important figures to think about? Papers that he shouldn’t be seeing in a public space?

“Yeah, but things get really crazy by this time.” he shrugged his shoulders, quill being dipped in his ink pot but not used yet. “Kacchan oversees the military part of the whole ordeal, rosters of guards, and the fighting competition that takes part during the festival.”

Uh, Lia would have thought that the blonde wasn’t more than a hot-headed guy. Turned out he could actually actively help. Taking into account Izuku was also much more than what seemed underneath the surface… Maybe she should have expected it.

He continued “I have to oversee the whole staff and preparations, though. Add to that the fact that I can’t get out of meeting with every single representative that comes to father’s anniversary? I’ll be lucky to get a couple of hours of sleep every night.”

Though it was obviously hard, he was still smiling. It was fond in a way that left her feeling a sort of strange warmness. “That sounds tiring, Your Highness.” a quirk of her lips, they were alone in the library, so she could easily tease him. “Guess you won’t have time to slip into other person’s rooms.”

“No, but that’s what alcoves are for, are they not?” his head was propped on his hand, laughter deep in his voice. Lia couldn’t help the flush that spread over her cheeks, turning to actually give the book she had left on the shelf her full attention.

It was better than letting him see just how affected his words made her look, though, by the way he laughed, she was pretty sure that he knew regardless. “I pity the maids that will have to deal with a frustrated prince, Your Highness.”

“Plural, uh. Your opinion of me is really low, is it not?”

Turning back to him, book in her hands and close to being a projectile, Lia decided to simply settle for a glare. “Your Highness, do you need me to remind you?” should she start with the break and entering, the obvious disregard for her privacy, the coercion, should she remind him of how he literally made prey out of her by chasing her through the woods just two days prior?

Fuck, she had been trying not to think of that. Every time her thoughts wandered to that night, she couldn’t forget the sight of his flushed face and parted lips, the growl that she felt. And it left her slick, uncomfortable until she could excuse herself to clean it.

It didn’t help her that his eyes were reminding her too in that moment, darker than normal, intense and almost suffocating in how sharp they were.

Izuku hadn’t made her prey in that moment, she had always been such when it concerned the crown prince, was she not? Prey that wasn’t fearful of being eaten, rather, by the way arousal rose upon her, looking forward to it.

She still held the shape of his teeth on her calf.

“Point taken.” a breath escaped her when he looked down, as if under his scrutiny she couldn’t do it correctly. Her hand gripped the book tighter, lips pressing together before she forced herself to relax.

Yet, she didn’t know what to say, so Lia kept quiet. Strangely, Izuku didn’t engage her in further conversation, leaving her feeling somewhat bereft. But there was work to do and she already let the crown prince have too much real estate of her thoughts, so instead of apologizing without knowing the reason for the need to do so, the brunette moved to another set of shelves.

The book she had been holding was left with him, a collection of scholarly investigations on prine alphas.

Hopefully it was enough of an olive branch.

****

Prince Shoto Todoroki was a strange alpha. Even Izuku with all his joviality and smiles commandeered a room with the full-blown presence only an alpha could have. But Shoto with his bicolored hair and cool mismatched eyes had such an uncommon lack of presence that, honestly, left Lia baffled. Most alphas couldn’t help but make their presence known in some sort of way, it was instinct, a way to show how strong they were.

As demure as the green-haired alpha seemed, when he was inside a room he made it so his whole being was known. His words were just a tad too bright, his smell wafting off of him and into the surrounding area. It wasn’t the punch in the face that Katsuki’s alpha attitude was, but it was still more than the Todoroki heir seemed to elicit. His scent was subdued, still clearly alpha, but controlled in a way that Lia had never seen. He smelled clear and cool, like freshly fallen snow and dewdrops, but there was also an aftertaste of smoke.

The prince had arrived two days ago and had made it a thing to hang around the library, seemingly unbothered by Katsuki trying to corner him into sparring. All he ever did was read or look out of the window in a pensive sort of state. He was strange, really strange.

In a way, it seemed like while she had gotten rid of the presence of an alpha, she had gotten another to replace it. Izuku had been busy for the better part of the week, just as he had told her. Running from place to place as he tried to juggle the duties of being the heir of the crown and the logistics of his father’s anniversary ball. Lia really didn’t miss him, she truly didn’t. It was just that she had gotten so used to him and his scent that it was jarring to go without it. That’s all it was, not some sort of attachment to the green-haired alpha.

A sigh passed through her lips, hands trailing over the spines of the books in front of her before she picked the one she had been looking for. It was old, leather cover worn out by time and use, pages already yellowing at the edges. Old myths and fairy tales. Her mother used to read the softest stories to her when she was a child, so it had some sort of nostalgia connected with it. Alongside the tug of grief that always followed memories of her family.

When she turned to get her seat at the small desk tucked in a corner that oversaw most of the library, she was met by a mismatched stare that did not waver. A blink of green eyes, head moving from side to side to see if there was anyone near that could have caught his attention. It was the first time that Shoto had actually looked at her, not a passing glance as it usually was, but the full brunt of his gaze.

“Do you need anything, Your Highness?” her voice was unsure, book clasped against her chest as she waited for him to tell her something, anything.

It was kind of unnerving to have him looking at her with such intensity. Instead of answering, the prince moved his head, looking once again out of the window. Confusion washed over her before Lia shook her head and continued towards the desk.

Most of the afternoon was spent in relative silence, there were one or two scholars that entered the library, but mostly it was a very slow day. Marishka, the governess for one of the town’s merchants, had just left the room when Shoto approached the desk.

He looked calm and collected, not a hair out of place and an almost bored expression on his face. Or maybe it was pure and sheer indifference. She couldn’t really tell with him. “Good afternoon, Your Highness, do you need any help?”

It was the first time that he had approached her, so coupled with that look from before, it was turning out to be a day of firsts between them, was it not? Lia still didn’t know how to react to the strange alpha, though, especially when he was keen in just looking at her instead of actually speaking.

“Your Highness?” she tried again, hoping that he would say something. Suddenly, it became really worrying the fact that there wasn’t anyone else in the library. They were still open, but taking into account how slow the day had been? She didn’t know if they would be interrupted if the prince thought about murdering her.

“You’re strange.”

Lia blinked at the prince, taken back by his words. She was the strange one? Was he really calling her strange when he barely said anything only to then come up to her to what? Insult her? Was it even an insult? It felt like just an observation when said in that even voice of his.

“Why?”

“You have no scent.” the intensity of his mismatched eyes reminded her of Izuku, that same steadfast gaze that did not waver. Attention fully on her and bringing her awareness of the situation to extreme heights.

Lia tensed, green eyes focused on his face. She had heard that the crown prince and the Todoroki heir were good friends, but the green-haired alpha wouldn’t have shared her condition with his friend, would he?

No. His blackmail would be mute if he had shared it already. “I know, Your Highness. I’m a beta, we have no scents.”

Shoto hummed, head tilting to the side. And Lia had thought only Izuky could make her feel like prey? Like a little bunny struck still with fear at the sight of a wolf’s jaws? Apparently, the two alphas had quite a lot in common.

His scent picked in strength, eyes not leaving her face, what was he trying to see? Lia couldn’t help the small scrunch of her nose, not because his scent was unpleasant - far from it. But because it was just that strong.

Suddenly it was back to that unassuming presence of before, the words he gave her as he left the library made her blood run cold, wide green eyes following him.

You arrive to the club an hour before your shift is set to begin, like you always do. Slipping past the line already forming along the outside of the building, figures bundled in heavy coats to stave off the winter chill, their breath fogging up the air as you make your way down the ropeline. You lift your chin to the bouncer in greeting when he lifts the rope for you to duck under and ignore the grumbled protests from people who have been waiting there for an hour for a chance inside as they watch you disappear into the flashing lights and thumping bass of the finest omega strip club in town. 

Few look up when you enter and that’s just as well. There are much more interesting things to look at in a place like this than whoever manages to stumble in from the street, after all. The few heads that turn your way turn back to the stage just as quickly, taking in your heavy parka and worn joggers and your feet stuffed into winter boots that keep your feet from freezing on your walk to and from work and finding you immediately unworthy of further attention, which suits you just fine. 

You make your way towards the back of the club, slipping between clustered groups of alphas standing around, shoulder-to-shoulder with drinks in their hands, eyes locked on the dancer on stage and paying you no mind as you make your way through. Not sparing even a glance as you mutter an apology that is drowned in an instant in the buzzing beat of the music, completely unaware that later that night, you’ll be the lush and fragrant omega dipping and twirling over the stage and all but reaching directly into their wallets to rob them for all they’re worth. 

You find an open spot at the bar along the back wall, the club only just starting to fill for the night, and flag down the bartender with a raised hand. Motioning for the usual and allowing yourself to lean against the lacquered wood of the bar. Tapping your fingers on the peeling surface, letting your eyes wander your surroundings as you wait for a vodka soda to be pressed to your palm.

There’s always a shock coming here. Stepping from the quiet monotony of your life into the deafening thud of dance music and the blinding flash and cut of lights across the dark club. It feels otherworldly, no matter how many times you’ve done it, which is why you do this. Come a little early, dressed down in casual clothes, take your place at the bar, and soak it in. Close your eyes as you let the vibrations in the air ripple across your skin, take steady breaths in to acclimate to the tang of sweat and sticky sweet alcohol on the air. Rub your lips together to re-activate the blockers in your lip balm when they start to stale, releasing a fresh, caustic wave of chemical scent that keeps the worst of the rank alpha scent absolutely dripping in the place down to a muted haze in your nose. 

There’s a strange pleasure you find in the anonymity of it, as the bartender slides you a low-ball glass that you curl into your hand with a grateful nod. You’re here, working, dancing, because of what you are. Because of the value, inherent, in the soft, plush curves of your body and the siren-call that is your omega scent that begins to radiate from you when your heart begins to beat in time with the music. There are measures in place, stringent security, metal bands disguised as cutesy chokers that protect the sensitive glands in your throat from any overly aggressive patrons, but still. You are there because you are wanted. Because you are something to be coveted and claimed and devoured whole by the alphas that pay the cover charge to sit beside the stage and fantasize about sinking their teeth into the nape of your neck as they split you on their cock. 

It helps, you find, to come like this. Dressed in your normal street clothes, your scent thoroughly contained by the flesh-colored adhesive patches sealed over your scent glands, and blending seamlessly, effortlessly, into the thriving chaos of the club. A reminder that you are here because you choose to be. Because the money is good and the dancing is electric and you’ve never found anything that comes close to matching the thrill of it. A reminder that you can hang up your platform heels whenever you please and return back to this - transform from the luscious prey that alphas would kill for to something closer to invisible, that alphas wouldn’t look twice at on the street. 

You take your first sip of your drink, the familiar bite of vodka at the back of your tongue, and are turning to take in the rest of the club when a strange thing happens. Quickly, in an instant. Faster than you can process what’s happened. 

You very nearly stumble back as a wall of scent crests over you like an ocean wave. Flooding you, surrounding you like a tempest of jungle air, lush and green and dripping with dizzying pheromone, and then you are stumbling back because a broad chest knocks against you. Hard enough to snap your teeth together, a startled little gasp of an exhale rushing from you as you look instinctively up, head spinning from the rush of it, and then big hands are steadying you. Broad on your arms as you’re righted back on your feet and you hear a voice near your ear say, “Woah,” under the harsh beat of the playing song. 

You can barely make out the shape of him in the dark, the club bathed in darkness as the music lulls between dancers, but you feel it as he moves through the air. As he ducks his head down beside yours to be heard over the din of conversation and the distant vibrations from the VIP rooms, that rich, earthy scent flooding your nose, as he says, “Hey, sorry - ” his hands still gripped steady on you. 

The lights shine bright, a blinding flash like the crack of lightning in a midnight storm, and his face illuminates then plunges back into darkness so suddenly that you think you may have dreamed it. 

He’s…young. Old enough to gain admission to the club but younger than the typical patron by at least a decade or two. Tall and broad, dressed in a simple dark t-shirt and darker jeans, looking down at you with an expression that looks a little pinched. 

His face is open. Attractive. Round cheeks that fade into a strong jaw and a pointed chin, freckles over the bridge of his nose. Hair that’s dark and glints midnight green in the flashing lights and waves softly over his forehead and around his ears. 

The lights flash bright once more, and you feel his hands tighten on your arms as he leans in again. The scent comes with him, dripping on the air, dew drops and rainstorms, washing over you as his cheek brushes your ear. 

“You okay?” he asks, and you shake your head there in the dark. Not to say no to him, but in an attempt to clear it, because that scent has hooked itself into you. Rooted itself somewhere deep in your core, beckoning to you in a way that has you tipping up onto your toes between his hands without realizing what you’ve done. Affecting you, somehow, in a way alpha scent hasn’t in as long as you can remember.

Your head tips back, eyes seeking him in the dark, mind feeling honey-slowed and confused, but pleased too, and then you hear a soft intake of breath against your cheek. A soft, startled sound, and then your hand is fisting in the hem of his shirt because he breathes out in a rush and shifts against you. His face tilting towards yours, his nose knocking gently against your temple as his lips part and he draws in a deep, scenting pull of air on a sound that comes out quiet and wounded. 

He has you pressed back against the bar before you can blink, a strong arm curled tight around your waist as your drink is jammed against your chest, and you should be struggling, should be shoving him away because you don’t know him, but then he breathes out a wondered, “Oh, you smell so - ” and you feel the wet smear of his mouth against your jaw and heat slices up through your belly so sharp it has you shivering. 

You can’t think. Can’t pull together a single, cohesive thought as you tip your head and press up against him. Eyes fluttering closed as you draw in deep pulls of his rainforest scent, mind stuttering, swirling, because you shouldn’t be able to smell him, not with the blocker balm on your lips, shouldn’t be able to taste him on your tongue, and yet - 

Another jostle, a body knocking into you from the side, someone shouldering up to the bar, and it has him wrenching back from where his mouth was smearing over the pulse on your throat. Air rushes in between you as he jerks away, still gripping you between his hands like he can’t quite let you go, even as the flashes of light in the club reveal a wild look in his eye. Confused, mossy eyes wide and a little feral, and then he’s blinking and his mouth is moving rapidly. Quietly, so you can barely make it out over the beat of the music, but you hear “-orry, I’m sorry - ” when he sways a little closer to you. 

The distance clears your head a little. Makes room for an ounce of sense, and you find yourself swallowing heavily. Feeling your belly gripping down as you fight against the impulse to tip back up on your toes and shove your face into the hollow of his throat, where you know his scent is pooling and hot and wet. 

What is happening?

He hasn’t let you go, still holding you steady between broad hands, the edge of the bar pressed against the backpack slung across your shoulders. You see his face in flashes, bright, blinding seconds of light punctuated by floods of darkness as the dancer on stage works the pole to a deafening pulse of a song, and know, somehow, that the confusion twisting there with something else, something darker and hotter, is mirrored in your own face, staring up at him. The both of you tangled up in each other, pressed together in the darkness of the club, impossibly confused but drawn to the other in equal, stupefying measure. 

It takes you a moment, suspended there in time with him, for his words to register, but then you shake your head a little. Brow drawing, trying to - make sense of what’s happening. 

“You can’t smell me,” is what comes out of your mouth. Not “who are you?”, not “get off of me.” No, all you can think is that he can’t have smelled you. Not like he thought he did, not with the blocker patches pressed down tight over the glands at the nape of your neck and at the base of your throat. They’re practically impenetrable, strong enough to contain your scent even when in heat, and you’re nowhere near it. 

He leans forward to hear you, to catch your voice over the low thrum of sound in the club, but he draws back when your words land. His brow draws, then, too. Hands sure and steady on your shoulders, warm, even through the material of your heavy jacket. 

God, you’re dressed like a hungover college student. This doesn’t make sense. He should have no interest in you like this. 

“I can,” he says, slowly, barely audible, his eyes dropping down to your mouth before lifting back to yours. One of his hands releases your arm and lifts. Presses against your sternum, his head tilting a little as he blinks at the sight of his thumb pressing to the bare skin of your neck. You shiver, head drifting a little. “It’s...it’s making me - ” 

He doesn’t have to say it because you can smell it. Can feel it, the honeyed turn of his scent on the air. Deepening and thickening as his eyes go a little distant as his thumb touches to the edge of one of the patches at your throat. His voice is a thick rasp in his voice when he speaks again, his eyes lifting to yours in a touch of uncertainty. “Do you - feel it too? I’ve...I’ve never...” 

Your thoughts are a jumbled mess, caught up in each other as your conscious mind grapples with the bloom of omega you can feel in your bones. Too many questions, not understanding why your blocker balm isn’t working on his scent, not sure how it’s possible that he could be smelling you through your patches, but then the lights flash bright again, beams of pink and orange shooting through the darkness and across the both of you, illuminating his face as he looks down at you, and what comes out of your mouth is, “Why are you here?”

Your club is for alphas past their prime. In their forties and fifties, working dead-end cubicle jobs, and paying a steep cover charge and inflated drink prices for access to pretty young omegas they could only otherwise dream of. It’s not for alphas that are...attractive. Strong and broad-shouldered and young, at their physical peak and able to attract any omega of their choosing. 

The question seems to cut through him, somehow, through whatever haze has settled over him, because he shakes his head a little when he draws back. His eyes clearing a shade as he draws in a deliberate, steadying breath, and looks over his shoulder towards a group crowded around a table, then back to you. He leans back into your space again to speak, to be heard over the noise, and you bite back a shiver at the touch of his hair to your cheek. 

“My, uh,” he says, breath warm on your skin. “My friends - made me. It’s one of their birthdays and he’s always wanted to come to one of these so...” His voice is heavy in his throat as he stumbles through it, looking like speaking is a conscious effort as his eyes continue to greedily drink in the sight of you. Like you’re something special, even as you’re standing there, drowning in an oversized winter coat and snow boots. 

You can’t bring yourself to say anything, still swaying within your own body for reasons you can’t decipher, and you catch a flicker of something like doubt across his expression. His face clears more, his face shaking again as some sense seems to return to him. 

“Or,” he says, his brow dipping as he leans back into you. “Did you mean like, here? Talking to you?” His eyes search yours, looking for something, and then drift lower. “Oh, god,” he mutters, “I’m still - ” and you feel as his hands flex around you then release you. “I’m sorry, I don’t usually - I don’t know why I - ” 

He takes a half-step backwards, leaning back out of your space more than anything, and you let out a sigh of breath as he takes his scent with him and the sticky sweet air of the club comes rushing back around you. Your free hand is still clutched in the hem of his shirt and you find yourself unwilling to release it. Fearing, in some forgeign, unknown part of you that if you do, he’ll disappear into the crowd as his mounting mortification propels him further backward. 

Your grip on his shirt stops him from going far and his eyes drop down, then back to your eyes. Confusion there again in his face, and you can’t tell if his cheeks are a little flushed or if it’s a trick of the light. 

He’s like no alpha you’ve ever seen, and you realize that the omega deep in your bones has awoken. Dormant, usually, until your heat is approaching, but now circling behind your ribs. Restless, whimpering. Nearly panting as it takes in the sight of this alpha. As it drinks in the scent of him and finds itself curious. 

“It’s -” you say, shaking your head once more. “It’s alright - I don’t - I don’t usually - ,” let strange alphas scent me in the dark of a club, “I don’t usually feel this either, but - ” 

But he’s frowning now, looking down between you at the dark stain on the front of your jacket. “I spilled your drink,” he says, looking a little disturbed. Like he doesn’t recognize himself for a moment. 

“Buy me another,” you say, before your sensibility can catch up with you, and his eyes catch on yours for a long, lingering moment, before the edge of his mouth slowly lifts. Some of the concern pinching around the corners of his eyes softening as he reaches for the back pocket of his jeans. 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. Looking a little bashful still, but appeased. “Okay, if you’re sure.” 

You nod, because you are, and you can’t help the flutter of your eyelids when he leans past you over the bar to flag down the bartender. The air around you thickening with the lush weight of his scent as his chest brushes your shoulder, and you surrender yourself, just for a moment, to the feeling of it.

You spend the rest of the hour before your shift starts there. Pointedly ignoring the curious lift of the bartender’s brow when he brings you another drink, because hey, you don’t know why you’re doing this either, but it’s happening. 

He orders a drink too, a beer that smells floral on his breath, and you spend the time tucked against each other. Nearly chest to chest, the club filling in around you as more people filter in from the street and the space of the bar becomes steadily more crowded. 

You speak in each other’s ear, him ducking down to hear you and you tipping up on your toes into his space, your noses brushing each other’s cheeks as you speak, and though you’ve gotten a grip on whatever came over you when he first pressed you against the bar, you can’t get past the lingering pull you feel towards him. Like gravity, as your heart thuds at the goofy tilt of his smile in the dim light, as his hand comes to rest around the back of your elbow without a thought to pull you out in closer and out of the way when someone tries to wedge themselves up to the bar behind you. 

You learn that his name is Midoriya and he learns that you’re there to dance tonight.

His eyebrows tic up on his face when you tell him that, eyes skating down your front and taking in your attire. An unconscious reaction, you think, but you thunk him on the chest lightly with your fist in teasing reprimand anyway, and it makes him grin, apologetic, found out. 

“I clean up nice,” you tell him, sipping at your drink and decidedly ignoring the warm little trill you feel in your gut at the way you can’t stop flirting with him. At the way it feels so instinctive and natural to do so. 

He laughs and nods, and when his eyes drift down your form again, it feels a little heavier. “I believe it,” he murmurs, still smiling down at you, but then his head cocks to the side as his eyes land on your heavy winter boots. “Is this your stage outfit or…” 

You sputter quietly into your drink and push him again. “Yeah, I use a snow shovel as a prop. It’s really hot.” 

He shrugs agreeably, like the idea isn’t absurd on its face and it makes you laugh again. “No, actually,” you say, shaking your head. “I walk to work and it’s always really cold by closing time. Plus, no one looks twice at me when I’m wearing this get-up.” Except for you echoes in your mind but remains unsaid. 

He does a gentle double-take and squints down at you. “You walk to work? Alone?” 

You shrug, still grinning softly. Your cheeks are starting to ache, what the hell. “Sure, it’s not that far.” 

He frowns. “That doesn’t seem safe.” 

“No, it’s fine!” you say, waving your free hand at him and pulling your bag over your shoulder. You grab the mace cannister clipped to the top handle. “I’ve got this.” You pantomime spraying it at him and go shhhhhht when you pretend to press the trigger down. 

He snorts a soft laugh but the look on his face doesn’t budge. Mouth turned gently down. “Yeah, but that won’t stop…” An alpha committed to harming you, he doesn’t need to say, and he’s right, but you shake your head and shift your bag back onto your back. Tugging down at the collar of your jacket to show him your throat, where the blocker patches are sealed over your scent glands. 

“No one can smell me, it’s fine,” you say, tapping a finger on the nearest patch. “These things are like, military-grade or something.” 

He gives you a look like you hit your head. 

“I can smell you,” he says, like he’s reminding you. “Like, a lot.” 

Your eyes narrow as you gaze up at him. Curious. Skeptical. “Is this an alpha thing? Is it an insult to say you can’t smell me with your big, strong nose?” 

His nose wrinkles at the bridge, huffing a quiet laugh. A little incredulous. “Not for me,” he says, his head tilting a touch to the side. Like he can’t quite puzzle you out. “It’s not even subtle, I swear. Can you not smell yourself?” 

You let out a dubious hum and shift your weight to your hip. Invested, now, in proving that he’s pulling some weird alpha posturing thing to prove his senses are superior or something. “Fine,” you say, sipping your drink again. “What do I smell like, then? Prove it.” 

His brows lift, eyes lighting a little at the challenge in your voice, and his eyes go to yours for a second in what looks like an ask of permission before he leans into your space. Ducking his chin and shifting closer, until the firm, broad expanse of his chest bumps against yours. 

He turns his head and nudges his nose against the hinge of your jaw. A rumble coming from his chest so soft that you feel it more than hear it as he breathes you in deeply. His lashes brush against your cheek as his eyes close and you feel yourself sway on your feet, free hand gripping at his shirt again to steady yourself as something blooms warm and satisfied in your chest as the rich draw of his scent washes over you. 

When he pulls back, you have to blink twice to see clearly, heart beating embarrassingly fast when you see the dark shade of his eyes there in the dim club light. His tongue comes out to wet his lips, like he’s tasting the chase of you, and he says, with all the confidence in the world. 

“You smell dusky. Like a ripe peach.” 

Well. 

Shit. 

That’s...correct, from what you’ve been told by past partners. 

“How?!” you nearly shout, the lingering haze from the touch of his mouth to your pulse dissipating in the wake of your stunned disbelief. He grins, satisfied with himself, and you groan, tossing back the rest of your drink. “Is it your quirk? Is your quirk super smelling?” 

He laughs, easy and warm, but his eyes drop down for a moment. So quick you nearly miss it, glancing over his hand where he’s holding his beer, before lifting back up just as quick. You follow it and realize, for the first time, that his hand is covered in thick, milky scars. Jagged and criss-crossing down his wrist and up his forearm. 

“No,” he says, still smiling down at you. “My quirk is - uh, something else.” 

You’ll find out later what he keeps from you here. That he’s a pro-hero. A promising up-and-comer, the talk of the town, for those that pay attention to that sort of thing. Rising in the rankings, the subject of magazine covers and photoshoots and thirst threads on twitter. For now, he seems content to keep you guessing, as he brings his beer up and takes a pull. 

“Then you’re just a weirdo,” you tell him, convinced, and he accepts the title graciously with a shrug of his broad shoulders, and if alpha wasn’t dripping in every ounce of his scent, in every hard plane and broad expanse of his body, you’d think he was no alpha at all. Letting you tease him like this, letting you poke and prod at his ego and taking it all with an easy, tilted smile. 

You don’t tell him, as you slowly, begrudgingly force your fingers to untangle from the soft material of his shirt, that he’s just as perplexing to you. That you shouldn’t be able to smell him, shouldn’t be able to taste him on the air over the blockers in your lip balm, but that you can, down in your bones. Down in the warm and soft center of you, something instinctive and biological teased to life by the feeling of it on the air and on your tongue. 

Because you don’t know what it means, if it means anything at all, and you want to stay in this. Whatever this strange, calm, gravitational pull you’re feeling to him as long as you can. You want to stay here, because he wants you to stay here. Chest to chest and speaking in hushed tones as the world turns and the club thrives all around you. 

You manage to drag yourself away with fifteen minutes to your stage time, telling him to watch for you on stage, which is stupid, because what else is there to do in a strip club? But he nods anyway, looking at you in that way that you’ve somehow already grown accustomed to, and promises that he will, all earnest and sincere. 

You force yourself away after one last look at him over your shoulder, ducking behind a billow of curtains and making your way back in the darkness. Finding a door that leads to a dark, empty hallway that leads to another door, which opens to a large dressing area, lined with mirrors haloed in incandescent light and bustling with girls preparing for, or winding down from, a dance. 

You have less time than you usually give yourself so you move quickly. Moving to your cubby along the back wall and swapping out your backpack for the duffel bag that has your costume and your makeup and everything else you need to transform from the invisible, bundled up figure you’ve been to something tantalizing enough for grown men to hand over fistfuls of cash for the privilege of simply being in your presence. 

Getting ready is a well-worn routine for you and you go inside yourself as soon as you sit yourself in front of one of the mirrors. Digging mindlessly through your makeup bag for the foundation you have to cake on to avoid being completely washed out by the stage lights. Eyeliner comes next, applied with a steady, practiced hand, and you can’t help but replay the hour before in your mind as you apply mascara thick to your lashes. Feeling a little giddy, still. A little floaty, as you force yourself to not get ahead of yourself. To not make more of whatever happened than it was. 

Your mind catches on the strangest things as you work, leaning close to the mirror as you pull and fuss with your hair to get it in a better shape. Remembering the dusting of freckles over his nose, the strength of his hands around your arms as he steadied you. The guileless grin when he’d ducked his chin at a stupid joke you’d made, the hazy lush of his scent that told you everything without him saying a word. Told you the depth of his interest in you, in his want to be near you, to know you, without edging hard on possession and claim and dominance like every other alpha you’d ever known. 

You hear your name called from across the room, a five minute warning, and you push yourself to your feet, shucking your clothes down to a messy pile on the floor that you’ll pick up later. Digging through the bag at your feet for your old faithful outfit, pulling out a fishnet bodysuit that you begin to untangle as you kick your heavy snow boots from your feet and off to the side. It fits you snug and true as you draw it over your toes and up your legs, the material just this side of too tight as you shrug your arms through the sleeves and shimmy it up over your hips. 

A skirt comes next, flouncy and short enough that the curve of your ass peaks out when you twirl, and a lacy bustier that makes you look like you have a lot more curve up there than you actually do. Boots come last, knee-high and dark, thigh heels and tall platforms, sturdy beneath you while you move, and you finish the look not a moment too soon when you hear your name called again - the one minute warning. 

You totter over on high heels to where a man is standing with a clipboard and an earset, a new guy whose name you can’t remember, and you flash him a polite smile as the the song on stage winds down through the door across the hall from where you’re stood, the finale of lights glittering through the gap beneath the door. 

“Ready?” he asks you. Paul, maybe? You nod, only remembering at the last moment to reach at your throat and pull the blocker patches from around your throat and the nape of your neck. Bunching them into a sticky ball and finding them shamefully slick as you toss them towards a trashcan a few feet away, and you feel them pulse faintly as your mind returns again to him. Wondering if he’s out there, waiting, to watch you. 

The door across the hall opens and light cuts through the dark, a dancer you’ve never met slipping through the threshold with more bills in her arms than she can carry, and then the music stalls out for a lingering beat of one, two, three silence, and then the beat booms, dark bass and rattling deep, and that’s your cue.

You roll your head above your shoulders and draw in a steadying breath to settle yourself from the rush of getting ready. Grounding yourself in the familiarity of this moment. Clearing your mind for what comes next. Touching down at your outfit once before nodding to the doorman and stepping through into the blinding lights of the stage. 

You strut onto the stage and can’t help the grin that touches your face at the immediate rouse of the crowd gathered around the catwalk. Feeling the heavy thrumming beat of the music in your bones as you step lightly across the stage, down the runway, slowing to twirl and dip and throw a look over your shoulder to an alpha standing there looking at you like he’s looking up into the eyes of god. 

You make it to the pole at the end of the catwalk just as the song enters its first turn, your routine as effortless to you as breathing by now, and when you let yourself grip the pole and twirl your body in one slow, sinful arc, you can’t stop your eyes from searching the crowd. Looking, out into the darkness, to where dozens of faceless strangers are standing and sitting, all facing you, faces enraptured. Ready for the show to begin. 

You catch his scent before you see him, your lips parting on that taste of lush greenery, and then your eyes lock to him. Finding him. A few rows back, sitting at a table and surrounded by others that look his age. His friends, must be, but you can’t take your eyes from him as you allow yourself another indulgent, slow twirl around the pole. 

He’s seated, his thighs spread wide and thick in his dark jeans, but he’s near the edge of his seat, and you can feel his eyes on you like a physical thing. Like a caress against your cheek, the trail of fingertips down your sternum, and you shiver, in spite of yourself, down to your toes as you spin slowly around the pole. Unable to stop the challenging little quirk of your brows when you come around again and his eyes are still locked to you. 

Told you I clean up nice.

The look on his face makes your heart skip and thud, makes something low in your gut to grip down tight, because there’s no mistaking it. The soft part of his lips and the hard set to his jaw in the low light. You can taste it faintly in the air, the dark turn of his scent as he leans forward towards you on stage, his hands curling into fists on his thighs, and you let your head tip back and your eyes to close as your body finally finishes its slow turn. 

Bills rain down on the stage, already, hands grubby and greedy and reaching for you, but when you open your eyes, you find that his have not left you. Forest green and burning, and you allow your lower lip to catch in your teeth as you toss him a look over your shoulder because you know, you know, as you fall to your knees and let your body roll to the beat of the music, that you have him. That you have him, and that he’ll be waiting for you, after this is all over. 

You’re scheduled for three dances on stage tonight, with enough of a break between them for you to slip backstage and drain a bottle of water, touch up your makeup, and still have a few minutes to sit and begin to sift through and stack and rubberband your bills. 

There’s a restlessness in you that isn’t typical, centered around the alpha sitting out in the dark club that you know is waiting for you, but the stage dances are where the money is, so you go through the motions of them dutifully. Dipping low and twirling fast around the pole, snapping the straps of your bustier, tossing teasing looks over your shoulders at the alphas circled around the edge of the stage, and doing absolutely everything you can to keep yourself from just staring, stupidly, dazedly, at Midoriya there in the audience, watching you in rapt attention.

By the end of the last dance, you’ve collected enough bills to cover two month’s rent, and you can’t help the sparking jitter of anticipation as you lean close to a mirror in the dressing room and fit the metal band over your scent glands and around your throat. Clicking it securely shut at the nape of your neck then covering it with a stretchy band of black elastic, so it looks more flirtatious choker necklace than the protection from being forcefully mated against your will by a violent alpha that it really is. Gotta keep the fantasy alive, after all. 

You do one last touch up in the mirror then turn and go, teetering across the floor in your platforms and slipping out of the dressing room. Ducking out between the curtains that separate the guest section from the backstage area, and stepping out into the flashing lights and sticky floor of the club. 

You catch the eye of two other girls that are lingering at the bar, also done with their stage dances for the night, and they nod eagerly when you motion them over. 

The floor is best worked in a group, you’ve found. Men like the presentation of it, getting to choose their girl for a private dance from a line-up, and it helps cut down on being groped alone in a corner by an opportunistic creep who has no intention of actually paying for the VIP treatment. 

They come over to you, one settling on each side of you in formation of fishnets and glitter, and you lead the way. Stepping forward into the crowd, knowing that you should probably play coy and invite a little chase, but unable to make yourself bother with it. Still able to detect the scent of him on the air and moving towards it instinctively. Can still taste him on your lips, even standing down on the floor surrounded by sugary alcohol smell and the musky drip of alpha scent. 

He’s right where you saw him last, sitting with a group of people piled onto chairs and surrounding a small cocktail table that’s littered with empty bottles and low ball glasses. They’re impossible to miss, really, a youthful energy surrounding them that makes their visit feel more like a chance to gain an scandalous story to tell later than the sad, desperate need for attention that lingers like a cloud over the rest of the tables. 

You move in, slipping your way between a gap in the bodies, and the group parts at once, a pleased cheer rippling around it when people move to make room for you and the two other girls. 

Your eyes skip to him, sat there in the circle of people, eyes dark and locked to you at once, but force them away just as quick. Offering the group a bright smile when they lob out what sound like sincere praise for your dances, thanking them with a little curtsey as you let your eyes trail around the group. 

They all look around Midoriya’s age, mostly men, mostly alphas, but a few women, too. At the head of the circle is a blond with a black lightning stripe through his hanging bangs and a tiara perched on top of his head, and you can’t fight back the stupid smile that settles on your face when you realize he must be the birthday boy who insisted on bringing the group, and Midoriya, by extension, here. He looks fucking wasted, a little dazed, but content as he slumps back in his chair and gives you an unsteady thumbs up of approval that you shoot back to him in a way that makes the entire group cackle in delight. 

There are more, girls that smell sugary sweet, all dolled up and pretty for a night out, and a handful of guys they’re draped over. All grinning and happy, loose-bodied in a way that belies their comfort with each other, even in a strange place like this. 

Two alphas draw your attention, your eye going to them instinctively, even as Midoriya looms in your peripheral. Another blond with spiked hair, slouched in his chair and frowning, his features handsome and sharp and a little wild, and a monstrously large redhead beside him that’s grinning brightly at you and shouting to you over the music that your second song choice is his go-to karaoke jam. 

You make conversation with the group easily, as do the girls on either side of you. Well accustomed to the art of seduction, of the tease and the dance of it, and eager to be able to do it for once with a group of people more your peers than something more like your creepy uncles. You share your brand of foundation with the girls when they marvel at its coverage after so much exertion, a conspiratorial little secret that they delight in, and ask the group if they’re having a good time, which is met with rousing approval. 

It’s easy and it’s comfortable and you find that your smile is genuine when the entire group tips into another easy peal of laughter. 

Through it all, his eyes never leave you. He’s quiet where he’s sat, his thick, denim-clad thighs spread in his seat. Patient, it seems, for you to do your little routine, but eerily still in the way that a predator is before striking at prey, and it makes the hair on your arms prickle up on end when you finally cast your reel out and ask the group if anyone there is interested in a private dance, because you feel the turn of his scent on the air. Dark and sharp, dipping down suddenly deep to something you feel in your belly, honeyed and sinful, and you don’t have to look at him to know that he’s claimed you there. With just a look at you across the little circle. That no other person in the group would even dare to ask. 

He stands and the group cheers, razzing him as he steps through the center of the group, clapping him on the back in encouragement, and your breath is a tangled thick in your throat as you remember the size of him as he stands, until your eyes lift to his and he offers you that smile. Eyes sharp, still. Wanting. But that smile loosens something coiled behind your ribs and you can’t help but return it. Just as wanting as he is, as you step back from the group, the other girls filling in the space you left, and he steps just as easily after you. Drawn to you like gravity, and all you can think as you watch his nose lift a touch on the air, drawing in the scent of you and blinking at it, his lips parting, is that you feel it too. 

“This way,” you tell him, touching the pad of your finger to his palm before turning and leading him away. Into the darkness of the club and towards the back, where a hall of rooms that offer privacy and quiet and escape from it all await you. 

You never even thought to warn him of the price of it, never even bothered to be sure he could afford the absolute absurd cost of a private dance, but when you reach the doorman that stands before a tall, dark door and holds out his hand for cash, Midorya reaches into his back pocket and pulls a wad of bills out of his wallet so thick that you actually look away out of some strange, foreign desire to respect his privacy. Stupidly, as if your entire profession doesn’t center around convincing men to part with their hard earned money for the privilege of your company. 

You let your eyes wander over him as he counts out the bills, a weird feeling that borders on guilt touching around the edges of your senses, at reducing whatever this is, whatever you’re feeling with him, to a transaction, because it feels, somehow, like it’s more than that. 

But then you feel him brush up against you, his chest nudging against your shoulder, and his voice is low in your ear when he tells you to lead the way, and you don’t bother to bite back the shiver that trickles down your spine as the smell of him fills your nose and puffs softly against your cheek with his breath. 

You take him to the farthest room, down to the end of the darkly lit hall and to the right, then even farther back. Feeling his presence behind you as you lead him far from the prying eyes and ears of the doorman, slipping through the door at the very end of the hall and watching him, with bated breath, as he steps in behind you. 

The room inside is small, four walls and a space no larger than an oversized closet, lit in shifting hues of color as the light in the corner clicks through brightly colored lenses in a steady, sliding rhythm. A chair is at the center, sturdy and broad, and you motion for him to sit as you step past it to the soundboard lit up in the far corner and take your lower lip in your teeth. Considering for a moment, your heart fluttering in your chest, a dipping twist of nerves and anticipation, until you select your music choice with a press of a glowing button. 

Music fills the air, reverberating out of the speakers propped up in every corner, and you adjust the volume a little. Turning it down a touch as you look over your shoulder and see him standing there. Looking a little awkward as the melody begins to swell, softened by the padding of the walls that keep each room soundproofed from the others, and seeing him there makes something strange clench in your chest that feels dangerously close to fond. 

Luckily, this, you know. This part is familiar to you, and you slip into a persona that feels effortless and alluring. You cross the room towards him and stop, your hand coming to rest on the back of the chair. You look to him, seeing his face lit in shifting shades of green, then red, then blue, and can’t help but smile at what you see. 

“Sit,” you tell him, gentle and a little teasing, and you see him breathe out, his shoulders dropping, and then he does. 

Your hand comes forward from the back of the chair. Moves until the tips of your fingers touch the soft curls at the back of his head, then press farther. Carding your fingers through his hair, thick, a little damp at the roots with sweat, and when your fingernails scratch slowly against his scalp, you feel the soft rush of breath from him in a shiver down to your toes. 

You come around the side of him, thumb tracing his ear, and then waste no time. Lifting your leg over his and settling yourself onto his lap. Making him lurch softly, back against the back of the chair, as you let your weight settle fully against his thighs. Your hand still buried in his hair, scratching light, teasing touches against his scalp with your fingernails. 

You’ve never done this before. Just sat yourself on a client’s lap like this, your thumb tracing over the freckles on his cheek before your hands come to rest flat on his chest, but he seems to need this, and you think, so do you. 

His heart is racing beneath your palms, even as his chest rises and falls in deep, steady breaths, as his eyes finally meet yours. Steadying himself in your gaze, searching for a moment, his brows dipping, then returning, like he found what he sought. His hands come up to curve around the thick of your waist. Resting lightly there, naturally, his fingers blazing warm against your bare skin. 

This close, pressed against his chest, his scent envelopes you. Lush and hot and thick on the air, and it makes your mouth flush wet. You lick your lips and swallow, his eyes dropping to track the movement as the light flashes over his face, green, then red, then blue, and you nearly close your eyes at the first tinge of desire in his scent as you shift. Settling yourself deeper into his lap, as you breathe out a quiet little sigh. 

“Midoriya,” you murmur. Audible over the music only because you’re so close, and his eyes lift back to yours. Shaded dark, his thighs thick and strong beneath yours. You let your palms trace over his chest. Feeling at the contours of muscle and bone there, the strength and breadth of him, and you’ve definitely never done this, but it makes his jaw tic in a way that has your insides heating syrupy warm and makes you feel daring. Makes you want to do more. 

Your voice is a quiet purr when you ask him, “Are you nervous?” 

He breathes out, looking down, then back up at you, and there’s a smile. Small, but lifting the corner of his mouth. Himself, again, there. “A little,” he admits, and you breathe through a tremble at the pitch of his voice now. Darker. From somewhere deeper in his chest, like the alpha in him has begun to stir. His hands grip at your waist. Just a soft little pulse of his hands that has your eyes fluttering closed. 

Me too, you think, shifting your hips against his in a soft, unconscious roll to match the beat of the music filtering through the air. Moving against him because it feels right to do so. 

“You just have to sit there,” you tell him, voice coming out petal soft and a little breathless in the space between you. “Sit there and enjoy.” 

It’s hooking you already. You can feel it. The gravity, the pull between you. Beginning to tow you under. Making you want to do things you never do.Thick in the air between you, making your lungs feel tight as you gently swivel your hips against his again and feel his hands pulse around your hips in response. 

You think, from the drip of his scent in the air, that he’s feeling it too. Whatever this is. 

He breathes in, then out. Holding you steady on his lap, and you’re aware, in that moment, of the strength of him. What he could do to you, if he wanted to. If you asked him too. 

His tongue comes out and wets his lips, and then he murmurs, “What are the rules?” 

He shifts, then. Pitching you gently forward in his lap until your chest bumps against his. Having found his footing it seems, because then he’s there. Leaning in, breathing in, nudging his nose to your jaw. Dragging the edge of it along that soft skin, his lips hot and wet and making you shiver in his arms as you tilt your head for him. Sighing, rolling your hips gently to his again. Eyes fluttering closed as his nose touches behind your ear and his lips part against the curve of your throat. 

Your hand lifts up his chest to curl around his neck again. Rooting deep in his hair, to ground yourself. To keep you in your right mind as you feel the sharps of his canines nip lightly at the heated skin over your pulse, sparking flint at something buried deep and long forgotten in the very center of you. 

“You, uh,” you breathe, mind going blank at the hot press of his tongue to your throat. Struggling to even remember what he asked you. “You’re not supposed to, um, touch me.” 

All motion ceases. 

He goes still beneath you, muscles hardening beneath your thighs, and you have just a moment to breathe, to stand in awe of this alpha who hangs on your every word, who would stop if you told him to stop, before you moan softly for him and breathe out, “You can. You can.” 

His hands grip around the curve of your waist again, hard, and he breathes out against your neck. A shuddering exhale, relief maybe, a bit overwhelmed, and then your body lurches helplessly against him when his lips tease around the edge of the metal choker around your neck. Smearing a little, hot and wet, just out of reach of your scent glands that are pulsing, aching, leaking slick beneath the band. 

He breathes in, then out, and his breath is hot against your skin when he murmurs, “You don’t w-wear the patches...” his tongue tastes at the edge of the band and your hips stutter softly against his beyond your control. “...when you dance.”

You tilt your head for him. Baring your neck, the omega in you purring, preening, at the attention of his mouth, so close to where you really want it. To where you’re protected by solid metal band but throbbing beneath it. To where you know he can’t go but want, in the deepest parts of you, for him to have. To taste. To bite. 

“Better tips,” you say. Groaning softly when his tongue licks a long strip across the band. Tasting what of you slips beneath the edges of it and rumbling deep his chest at the taste that must burst across his tongue. 

His palms tighten around your hips, skin brand-hot over the thin netting of your bodysuit as his fingers spread over where your skin is pressing through the gaps of material. Pliant and soft in the grip of his strong hands. “That seems…unsafe,” he murmurs. 

His teeth catch on the edge of the band and it has you keening. Whimpering and lurching against him and he draws back at once. Thumbs soothing over the skin of your hips in apology, going back to scenting you. Drawing back, giving you a moment to breathe, like he thinks he overstepped. Rubbing his jaw against yours, breathing you in deep. “I can’t believe - smelling like this - ” 

You sigh, letting your weight settle fully down onto his thighs. Tilting your head to his, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to his jaw that has him groaning quietly, and you whisper, “What?” 

He shudders, like something washed over him, and his voice is rough like gravel when he says, “That anyone can keep themselves away from you, smelling like this.” 

His mouth finds you again. Drawn to you, fast. Closes over the angle of your jaw in a hard nip of teeth, soothing you between his hands when you whimper in pain and then melt into him, murmuring to you in a tone so low you can’t even hear him. Can just make out the rumble in his chest where you’re pressed to him, can only feel the possessive grip of his hands on your hips. 

One of his hands pulses and then drifts. Fingers spreading across your skin as it lowers, and you realize, with sudden, blistering clarity, when his hand grips hard and tight around the curve of your ass, that you’ve begun to drip down there between your thighs. 

“Oh,” you breathe, eyes darting down quick, a little panicked, because there’s nothing separating you from his jeans beneath your skirt. Nothing but thin lines of fishnet to keep you from making a mess all over him. “M-midoriya.” 

He hmms, another deep chest rumble of acknowledgement as he noses his way back down your throat. Testing the edges of his canines against the supple skin of where your neck meets shoulder mindlessly, like he doesn’t know he’s doing it. Gripping your rear tight in his hands, so hard it pushes the breath from your lungs. 

“I’m - ” you try. Nearly beginning to pant, feeling your blood heating in your veins. Some inevitable descent begun that you can’t begin to claw back. “I’m supposed to dance - ” 

If you don’t stop, you think. If you don’t stop this now…

“I can smell you,” he says into your throat. Voice raw. Sounding almost wounded, winded, like he’s out of his mind as he nips hard at your shoulder. “D-dripping for me.” 

“Oh my god,” you groan, shuddering against him full bodied, and then his hand is coming up to find your face. Palm curving around your jaw, tilting your face to his, and your hands fist tight in his shirt when his mouth presses to yours in a searing kiss. Biting at your lips, palm spreading over the back of your head. Tilting you to him as his other hand draws your hips down against his. Parting your lips with his own, tasting into your mouth with fever-hot tongue. Making you shiver and moan against him, and you feel yourself give over to it. Whatever control you still possessed slipping through your fingers like sand, like water, and your whole body shakes with the force of your want when you whisper against his mouth, “I want you - I want you - ” 

He groans against your lips, his brows bunching down on his face, like he’s in pain, and then he’s murmuring, “C’mere,” and fitting his hands hard around your hips and yanking you down. Spreading your thighs over his, your knees slipping past his hips on the chair, and you can’t stop the ripple that tears through you when you feel him, there. Cock hard in his jeans, a firm, delicious pressure against where you’ve gone slick and achy for him, and it has you crying out. Broken and soft as you set your hands on his shoulders and grind down. Rutting your hips to his like an animal, seeing sparks behind your eyelids at the solid press of his clothed cock against your core. Tipping yourself forward, shifting your hips until the pressure is against the crest of your sex, where your nerves are sparking off, needing pressure, desperately, and chasing it with weak rolls of your hips. 

One of his hands lifts and pushes the hair from your face, his palm curling around your cheek, and it draws your eyes to his. Air pushes from your chest when you see in his eyes what must be reflected in yours - need. Desire. Arousal, delirious and intoxicating, utterly and basely wild. 

The music continues to pulse and thrum in the air around you as the lights cast different shades across the space. Across the two of you, tangled up in each other, heated skin against heated skin in the quiet hush between vibrating bass beats. An island, the two of you, tucked away from the world as you give into the push and pull of each other. 

“I’ve got you,” he says, tilting his chin up and kissing you once more. Mouth open and hot and wet against yours, making you pant against him as your mind begins to slip from you. Rational thought giving way to the instinct pulsing heady and thick in your veins, the hollow ache in your sex that knows what it needs, now that you’ve allowed yourself to realize it. 

You need more and you whimper for it. Crying softly against his mouth, asking him, begging for him, to take care of you. To give you what you need, because he knows. 

His hand spreads across your ass, then down. Follows the curve of it until he’s asking you, “Tell me I can - p-please, tell me - ” 

You nod, desperate, hazy, and his hand slips down between your thighs. Groaning when his fingers slip through the slick dripping there, bumping over the lines of the fishnets, and when a practiced thumb soothes slick and smooth over your clit, you arch against him so hard you can barely breathe. He rubs you there, murmuring to you, nonsense, words you can’t understand, but your hips begin to bunch against his hand. Something like pleasure slicing up through your belly so quick it nearly frightens you. Nearly burns you. 

“M-midoriya,” you whimper, urgent, as your brows collapse on your face. Chasing, mindless, thoughtless, as the sure pad of this thumb massages against your clit. The steady, hard pressure you so desperately need but didn’t realize until just that moment, your hips humping against his hand desperately, dripping slick, making a mess all over him. “Oh - ” you breathe, feeling it, there. Building, like an ocean wave. Like a riptide, deep in your belly. So quick, drawn up under the surface of your skin before you can even understand what’s happened. 

He buries his face in your throat, mouth smearing and wet against your pulse, and your breath locks up in your lungs as the hard press of his thumb wrenches you closer and closer to a terrifying precipice. Working against you in steady, sure rubs, practiced in a way that makes you shudder against him. Marveling, distantly, at how capable he is. How he knows just what to do. What you need. This alpha, caring for you with every soothing, slick rub of his thumb against your clit. 

Sparks begin to light off, singeing your nerves, blistering hot, and you startle when you feel something against your mouth when your lips part on a broken, ragged cry. 

His forearm, pressed to your lips. Your breath stutters, caught in your throat as you hang off the edge of some great cliff, dwindling by a thread, and then he hisses into your neck, “Bite,” and you do. You clamp your jaws down, teeth nearly piercing the skin as you muffle the cry of your release into the solid muscle of his arm. Your body rippling against his as your pleasure roars through you like a forest fire, slicing, surging, and for a long, lingering moment, all you can do is squeeze your eyes closed and ride it. Held strong in his lap, by his arms, as your body writhes and rolls with pleasure that leaves you feeling blinded by it. 

The music fades slowly, silence falling in the room as the songs blend from one to the next, though you can’t hear anything over the roar of your heart in your ears. His hand comes up to your lower back. Holding you steady against him as you shiver through the last of it, fingers petting soothingly over the fishnet spread there, smearing your slick that feels fever-hot against your skin.

Your breath returns to you first, winded, gasping, your eyes blinking blearily open to find that you’re drooling around where your teeth are clamped on his forearm. Your eyes lock on the dark impression of your teeth that remains there when you jerk back out of reflex and your heart smacks against your ribs like someone threw it. 

“Oh,” you breathe. Eyes darting to his, worry lighting in your chest, because you just bit an alpha, but when you press your open mouth to what must be the stinging wound of it, he groans softly. His eyes dropping closed, pleased, as you lave your tongue over the skin in apology. 

His palm comes back to cup your face, gentle, in spite of everything, and you can’t right yourself in the sea of this feeling. Can’t wrap your head around this man, this alpha, who just let an omega pierce a possessive bite into his skin and who is rumbling contently as you soothe the hurt with the soft press of your mouth. 

You let yourself settle shakily back down against his lap. Feeling the slicked mess of your sex settle against where he’s still hard in his jeans. Drawing breath deep into your lungs, shaking your head softly. Bringing your hands up to frame his face and whispering his name as you kiss him. Again and again, body trembling against his, blood flooding with hormones that are making you float. Making you soar, there, in his arms, on his lap, pouring the utter devotion you feel in your chest but couldn’t possibly articulate into every soft press of your lips to his. 

When you finally pull back, he seems calmer too. Centered, somehow, as if bringing you to your release was one for him as well. Like it took the frantic edge off the pulsing alpha inside of him to have cared for you so. To have provided for you. 

“Midoriya,” you murmur, your palms on his cheeks, and his eyes catch and hook into yours. Something passing there between you, unspoken but felt, and then you feel a hollow, empty pulse at your center that has you whining softly. Pitifully, as your hips stutter weakly against his. Needing, still. 

“Please,” you whisper, and he exhales. Nodding. Knowing, as he tips you against him and his mouth finds yours again and his hands, gentle and moving slow, reach down between your thighs towards the puffy, slicked mess of your sex. 

His breath puffs softly against your cheek, his nose nudging against your temple in what feels like aching affection. “Someone could come,” he murmurs, even as his fingers curl in the web of your fishnets and tug. Ripping the material like it’s nothing, once, then twice, until you’re bare to the slide and press of his thick fingers. 

But your hands have dropped too. Shifting back in his lap til your fingers find the waist of his jeans, fingers clumsy and slippery against the button. “Don’t care,” you breathe. A strange serenity coming over you then. A calmness that feels steadying in your bones as you work his pants open with shaking hands. “Need this.” 

Heat scorches you when you finally get a hand around him. Fingers curling around the hot, hard length of his cock as you draw it from the vee of his jeans and shiver at the feeling of the head smearing hot prespend against the inside of your wrist. He groans, broken and soft, his head tipping forward as you let your fist glide down the length of him. 

“Hold on,” he says, breathless, as his fingers touch gently again at your sex. “I’ve gotta - I d’wanna hurt you.” 

He slips one finger in, an easy, slick glide that has your head tipping forward against his shoulder on a soft sound. His other hand soothes you, gentle pets against your hip as he strokes you there. Touching you deep, crooking it gently, making your breath catch for him when he presses a kiss to your jaw and presses a second alongside it. Your hips rock back against his hand, instinctive, as the soft squelch of his fingers pressing through the slick of your cunt echoes around the persistent beat of the music. 

“One more,” he says against your cheek, and you groan at the third when the press of it makes a dull spark of pain flare deliciously in your gut. You push back with your hips, your brows bunching on your face as your eyes squeeze closed, taking him as deep as you can, greedy, impatient, even when he murmurs to you, easy, easy. 

He works you open that way. Fingers thick and tight inside of you, easing you to soften to the bulk of his hand, kissing at your cheek, your chin, your jaw, as you breathe through it and roll your hips softly back against him. Your body steadily opening to him, wanting, so terribly. 

You shift over top of him and feel the hot smear of his cock against your thigh, and you whine. Urgent, needing, frustrated, his name falling from your lips so desperately that it has him saying, “Okay, okay,” into your temple, and easing himself free. Drawing his fingers back and taking that intoxicating ache with them. Curling a hand around your hip to help move you where he needs you. 

He kisses you again, reaching down to take himself in hand as you shift yourself over his lap. Your hips circling, seeking, until you feel the fat head of his cock slide against your sex, and he stutters out a sound, broken and caught in his throat, and then you slot yourself down onto him. 

He nearly shouts, his hands gripping your hips so hard it hurts, so hard it will bruise and your entire body shudders when you hear him snap his jaws near your throat on a ragged, wounded sound. 

“F-fuck,” he breathes, chest heaving, and then his head is tilting back. Eyes opening and meeting yours, drunk, blissed out and hazy, as he fucks his hips up hard against yours. 

Skin claps softly against skin and you moan weakly. Your head falling forward, your arms circling around his neck, your whole body flushing hot at the impossible, thick press of him. Filling you completely, just this side of painful, and it makes your toes curl as you dig your fingers into his hair and whimper. 

He says other things you can’t catch, voice a low, fast murmur drowned by the thumping beat of the music, and his head lowering and mouth touching to the metal band around your throat is the warning you get before he pulses his hands around your waist and begins to fuck you. 

You get your feet under you, platformed heels slipping over the floor before you get your weight in them, and then help him as best you can. Moaning softly with each rut of his hips into you, every deep plunge of his cock, lifting yourself as best you can on his cock before slotting back down with all of your weight. 

His breath is hot against your throat, his mouth moving, muttering to himself as his tongue laves around the collar. Testing his teeth against the edge of it, making you shiver, shudder as you tilt your head for him, your fingernails scratching down the back of his neck hard enough to leave marks in the flickering, colored light. 

His hands reach lower, cup around the curve of your ass, and you yelp a little when he takes over for you. Something bright flashing in his eyes, a blink of green light crackling through his irises, and then he is taking all of your weight in his palms. Raising and lowering you onto his cock like you weigh no more than a pebble, breath not even strained as he meets your hips with his on every drop of you into his lap. Skin slapping skin, wet and lewd as it echoes through the rising melody, grunting as he roots himself in you again and again and again. 

You let your eyes fall closed, breath pushed from your lungs with every thrust of his cock, every hard jarr of his hips to yours. Panting desperate, quiet moans in time with his motion. Clinging to him, your fingers tangled tight in his hair. Whimpering his name, your head spinning, as he moves you like a doll on his lap. Putting you where he wants you, bringing you up and down, spearing you down on the fat press of his cock in time with the thrumming tempo of the music. 

His strength is intoxicating, the muscles in his arms flexing tight on either side of you as his hips raise from the chair to meet yours. He is moaning low and deep and lost as he does, his face buried in your throat. Teething at the edge of the metal band there, puffing in breaths through his nose, inhaling your scent, drinking in the slick pulsing steady and hot and shiny from your glands, leaking beneath the collar. His teeth stay there, tempting around the ridge of it. Never going further, never trying to actually displace it. Just soothing himself with the fantasy of it, sucking on your pulse and the oily slick of your skin there, dreaming, it seems, of sinking his teeth deep into that fragrant spot. 

The prick of his canines makes your head tip, a throaty sound spilling from your lips, and one of your hands comes to his cheek. Guiding him away, down the column of your throat, towards the juncture of your neck and shoulder and nodding, breathless, whining, when he tests his teeth there with a hard, stinging nip that has you lurching against him. 

On a particularly hard rut of his hips to yours, one deep, thick spear of his cock, you feel him. The base of his cock, the beginning swell of his knot, and your eyes roll back in your head like you’ve been possessed. Shuddering through your full body, the omega in you throwing her head back and howling, a feverish need that cuts through your body like a molten blade, and you can’t help the pathetic, needy reed of your voice when you press your lips to his cheep in a plaintive kiss and whisper, “Please, Midoriya. G-give it to me, please, I need  - ”  

He curses, low, through gritted teeth, and begins to fuck up into you harder. Skin slapping, sloppy and slick where you’ve leaked all over him, where you’re squelching around every deep drive of his cock into you.

He shakes his head, looking like he’s lost himself, eyes dark and unrecognizable when he lifts his head from where he was teething roughly at your shoulder. “Can’t,” he pants, over the smack of his hips meeting yours, over and over and over. “Someone - someone could - ” 

You whine, then. A hot, desperate whimper, and you take his face in your hands. Murmuring his name and kissing him under his jaw. Little kitten licks followed by soft nips of your teeth, mournful little sounds falling from your lips. Begging him as you submit to him further, desperate to appease him, so that he’ll give you what you want. What you need. 

“Midoriya,” you cry, voice gone weak, “Please. A-alpha, please - ” 

He snarls, gravel and deep in your ear, and then he grits out “F-fuck, fuck,” and then you feel him coming. His cock swells inside of you. Hardens and bursts, jerking inside of you as he opens his mouth over the curve of your shoulder and clamps down with his teeth. Burying his canines into the muscle and skin there as he forces you down over his cock. Hard and deep, making you keen loudly at the tight, painful press of his knot against your sex for a long, blistering moment, before he shifts beneath you and it slips inside. Making you moan, making you cry, your eyes slamming shut as his knot plugs you deep. Roots him in you, swelling tight, knocking all the breath from your lungs. 

He growls, a steady, rumbling sound as his teeth remain clamped on your shoulder. Drooling, blood beginning to drip around his lips, and you have just a moment of warning, feeling his knot press against the deepest parts of you, before you’re breathing out in a rush, “Oh - oh I’m - ” and pleasure crests in you once more. White hot and searing. Breaking in your throat as your cunt pulses hard like a fist around his knot, squeezing, aching, around him. Wringing him as his cock jerks and spits inside of you. Filling you with scalding spend, painting the insides of you and making you pant as you breathe through the electric pulse of your release. 

It takes him a moment to return to himself, his chest heaving, and you feel when he does, because he jerks back from where his teeth had buried in your shoulder. Dripping a slippery pink line of saliva and blood as he does, his eyes so suddenly clear. Bright green pools like a spring pond, and then his hands are curling around your cheeks and steadying you, as you let yourself linger, indulgently, in the last few waves of pleasure. Still thrumming warm and full and sated from the fat, heavy plug of his knot in you. 

“Hey, hey,” he says, sounding a little urgent, a little worried, until you manage to open your eyes and find his. “There you are,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Are you with me?” 

Your head nearly lolls on your shoulders, your mouth curving up in a stupid, pleased smile, but his eyes drop to your shoulder, and he mutters something low that you can’t hear. “What?” you ask, voice gone dopey and dumb and warm, and one of his hands drops down to touch at the bite there. Dripping still, a deep, piercing bite, and his brows draw as he touches his thumb to it. 

“God, I - I really - ” he says, shaking his head, but you turn your face into his palm pressed to your cheek. Nuzzling against it with your nose, breathing in the forest damp scent of him. 

“ ‘s good,” you tell him, feeling hazy. Feeling drunk on the fill of his knot, and when you tilt your chin to him on a quiet sound, he hears you. Curves your face to his and kisses you. Slow and deep, lips sliding against lips, tongues touching almost shyly, after everything. 

He keeps you there. Sat on his lap, tied to him, while you float. Feeling the steady, thumping pulse of the music in your bones as you drift slowly back down to earth, trading slow, easy kisses back and forth. 

His fingers touch at your hair where it’s gone damp with sweat at the temple. Pushing your hair back, and you have to ask him to say it again, because it takes you a moment to understand what he murmured against your cheek. 

“Let me walk you home,” he says, pressing a kiss there, so achingly tender that you feel it in your teeth. 

You laugh, a quiet huff, and that’s how you know you’ve begun to return. To come back to your body that you feel you’ve been wrenched from with the depths of your contentment. “I’m...my shift isn’t over for another few hours,” you tell him. Turning your face to his and kissing his cheek back. Stupid with affection as his knot pulses hot inside of you. 

He hmms quietly, his cheek rubbing against yours. Scenting you, soothing and slow, his chest rumbling against yours. “In a few hours, then.” 

You agree with a soft nod, breathing him in deeply, even though you know he won’t actually do it. You’d agree with anything he said right then, probably, and think he might too. Lulled to someplace calm and centered within yourself, feeling held and sure and safe there in his arms. 

The music continues on, the playlist on a perpetual loop, but you allow yourself to stay there. Too blissed to worry or care, relishing in the soft brush of his lips and the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart. 

The rest of your shift passes in a strange and swirling blur. You spend twenty minutes in the staff bathroom after Midoriya rejoins his friends, staring at your reflection and feeling blissfully hazy and warm. Touching at the dark ring of teeth marks in your shoulder, letting your fingertips trail along the bumps and ridges he pressed into your skin there, before you soak a paper towel in cold water and wipe yourself down as best you can. Torn, as you wash away the scent of your coupling, as some distant part of you already mourns the loss of it when you toss the paper towels in the trash and force yourself back out onto the floor. 

You’ve made more money than you needed to tonight, so you spend the rest of the night tucked into yourself. Helping the waitresses clean up instead of soliciting last minute dances for a few extra tips, drinking down a full glass of water when the bartender offers it to you, feeling like you’re floating above the ground as you walk and wondering if everyone around you can see it. If you look as obvious as you feel. 

A club like this is good for distraction, if nothing else, though, and everyone minds their own. Focuses on their own tasks, heads down as business hours wind to a close and everyone begins to itch to head home. 

When you finally make it back into the dressing area to change out of your stage outfit, when the club has cleared a few hours later, the floating feeling has been replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. Pleasant, but sleepy on your feet as you shrug slowly into your winter jacket and stuff your feet into your winter boots. 

You sling your backpack over your shoulder as you make your way back through the empty club, feet scuffing heavy on the floor in your boots. Waving a tired goodnight to the bartender as you make your way to the exit and taking a moment, there at the door, to brace yourself for the frigid air that you know awaits you on the other side. 

It’s dark and freezing when you step outside, the alley lit by a single street light, but the cold is oddly refreshing. It helps to clear your mind and rouse you a little, to clear a touch of the exhaustion from your mind. Enough to get you home anyway, and you dig a scarf out of your bag and begin to wind it around your throat as you make your way over snow-covered concrete towards the street. 

You think of Midoriya, as the snow crunches beneath your boots. Wonder if he got home safe with his friends. If he’s curled up in his bed right now, sound asleep. If he’s thought of you. 

The alley is long and it takes a minute to walk down, stepping around crumpled beer bottles and loose sheets of newspaper stuck in the snow, but when you finally step out onto the sidewalk, you stop. Mid-step, blinking, your expression blanking and then warming in a twist of confusion. 

He’s there. Midoriya, standing across the street under a street light. Bundled up in his winter jacket with his hands stuffed into his pockets, and his head lifts when he sees you. A grin settling on his face at the sight of you that you feel as you step over the snowy curb to greet him. 

“You’re here,” you say, as you make your way over the snowy ground to stand next to him. Walking slow, so you don’t slip, until you make it to his side. Looking up at his face and the easy smile there. Back to himself, now. The guy you met at the bar. Affable and warm. 

He shrugs, his breath fogging in the night air around his smile when he says, “I said I would be,” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Are you ready?” 

You look up at him. Frozen in place, even as your hand tucks around his offered arm. “Are you sure?” Your brain is blanking again. You look around you, at the empty city streets, pitch black in inky dark. “Your friends left you?” 

He huffs a soft laugh and bumps you gently with his elbow. “‘Course I’m sure. Come on. You said it wasn’t far.” 

You shake your head at him, sure that the flutter of your heart is playing out as plain as day on your face. Stuid and doe-eyed. “I...maybe lied about that.” 

He snorts in easy laughter and shrugs again, looking down at your where you’ve tucked into place at his side. “All the more reason, then. Let’s go, I don’t want you to be cold.” 

And so, you go. Your arm wrapped around his as you direct him through the deserted city streets to your home. Leaning on him, your boots heavy and slipping on the icy ground, because you know he can take the weight of you. Because you know that he wants to, and you think you could get used to this, as you spend the walk looking up at his face. Cataloguing the freckles over his nose and the flush of his cheeks from the cold and the hopeless, fond way he can’t seem to stop looking at you. 

The walk is slow and ambling, half because you keep getting lost in conversation and drifting to a slow stop right there in the middle of the street and half because you keep tilting your head back to see if the sky is clear enough for stars to peek through the ambient city lights. 

He walks you right to the front door of your apartment, holding your hand as you step up on the curb, waiting there, mouth quirked fondly at you as you dig through your bag for your keys. 

A few minutes later, you’re walking slowly down the hall towards your place. Your lips still tingling, warm and soft, your heart racing, with his number in your phone and a plan to meet the following week, and you think to yourself, as you slot your key into your apartment door, you can’t keep your mind from your last look at him when you’d finally left him there. Watching you go, his hands in his jacket pockets. Nodding to you and smiling softly, as if to tell you it’s alright. That you’ll see him again.