#explict

Whenever everyone gathers outside in the evenings, you deliberately sit beside other guys—the neighbor's son, an old friend from school, anyone. You laugh at their stupid jokes, all while stealing glances at Ryomen from the corner of your eye.

His expression never changes.

Cold. Blank. He nurses a beer or lights another cigarette, looking almost bored, but his eyes never leave you.

They find you through the crowd, studying every movement you make. Every laugh. Every smile. Every accidental brush of someone else's hand against your shoulder, as though committing it all to memory.

The longer this twisted game drags on, the more terrified you become.

You can feel the tension winding tighter beneath your skin.

And when it finally snaps...

You know you're going to be the one left in pieces.

You forgot one thing.

Sukuna doesn't tolerate outsiders.

A steady hum of voices drifts in through the back door, mixed with laughter and the shrill screams of children. Half the neighborhood seems to have shown up.

Someone brought meat for the barbecue, someone else showed up with salads, and others dragged folding chairs beneath the old oak just to claim a patch of shade.

You step onto the porch, and the scorching air crashes into you like a wave from an open oven. The midday sun hangs directly overhead, bleaching the grass into a dull yellow. Heat shimmers above the asphalt.

"Hey! Over here!"

Yuji stands waist-deep in the pool, dark wet hair plastered to his forehead, his usual bright grin stretching across his face. He waves both arms to get your attention.

You make your way down the stone path, the sun-heated gravel biting into your bare feet. The moment you reach the edge of the pool, Yuji flashes a mischievous smile and splashes you.

Cold water smacks against your stomach.

You gasp, flinch back, then laugh as you curse at him.

"Come on! Get in!" he calls, sunlight glistening across his shoulders. "The water's perfect!"

You peel off your shorts, letting them fall into the grass before climbing onto the metal ladder. The steps burn your feet, but the second the water reaches your waist, the oppressive heat melts away.

The water smells of sharp, clean chlorine and the sun-heated plastic of the pool edge. You dive beneath the surface, letting the cool water wash away the sweat. You surface, gasping, only for Yuji to splash you again, and suddenly you are wrestling like kids, the water spraying everywhere, a brief, fleeting escape from the dread.

Yuji lunges for your waist, but you twist away, slipping toward the deep end before resurfacing behind him.

"That's cheating!" he laughs, spinning around.

"Oh, quit whining."

He catches you the next time, wrapping both arms around your waist and lifting you effortlessly off the pool floor.

You squeal, grabbing at his sides.

His body isn't the same as it used to be.

His hands are rough now, strong, all lean muscle beneath warm skin.

With a laugh, he tosses you into the water.

For one blissful second, everything goes silent. Only bubbles drift past your face.

You surface, coughing and laughing at the same time, then shove him in the chest with all your strength.

He barely moves.

Just stands there, entirely too pleased with himself.

"You're such an asshole," you mutter between breaths.

Water trickles down your collarbones, collecting at the ties of your swimsuit.

Yuji laughs, but the smile fades almost immediately.

"Uh... I've gotta get back to the grill." He rubs the back of his neck. "If Sukuna catches me slacking off..."

Your smile disappears.

"He's... coming?"

Your voice comes out quieter than you intended.

"Yeah." Yuji nods. "He and Toji went to grab more beer."

He notices the look on your face and lowers his voice.

"Sorry. I know you two don't exactly get along. But... maybe things have changed over the past year?" He shrugs. "Honestly, he barely ever talks about you."

You force yourself to nod.

If only Yuji knew.

If only this kind, oblivious boy had even the slightest idea what had happened two nights ago in the backseat of his brother's Mustang.

The way Sukuna had wrapped your hair around his fist.

The way he'd forced your face down between his knees.

The way you'd stared into those wild crimson eyes while he ruined your throat.

Your fingers drift unconsciously to your neck. It still feels as though his grip has never really left your skin.

"I should head inside," you mumble, already climbing out of the pool. "I need to dry off."

"What? We literally just got in!" Yuji calls after you.

But you're already walking away, not listening anymore.

You’re basically sprinting. The wet fabric clings to your body, highlighting every curve. The concrete is slick; you almost slip.

You frantically scan the tables for his silhouette, praying to slip by unnoticed.

You’re one foot onto the porch steps when a heavy palm slams onto your shoulder. Fingers dig into the muscle, jerking you backward.

You gasp, and your back slams into a rough wooden pillar.

The wood is scorching hot beneath the relentless sun, searing against your shoulder blades almost as fiercely as his grip.

He looms over you, a mountain of heat and shadow that swallows the light, cutting you off from the rest of the world.

Heat pours off him. He smells like sweat, sharp cologne, and bitter cigarette smoke.

The white t-shirt clinging to his chest is damp at the collar. A crumpled pack of cigarettes juts from his chest pocket. The tattoos on his face look like ink-stained scars, and his eyes hold nothing but cruel amusement.

"Where are you running off to, brat?" His voice is a gravelly, guttural growl. "Saw me and decided to bolt?"

"Let go, Sukuna," you hiss, pressing your palms to his chest. Under your fingers, his muscles are hard and boiling hot. "Let go, someone’s gonna come out!"

"And what are they gonna do?"

He leans in, pinning you against the pillar with his weight. Your wet swimsuit leaves a darkening, spreading blotch on his shirt. He drops his gaze to your chest, slowly licking his parched lips.

"Those tits look insane. Wear that on purpose? Knew I was coming, didn't you, little bitch?"

"Fuck off," you exhale.

He thrusts a hip, forcing your head to smack against the wood again. His calloused hand, smelling of engine oil, unceremoniously rests on your waist, his fingers digging in.

"Decided to get a piece of the brat while you're at it?" he whispers right into your lips. "I saw you fawning over him in the pool. Have fun?"

"We were just playing! Yuji is my friend, you hear me? He's normal, unlike you!"

"Friend," Sukuna spits out venomously. "That pup follows you around like a lost dog. And you love it, don't you?"

His hand slides lower, roughly grazing your thigh, his fingers shoving under the wet fabric of your bikini bottoms. Without a shred of foreplay, he shoves a finger inside.

You freeze, breath hitched.

"Sukuna... don't... please..."

"I don't give a damn," he smirks.

His finger moves deeper, working you.

"My dad... my dad's gonna come out and see!" you’re almost begging.

Not now.

Please, not here.

"And what’s your old man gonna do?" Sukuna sneers. "Beat me up? Brat, your daddy worships me."

His thumb grinds down hard on your most sensitive spot. A suffocating, sticky heat floods your lower belly. You hate yourself for how fast your body starts pulsing under his touch.

"I can hear you breathing," Ryomen whispers, biting your earlobe until it draws blood. "You want me to tear this piece of trash off right here and fuck you? Say 'no,' and I'll pull my hand out. Well? Say it."

You open your mouth, trying to choke out that damn "no," but instead, a dirty, drawn-out moan escapes your lips.

"Slut," Sukuna growls.

He jerks his hand away, grabbing your wrist and dragging you toward the kitchen door.

"Get inside. Now." He gives your wrist another rough tug. "Running away, huh?"

You knew he was crazy. A hot-headed, dangerous beast. Once you’re in the dim hallway, he turns, his face inches from yours. His eyes burn with something wild, something deeply wrong.

You never should have gotten close to Sukuna.

You never should have made that deal.

"You get what’s gonna happen if your saint of a father finds out how his little girl sucks dick in parking lots?" he spits.

"It... it wasn't like that..." you sob, tears blinding you.

"Oh yeah? Then what was it? You just naturally learned how to swallow my cock to the hilt? Just swallowed my cum while you were dripping like a bitch?"

You cover your face, choking on a sob. Sukuna waits. Then his grip on your wrist lightens. He lets out a heavy, dirty sigh.

"Go upstairs." His voice is quieter now, but there's still steel beneath it.

He gives you a slight shove toward the stairs.

Your heart pounds in your temples. Your mouth has gone dry. You want to scream, call for Yuji, run back to the people outside—but your feet move anyway.

You run. Faster than if he were dragging you himself. Because the fear and panic inside you are tangled so tightly with the forbidden arousal pulling you under that you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins.

You’d be lying if you said you didn't want this.

You'd be lying if you said the adrenaline wasn't pulling you toward him.

You rush into your room.

Run.

Move.

Why aren't you moving?

Sukuna follows close behind.

The lock clicks with a dry, terrifying snap.

You stand in the center of the room, gasping.

The window is left slightly ajar, and the boisterous, drunken laughter of your father echoes up from the backyard, mocking your silence. The sunset floods the room in a sickly, golden light.

Sukuna leans his back against the door.

Anyone outside who looks up will see you through the glass. The sheer, reckless audacity of it makes your mind reel with vertigo.

Sukuna takes a step. Then another. He is huge, a dangerous predator filling the space of your clean, quiet bedroom. You back away until your knees hit the mattress.

"Sit," he orders.

You don't move.

Ryomen is enormous, filthy, smelling of the summer heat, beer, and the street. He fills every inch of your quiet bedroom.

"I said, sit."

You drop to the edge, your wet swimsuit leaving a dark, damp stain on the pristine white sheet. He steps in, forcing your knees apart with his legs until you are completely trapped between them.

"So nervous…" A slow grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You have no idea how much that turns me on."

Sukuna looms over you, his shadow swallowing you whole. He doesn't hesitate; he reaches out, slapping your cheek with a casual, stinging disregard before grabbing your chin, forcing your face up to meet his dark, predatory stare.

"Don't be scared, little one," he rasps, his eyes glinting with a savage hunger. "I don't bite. Unless you start begging for it."

His hand moves to the nape of your neck, fingers twisting into your damp hair and pulling hard, forcing your cheek against the denim of his crotch. You can feel the heavy, pulsing heat of him—huge and rigid—pressing against your face through the thick fabric.

"I missed you," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

"Sukuna... my dad... he'll come up..." you whimper, your voice breaking.

"Fuck," he growls, his patience fraying. "Quit whining."

His free hand dives under the hem of your top, and with one sharp, violent motion, he yanks the fabric up. Your nipples harden instantly in the cold air.

You instinctively try to cover yourself, but he catches your wrists and pins them firmly to your sides.

He grabs your wrists, pinning them wide, and his fingers squeeze your breast with such punishing intensity that a sharp cry escapes your lips.

He only smirks, reaching behind your neck to jerk the ties of your bikini top free. It falls away, leaving you completely bare before him.

"Come on, brat," he breathes, his eyes darkening to black. "Jerk me off with your tits. Show me you remember how."

His hand tangles into your hair, yanking your head back so you have to look him in the eyes.

"You understand me? Or do I need to knock it into your head?"

Your shaking fingers grab his belt. You hook your fingers into the waistband of his underwear and pull it down. His cock falls out heavy, the wet tip glistening in the sunset.

"Don't be shy," he sneers. "Remember how you used to lick it. How deep you’d take it."

You swallow, licking your parched lips. Sukuna snorts mockingly.

"Just do it, I'm tired of waiting."

You cup your breasts in your hands, pressing his shaft firmly between them. The skin is slippery from sweat and leftover pool water; the cock moves easily, with a wet, sliding sound. You speed up the pace, squeezing your palms tighter. Under your hands, he becomes even more tense and aroused.

"Yeah... that’s it, slut... Squeeze harder."

He starts moving his hips to meet you, practically fucking your chest with short, sharp, mechanical thrusts. The belt buckle clinks against the button with every movement, and he pushes deeper, faster.

Downstairs, Yuji’s laughter rings out, oblivious, while inside you, everything is melting into a puddle of shame and hunger. You part your lips, sucking the head on every forward thrust.

"Damn... fuck..." Sukuna rasps. "Yeah, like that... More... I’m gonna..."

He cums just as you take the head into your mouth again. Hot, thick spurts splash across your chest, your neck, coating your chin. He stays there for a long time, his whole body shuddering with every release.

Sukuna finally steps back, breathing heavily. He zips up and looks down at you—disheveled, covered in his essence, and trembling.

"Good job," he huffs, a look of satiated, animal triumph in his eyes. "Obedient little slut."

A large drop of his seed falls onto your navel. Your hand, acting on its own, drops down, your fingers pressing through the soaked fabric of your panties. You are aching with a hunger that doesn't end. He sees it, and his smirk widens.

"What, did you like it when I was rough?"

"No, I...—"

"What 'please'?" He leans in, grabbing your hair, forcing you to look him in the eyes. "Say it. Out loud."

"I want you to fuck me!"

"I thought so."

He throws you onto your back. The mattress squeaks piteously as he bears down on you, pinning you to the bed with his massive body.

"Lie still and don't you dare twitch."

He takes your hands, puts them over your head, and pins them to the pillow with one of his massive palms, stripping you of the slightest chance to defend yourself. You’re completely open and left to his mercy. He tears your panties aside.

His fingers jam inside, relentless, hitting you at full reach. The sound—the wet, rhythmic squelching as you move on your own, grinding against his hand—is enough to snap whatever thin leash he had on his restraint.

"Slut... what a fucking slut you are," he growls through his teeth. He grinds his crotch against your side, his hard, throbbing length pressing through the denim, punishing your bare, wet skin.

"Look at me, fuck," he orders, his free hand clamping around your throat. "Open your eyes, slut, and see who’s fucking you."

He dips his head, his teeth sinking into your skin right over your pulse—a sharp, sudden bite that makes you gasp. He instantly licks the sting with his scorching tongue, sending a violent shiver down your spine.

"Feel how much I want you?" he rasps into your ear. "I want to bury myself in you. But first, you’re gonna come from my fingers. You’re gonna come for me, hear me?"

His movements turn frantic. His thumb hammers against your clitoris with no mercy. You arch into him, your fingers tearing at his shirt. Everything inside you pulls tight, like a wire strung to the breaking point. The tension becomes unbearable, and you explode. A loud scream is drowned in his shoulder, your body goes into convulsions, your inner muscles squeezing his fingers in a death grip.

Sukuna doesn't stop, continuing to move his fingers, wringing the last of the orgasm out of you until you go completely limp, turning into a ragdoll.

He finally pulls his hand out with a wet, heavy sound.

He brings his stained fingers to his lips, watching you with those dark, predatory eyes, and slowly licks them clean.

Sukuna stands up. As his weight leaves the mattress, the room suddenly feels empty. He fastens his belt, the sharp click of the buckle sounding like a death sentence.

"So, how are we supposed to go back downstairs after that?" He sounds lazy, but his eyes burn with triumph. "You smell like me and sex from a mile away, brat."

"Why are you doing this, Sukuna?" Your voice trembles. "Was that night not enough for you?"

He pauses, leaning in so close that the smoke from his cigarette burns your eyes.

"Enough? Brat, it'll never be enough. You brought this on yourself. Remember this: stay the hell away from my brother. You so much as look at him again, and I'll fuck you on his own bed. I don't give a damn who's outside the door."

He strolls to the dresser, lights another cigarette, and exhales a stream of smoke. "What? Not even a 'thank you'?"

You give the smallest nod, a tear slipping down your cheek. "I understand."

"Good girl."

He turns toward the door. It clicks shut behind him, and his footsteps fade. You are left alone, and your gaze drifts to the nightstand. Two crumpled twenty-dollar bills lie there.

Payment. That's all it is.

Nausea crawls up your throat, but the worst part—the part that makes you want to tear yourself apart—is the faint, pulse-like satisfaction still buried deep inside you. Your body has betrayed you.

You grab a wet wipe and, frantically, until your skin is raw and purple, you wipe the semen from your chest and neck, desperately trying to wash away the smell of his tobacco and skin. With trembling fingers, you somehow pull on your wet swimsuit and head down to the backyard.

Suddenly, right by your ear, making your whole body flinch, his low, mocking voice rings out:

"Sweetheart, you forgot to wipe the traces off your chin."

You spin around abruptly. Sukuna is standing a step away from you, demons dancing in his eyes, and on his lips—that same crooked, triumphant smirk. Toji is standing behind him, lazily sipping beer and giving you a sharp, sly once-over from head to toe. He’s clearly in on your "secret."

You jerk your hand up in fear, frantically scrubbing your chin... but your fingers are dry.

There’s nothing there.

He lied.

Just to mock you.

To show that you are completely in his power.

Your face flushes a deep, burning crimson. Sukuna lets out a ringing, mocking laugh. He turns and heads toward the table, his broad back flickering among the guests like a predator returning to his pack.

You watch him walk away, feeling a slow-acting poison spreading through your veins. You feel used, trampled, and dirty. But as you watch him effortlessly take charge, a horrifying thought creeps into your mind: the sun will set, the guests will leave, and somewhere in the parking lot beside the Mustang, a lighter will click again.

And you'll find your way back to him. Because the poison beneath your skin craves only him—and you don't want it to stop.

The pretending isn't the problem.

The problem is that you're starting to forget what the pretending feels like.

You check yourself in the mirror one last time. The dress is black, sleek, fitted, cut just low enough to be intentional. Your hair is done. Your earrings catch the light. You look, objectively, like a woman who has her life completely together, which is an excellent lie and you're grateful for it.

You open the door.

Natasha is at the vanity mirror across the room, fingers raised to her ear, working in an earring and she stops. Not gradually. Not the slow trailing off of someone distracted. She just stops, earring half in, hand suspended, and she looks at you in the mirror.

You watch her look at you.

It lasts three seconds. Maybe four. Long enough that you feel it move over you like something physical, her gaze, unhurried, taking in the dress and then up, your face, and then something happens in her expression that she almost immediately collects and puts away. Something that had no business being there on the face of a woman who is supposed to be a professional.

She finishes putting in the earring.

Looks back at the mirror. Adjusts it once though it didn't need adjusting.

"You're ready," she says. Not a question. Her voice is even and unbothered and tells you absolutely nothing.

"I'm ready," you confirm.

You don't smile. You do what you always do, you take it, fold it small, add it to the collection of things you keep about her that you don't examine too closely. The two hours on the extraction flight where she slept against your shoulder and you didn't move. The way she always knows where your hand is in a crowded room. The fact that she put your name in the request form for this op and told Fury it was because you were qualified, and Fury had looked at her for a moment too long before he agreed.

You're very good at collecting things and not examining them.

You cross the room to get your clutch off the bed.

That's when you see her dress properly, deep green, and devastating in the specific quiet way that Natasha does everything, not loud about it, just irrefutably true. It's doing something deeply unfair to her shoulders and you know for a fact she chose it and you know for a fact she knew exactly what it would do and you look at your clutch.

"You look good," you say, because you are a professional and professionals make neutral observations.

She glances at you in the mirror again. One corner of her mouth moves.

"I know," she says.

There it is. You almost laugh. Eight months of working next to the most self-possessed woman you've ever met and she can still catch you off guard with the sheer unbothered certainty of her. I know. No thank you, no deflection. Just the flat acknowledgment of fact from a woman who has never needed your confirmation and doesn't intend to start.

It should be annoying.

It is annoying.

It's also, and this is the part you don't examine, sort of the most attractive thing you've ever heard.

She picks up her clutch from the vanity. Inside it, you happen to know: one lipstick, one knife, one comm unit. Very Natasha.

"Let's go over parameters," she says, turning for the door.

"I know the parameters."

"Humor me."

You don't argue. Arguing with Natasha about mission prep is like arguing with weather, technically possible, completely pointless, and you'll end up doing what the weather wants anyway. You follow her out.

The car is a black SUV with tinted windows and Hill's voice already waiting in the earpiece when you climb in.

Natasha takes off her coat.

She crosses her legs and looks out the window.

You look out yours.

You get a two-minute debrief you already have memorized: Aldric Voss, weapons broker, mid-level but climbing. Known associates, exit points, your cover ID, a couple, eighteen months together, met through work, vague enough to be waterproof.

The city slides past in amber and dark. She's close enough that you can smell whatever she's wearing tonight, something warm, something that cost more than your first apartment, and you look at the window on your side very deliberately and think about the mission.

"You nervous?" she asks.

"No."

"You're doing the thing with your hands."

You look down. Your fingers are doing a slow press against your knee, one-two-three, one-two-three. Stress habit. You've had it since you were twenty-two and you've never successfully hidden it from her.

"I'm focused," you say.

"Mm." She's still looking out the window. "You need to be relaxed tonight. Couples are relaxed."

"I'm relaxed."

"Y/n."

"Natasha."

She finally looks at you and the city light through the window catches her eyes at an angle that's really unfair, is what it is. "I'm good at this," she says simply. "Cover. Persona. I've been doing it longer than you've been an agent. Just follow my lead and it'll read."

"I know you're good at it," you say. "That's not what I'm nervous about."

A beat. You realize half a second too late that you've said too muc, left the door open, and you watch her clock it, watch the small shift in her expression that means she filed it.

She doesn't push. She looks back out the window.

"Follow my lead," she says again, quieter.

You look back at yours.

One-two-three. One-two-three.

The gala is exactly what the briefing photos promised: too much money in one room, everyone dressed like they're auditioning for something, a string quartet earning their pay in the corner. The kind of event where the champagne is real and so is the danger and the two things coexist with a smoothness that always makes you feel slightly ill.

Natasha takes your arm at the door.

Just, takes it. Slides her hand into the crook of your elbow like she's done it a thousand times, which she hasn't, which your nervous system clocks immediately and thoroughly. Her grip is light. Her posture shifts, shoulders drop a fraction, chin lifts, the set of her mouth changes. She becomes someone softer. Someone with nothing to hide.

It's the most unsettling thing you've ever watched.

"Smile," she says from the side of her mouth, still looking forward. "We're happy."

"We're happy," you repeat, and smile, and hate that it doesn't feel entirely like acting.

You walk in.

The first twenty minutes are choreography.

You work the room the way you were trained, slow circuit, no urgency, let the crowd bring the target to you rather than hunting him directly. Natasha is extraordinary at this. You've worked with her before, field ops, extractions, twice in situations where both of you probably should have died and didn't purely out of stubbornness, but you've never watched her do this. The social work. The performance.

She laughs at something a man in a grey suit says and the laugh is perfect, warm, just shy of flattered, the exact sound of a woman who is charmed but not available. Her hand stays on your arm the whole time. Anchored there. When the man in the grey suit looks at you she angles slightly, just slightly, and the body language is so clean you almost don't catch it.

Almost.

She's pulling you in. Closing the gap between you without making it a thing, just leaning into your space until you're close enough that anyone looking would see a couple, would see someone who doesn't want distance between herself and her woman 

You redirect your thoughts aggressively.

"Voss is at the bar," you say quietly, mouth barely moving.

"I know." Her fingers press briefly against your arm. "Don't look."

"I wasn't going to look."

"You were calculating an angle."

"That's not the same as—"

"He's not going anywhere. Relax."

You exhale slowly through your nose. Fine. Relaxed. You're the picture of a person enjoying a gala with someone they're absolutely not in love with, everything is completely normal.

A waiter passes with a tray. Natasha plucks two glasses off it without breaking the conversation she's half having with a woman in pearls and hands one back to you without looking, just, reaches back, finds your hand, presses the stem into it with the kind of easy intimacy that comes from time and attention and knowing someone.

You stare at the glass.

She knew where your hand was. She always knows where you are in a room, tactical awareness, you've told yourself, she's built that way, but that wasn't tactical. That was something else. That was the muscle memory of a person who reaches for someone because reaching for them is just what you do.

You drink the champagne. It's very good. It does nothing helpful.

Forty minutes in, she dances with you.

You'd like to say it was for the mission. You'd like to say Voss was watching or the angle required it or there was some clean operational reason that Natasha Romanoff took your hand and led you toward the floor without asking. Without explaining. Just a slight pressure at the small of your back and an expectation that you'd follow.

You followed.

If there was a reason, she doesn't share it.

She turns to face you and puts one hand at your waist and you put yours at her shoulder and you start to move and the thing is, the thing is, she's warm. You knew that in the abstract. You've been close to her before, in the field, in debrief rooms, once on a six hour extraction flight where she fell asleep against your shoulder and you stayed completely still for two hours because you didn't want to wake her. You know she's warm.

But her hand at your waist, steady and certain and not going anywhere, is a different kind of knowing entirely.

"Voss's contact is late," she says.

Her mouth is at your ear. Not quite touching, just close enough that her voice arrives before her breath does, low and even, meant only for you. A tactical update delivered at a register that does things to your concentration that are deeply inconvenient on an active op.

"How late?" you manage.

"Fifteen minutes." A pause. You turn with the music. Her grip at your waist tightens, not dramatically, just enough to guide, just enough to feel. "He's nervous. That's useful."

"Copy," you say, which is a completely normal thing to say and not at all the voice of someone whose higher functions are running at approximately forty percent.

She pulls back just far enough to look at you. Checks your face the way she checks everything, quickly, thoroughly, filing. Whatever she finds there she keeps to herself.

"You're doing well," she says.

"We established I'm good at this."

"I'm acknowledging it."

"Natasha Romanoff acknowledging someone else did something well." You let the pause breathe. "Should I be worried? Are you dying?"

Something moves across her face. Not quite a smile, she doesn't smile easily, and you've spent eight months learning to catch the things that happen instead. The slight softening. The fractional shift in her eyes.

"Focus," she says.

"I am focused."

"On the op."

"Obviously."

She exhales through her nose. You count that as a win.

You turn again with the music and that's when you feel it, the quality of her attention shifting. Still moving, still perfectly composed, but something underneath changes. A new kind of stillness. You keep your eyes on her and say nothing.

She sees him before she means to.

He's at the edge of the room, drink in hand, shoulders loose, the easy posture of a man who has never once in his life had to make himself smaller, and he is looking at you.

Not a threat. She'd already know. She's had the full room mapped since the moment you walked in together, every exit and variable catalogued and filed, and he is nobody. Soft hands. No tells. He is absolutely nobody and he is standing there looking at you in that dress with the specific expression of a man who has decided he'd like to do something about that, and something in Natasha's chest goes very, very still.

She keeps dancing.

Her hand stays at your waist. Her face stays composed. She gives him exactly three seconds of her peripheral vision and then she makes a decision, not consciously, not with any particular deliberation, she simply decides, and lets her eyes move.

She looks at him.

The full weight of it lands across the room like a hand around a throat. Her jaw sets, the line of it going sharp and certain beneath her skin. Her chin tilts up, barely, just the fraction of an inch that means she has assessed something and found it lacking. Her eyes, green and flat and depthless, the particular green of water that goes down further than you'd expect, settle on him with the unhurried patience of a woman who has never once needed to hurry.

Her brow lifts. One increment. The period at the end of a sentence that requires no words.

She has done this in dark rooms in six different countries. She has done this to men with weapons and men with power and men who thought they were untouchable, and every single one of them has made the correct decision. This man, with his soft hands and his expensive watch, is not going to be the exception.

But here is the thing, here is the thing she is fully, lucidly, uncomfortably aware of as she holds his gaze across a crowded room, this is not the same. This is not a threat assessment. This is not operational. There is no version of tonight's debrief where she writes down redirected civilian attention via sustained eye contact and means what she actually means, which is something rawer and more inconvenient than anything she'd put in a report.

She's mine.

Not performed. Not tactical. Just, true, in the quiet way that things are true when you stop arguing with them. True in the way that has been accumulating for eight months in the space between her professionalism and something she hasn't named yet and has no intention of naming tonight.

He looks away.

Good.

She looks back at you. You're watching her, you're always watching her, those eyes that take everything in like they're cataloguing her the same way she catalogues everything else, patient and thorough and giving nothing back. She doesn't know exactly what you saw. She knows you saw something.

She doesn't adjust her expression. She doesn't reach for an explanation.

Instead she moves.

Her arm slides around you, slow, smooth, the way she does everything, with the efficiency of someone who has decided and is simply following through, and her hand presses flat against the small of your back. Drawing you in. Closing whatever distance was left between your body and hers until there is very little of it, until you're held against her, encompassed by the line of her arms, her warmth wrapping around you with a completeness that has nothing to do with cover and everything to do with the thing she is not calling what it is.

She is aware she is doing this. She is fully, consciously aware.

She does it anyway.

Her red hair falls forward as she dips her head, one curtain of it brushing your cheek, warm and deliberate, the scent of it close enough to be a thing you'd remember, and she brings her mouth to your ear. Not touching. Just the proximity. Just her lips a breath away from your skin, close enough that the warmth of them would reach you, close enough that if she spoke it would arrive like a secret.

She doesn't speak.

She just stays there. Her jaw near your temple. Her lips at the curve of your ear. One hand flat at the small of your back and the other at your waist and her whole body a quiet wall between you and the rest of the room, between you and him, between you and anyone who might be under the impression that you are something available to be looked at without consequence.

She knows he's still watching. She can feel it, the way she feels everything she isn't looking at directly. And she knows, she knows, that what he sees right now is not a cover. Is not a performance. Is not two agents running a gala op in a city that doesn't care about either of them.

What he sees is a woman who has made something abundantly, irrevocably clear.

And she lets him see it.

She stays exactly where she is, lips at your ear, red hair falling soft between you, and she breathes out once, slow, controlled, the only concession she makes to the fact that her heart is doing something she would not put in a report, and lets the silence say everything she won't.

Then she straightens.

The red hair settles. Her hand moves back to your waist, one hand, appropriate, professional. Her face reassembles itself into something even and unreadable and composed, the mask back on so smoothly it would be invisible to anyone who didn't know where to look for the seams.

She is, she reminds herself, very good at this.

She is also, and this she acknowledges only briefly, only in the space between one breath and the next before she closes the door on it, completely aware that she stopped running cover a long time ago.

When she pulls back she's composed again. Completely. The mask is on and the op is running and her hand is at your waist and her expression gives you nothing.

Except.

You were watching. You caught the tail end of whatever that was, the quality of her gaze before it came back to you, the extra second at your ear where she said nothing at all. You've run enough ops to know what performing looks like. You know every tell of a woman pretending something is fine.

You say nothing. You add it to the collection, fold it careful and small, tuck it somewhere you won't examine until later, much later, when you're alone and she can't see you figuring her out.

Her hand at your waist does not move.

The man at the bar does not look back.

The music plays on, and you let yourself be held, and neither of you say a single word about any of it.

It's after the dance, during the slow drift back into the room, when she does the thing with the dress.

You've stopped near a tall window, good sightline to the bar, natural place to stand, and she's beside you, close, her arm just brushing yours. She glances down. Frowns, very slightly. Reaches out and adjusts something at your shoulder, a strap that had shifted maybe two millimeters out of place, and her fingers are careful and light and she's looking at what she's doing instead of at you.

"Just selling it," she says.

"Right," you say.

She smooths the strap once. Doesn't move her hand immediately.

"You know," you say, because apparently you've lost your self-preservation instincts somewhere between the car and the champagne, "most people don't have to remind themselves they're acting when they're acting."

Her hand stills.

"I don't know what that means," she says.

"Yeah you do."

She looks up. And this, this is the thing about Natasha, the thing that you have spent eight months carefully not examining, when she drops it, when the performance falls away and it's just her, just the actual her underneath all that careful control, she looks at you like you're the only solid thing in the room.

She looks at you like that now. Just for a second.

Then she looks back at the bar.

"Voss is moving," she says.

He is. You both straighten. The op reasserts itself, clean and welcome, something to do with your hands, a reason to be standing this close that has nothing to do with anything.

"Ready?" she asks.

"Always," you say.

She takes your arm again. You walk toward the bar. Her grip is just slightly tighter than before and you don't say anything about it and she doesn't either.

The system, holding.

For now.

It happens naturally, the way professional things do, Voss's contact finally arrives and the op requires coverage on two sides of the room at once. Natasha clocks it first, the way she clocks everything first, and she leans in close enough that her mouth brushes your ear when she speaks.

"Split up. You take the east side, draw out the associate by the column. I'll stay on Voss."

"Copy," you say.

She pulls back. Looks at you for just a half second longer than the mission requires.

Then you separate

You are focused, present, professional, and entirely on task, and you do not look for Natasha once.

What you do, approximately four minutes in, is hear her.

Her voice arrives in your earpiece low and warm and completely unhurried, the cover voice, the one that's softer than her real one, the one she puts on like a second skin, and she's talking to Voss.

"I've heard about your work in Vienna. My associate mentioned it actually, she has excellent taste."

A pause. Voss says something you don't catch.

"Oh, she's very selective." A small laugh, warm and practiced. "That's what I've always loved about her."

You become very focused on your associate's left cufflink.

Because that, the ease of it, the way she says loved like it costs her nothing, like it's just cover, like it's just words, is doing something to your concentration that you are not going to examine while you are actively on an op. You ask your associate a perfectly calibrated question about his employer's shipping routes and you do not think about Natasha Romanoff's voice saying that word in your ear.

You think about it for the next twenty minutes.

Across the room, Natasha finds you.

The first time is almost involuntary. She's mid-sentence with Voss, something charming, something that makes him laugh, the warm practiced ease of a woman who has made men feel interesting in four different languages, and her eyes move. Just for a second. Just long enough to find you across the crowd, to confirm you're there, to take in the easy angle of your shoulders and the way you've got the associate exactly where you want him.

She looks back at Voss.

Files it. Moves on.

Tells herself it was a tactical check.

The second time she's at the bar, waiting on a refresh, and the room has shifted enough that you're visible through a gap in the crowd. You're laughing at something the associate said, not a real laugh, she can tell the difference, she's always been able to tell the difference with you, and the line of your profile is caught in the warm overhead light and she watches for two seconds longer than any tactical check has ever required.

The bartender puts a glass in front of her.

She picks it up without looking at it.

The third time she's not even trying to justify it.

She's wrapped up a conversation, Voss circling back to the contact, the op running clean and smooth in the background the way good ops do, and she lets her eyes find you across the room because she wants to and she has apparently stopped arguing with herself about that.

You're there. Of course you're there. Working the room with that particular ease that she has spent eight months quietly cataloguing, the way you move through a crowd like you belong in it, the way you make people feel like the most interesting thing in the room without ever quite letting them have you.

She raises her glass and takes a slow sip.

And you look up.

Right at her.

Like you felt it. Like you knew.

She doesn't move. Doesn't adjust. Keeps the glass raised and her eyes on yours and lets the moment sit there between you, twenty feet of crowded room and a string quartet and the whole careful architecture of the last eight months, and she does not look away.

Neither do you.

Three seconds. Four. Five. Long enough that it stops being accidental on either side, long enough that something passes between you that has no tactical classification, long enough that she is aware, fully, uncomfortably, with complete clarity, that she is not performing anything right now.

Then someone steps between you, a body crossing the sight line, and the moment closes.

She lowers her glass.

Goes back to work.

Does not examine what just happened. Does not examine the fact that her pulse has done something she would not put in a report. Does not examine the way you looked at her like you already knew, like you've always known, like you've been waiting for her to stop pretending long enough to just 

Voss moves toward his contact. She follows.

The fourth time she finds you she's already on her way back across the room, op nearly wrapped, Voss handled and filed. She's not looking for you. She doesn't have to look for you.

She just knows.

Her eyes find you through the crowd without searching, the way they always do, the way they have been doing all night, all eight months, if she's being honest, which she isn't, not yet, and you're there, exactly where she knew you'd be, and she lets herself watch you for just one unguarded moment before she schools her face and moves through the crowd toward you.

Her arm finds yours when she arrives. Slides in easy and warm, like it never left. Like this is simply where she ends up.

Because it is. That's the part she's been not examining. This is just where she ends up.

"Voss is clean," she says quietly. "Associate?"

"Account manager. Name and location. Hill's going to want it."

The corner of her mouth moves. Not a smile, the thing she does instead. "Good."

"I know," you say.

She glances at you sidelong. Something in your voice. Something dry and certain that catches in her chest the way you've always caught in her chest and she looks back at the room and says nothing about it.

The silence holds.

Then Voss moves.

Her eyes cut across the room. Mission, clean and immediate, the mask back in place between one breath and the next.

"He's going for the east exit," she says. "That's not on the brief."

"No," you say. "It isn't."

Her hand finds your arm. And you move, together, no words, no briefing, the kind of sync that only comes from time and attention and knowing someone down to the way they breathe in a tense room. Her hand steering slightly, you adjusting without being asked, cutting through the crowd like one thing, not two.

She has spent eight months telling herself that this, this particular feeling, this specific ease, is professionalism. Training. Field familiarity.

She is no longer telling herself that.

You reach the corridor just as Voss slips through the east exit.

Her hand tightens on your arm.

"Ready?" she murmurs.

You look at her. The mission in her eyes, and underneath it, still there, not put away, not this time, the other thing. The real thing. Looking right back at her.

"Always," you say.

And you go in.

The corridor is narrow and dim and smells like old carpet and money, the kind of back hallway that exists in every building like this, the one the staff uses, the one that connects the public rooms to the private ones, the one that Voss just slipped into with the quiet purposefulness of a man who doesn't want to be followed.

You follow him anyway. Natasha three steps behind you, silent.

Voss stops at a door near the end of the corridor. Produces a key card. Your hand moves to the comm unit, ready to relay to Hill. And that's when you hear it.

Not from the corridor. From the earpiece. A voice, young, female, clipped with the particular tension of someone trying very hard to sound calm "

This is Reyes, I have eyes on the asset, I'm moving to make contact—"

You and Natasha go still at exactly the same moment.

"Reyes, stand down." Hill's voice, sharp. "Do not make contact, I repeat—"

"I have a clear window, I'm taking it—"

"Agent Reyes, that is a direct order—"

And then another voice, male, younger, with the breathless energy of someone who has already made a decision "Cole in position, I've got the east side covered, Reyes go—"

"Cole, stand DOWN—"

You look at Natasha.

Natasha is already looking at the end of the corridor, where it opens back into the main gala room, and her expression is the specific expression of a woman who has just watched two people set something on fire and is calculating exactly how fast it's going to spread.

It spreads fast.

Through the corridor entrance you can see it unfold in real time, Reyes, young and dark-haired and moving with the misplaced confidence of someone who thought they saw an opening, crossing the room toward the SHIELD asset with all the subtlety of a person who has trained for six months and believes that is enough. 

And Cole, flanking from the east side, doing exactly what a panicking rookie does when they realize too late that the plan is already wrong, overcorrecting, moving too fast, drawing the eye of every person in a thirty foot radius.

Voss hears it before he sees it.

Some shift in the room's atmosphere, the specific change in energy that a man who has survived this long learns to read, and he turns. Slowly. His eyes move to Reyes, to Cole, to the asset between them, and you watch the calculation happen behind his eyes, clean and fast and professional.

Then his eyes move to the corridor.

"Abort." Natasha's voice in the earpiece is flat and final. "Hill, we're pulling out."

"Confirmed, Romanoff. Reyes, Cole — you are blown, extract immediately—"

"Wait—" Reyes, realizing. "Wait, I can still—"

"You are done," Natasha says, and there is something in her voice that closes the conversation like a door being shut. "Both of you. Out."

She doesn't wait for the response.

She steps forward, in front of you, between you and the corridor entrance, between you and Voss's eyeline, and her hand closes around your arm.

"We're leaving," she says. Not loud. Not urgent. The tone of a woman who has already made every calculation and doesn't need to hurry because she's already three steps ahead of whatever happens next.

She steers you back down the corridor, away from Voss, away from Reyes and Cole and the mess they've made of the east room. Her hand is on your arm and her body is angled slightly in front of yours and she moves with the unhurried certainty of someone running a controlled exit, not a retreat.

It works because it always works. Because she's Natasha Romanoff and this is what she does.

You reach the side exit without a single person looking twice.

The car is waiting exactly where it should be. She opens the door and her hand is at your back and you're inside before you've finished processing what just happened and she slides in beside you and the door closes and the city starts moving past the windows.

She doesn't look at you.

In your earpiece Hill's voice comes through tight and clipped "intel is secure, cover held, Reyes and Cole are being extracted, debrief tomorrow oh-seven-hundred" and then the channel goes quiet and it's just the two of you and the city and twelve minutes of silence that has a specific weight to it.

You watch her in your peripheral vision. The straight line of her shoulders. The set of her jaw. Her hand on the inside door handle, gripping it in a way that has nothing to do with the car moving.

She doesn't look at you once.

Not for twelve minutes.

You don't say anything either. You think about the corridor, her stepping forward, placing herself between you and Voss's eyeline before you'd even registered the threat. The way it happened before it was a decision. The way she hasn't looked at you since.

You file it.

For now.

The hotel room door closes behind you.

You set your clutch on the nightstand. She sets hers on the vanity. You reach back to unclasp your earring and she moves to the window and looks out at the city and the silence in the room has weight to it now, the kind that accumulates over twelve minutes of nothing and lands all at once.

You take out the second earring.

"Reyes and Cole," you say. Neutral. Conversational.

"Yes," she says. Still at the window.

"First field op?"

"Second." A beat. "Which somehow makes it worse."

"The intel's still clean. Cover held. Hill has everything she needs."

"I know."

"So." You set the earrings down. "We're fine."

She turns from the window.

"You were out of position," she says.

You look at her. "I was exactly where you put me."

"When the contact arrived you should have pulled back to the secondary—"

"If I'd pulled back Voss would have had a clear corridor and we'd have lost him entirely—"

"That wasn't your call to make—"

"It absolutely was, I was the one standing there with eyes on—"

"We had protocols, Y/n—"

"Natasha." You face her fully. "It worked. All of it. The only thing that didn't work tonight was Reyes and Cole and that has nothing to do with me—"

"It could have." Her voice drops. Gets quieter. That's the tell, you know that by now, the way her volume decreases as the thing she's actually saying increases. 

"If they'd moved thirty seconds earlier you would have been in that corridor without cover and Voss would have had eyes on you and I was—"

She stops.

You go still.

I was. The sentence trailing off into the room like smoke.

"You were what?" you ask. Quiet.

"Nothing." She looks back at the window. "Get some sleep. Debrief is—"

"Natasha."

"—oh-seven-hundred—"

"Natasha."

"Drop it."

"You were what." Not a question this time. Something steadier than a question.

A long pause. The city outside is indifferent and glittering and she stares at it like it owes her something.

"You stepped in front of me," you say. "In the corridor. Voss didn't even have eyes on us yet and you stepped in front of me."

Nothing.

"That wasn't tactical," you say. "That was—"

"I said drop it—"

"You were scared," you say. "You were scared and you won't say it and now you're standing at a window picking a fight about protocol because it's easier than—"

She turns.

And crosses the room.

And her hand finds the back of your neck, certain and warm and without a single moment of hesitation, fingers pressing up into your hair, and she kisses you.

Not soft. Not careful. Not the measured thing of a woman who is uncertain. This is eight months arriving all at once, her hand firm at the back of your neck like she's been waiting to put it there, like she decided somewhere between the window and here and didn't once stop to argue with herself about it.

You melt into it.

That's the only word for it, the argument dissolving out of your chest like it was never there, your hands finding her without instruction, your body making a decision your brain is still catching up to. You kiss her back and it's nothing like you imagined. It's better. 

It's eight months of careful distance collapsing all at once and the specific relief of it moves through you like a current, warm and total, and you make a sound against her mouth that you don't plan and don't take back.

Her hand tightens at the back of your neck.

The kiss deepens, not gradually, not carefully, but with the particular certainty of two people who have been waiting too long and have simply stopped being careful. Her mouth is warm and deliberate and she kisses you the way she does everything, like she's already decided, like she knows exactly what she wants and the only thing that was ever stopping her was the thing neither of you were naming.

You give it back.

Your hand finds her jaw and you tilt into her, angle shifting, matching everything she's giving and then some, and you feel the small catch in her breath, feel the way her whole body reacts to it, the subtle arch toward you, the grip at the back of your neck going from certain to something that borders on desperate, and that undoes you a little. More than a little. You press closer, eliminate the last fraction of space between your bodies, and she makes a sound low in her throat that you are going to be thinking about for a very long time.

Her other hand finds your waist.

Pulls.

Like she's been wanting to do it all night, like every careful professional touch, every tactical adjustment, every time her hand found you and had to have a reason, was building to this, to her hands on you with no reason required, no cover to maintain, nothing to perform for anyone. Just want. Just her wanting you and not doing anything about it except pulling you closer and kissing you like the argument was foreplay and eight months was foreplay and the entire evening was foreplay and she is done, she is so done, being patient about this.

You walk her back. Or she walks you back, honestly you're not sure, it's collaborative, two people moving in the same direction with the same urgency, until something meets your back and you don't care what it is. 

Her body is against yours and her mouth is on yours and her hand has moved from your jaw into your hair and the grip of it sends something down your spine that makes your breath stutter.

She pulls back.

Just enough to look at you.

Her lipstick is still perfect. Her red hair has come loose on one side, falling forward, and she doesn't fix it. Her eyes are dark and close and the mask isn't just gone it's nowhere, there's no trace of it, there's nothing between you and the real her, the actual her, the one she keeps underneath everything, and she's looking at you like she's been hungry for a long time and has finally decided to do something about it.

Her chest rises and falls. Once.

Her thumb traces the line of your jaw, slow, unhurried, like she's been wanting to do it for months and is taking her time now that no one can stop her, and her eyes follow the movement and come back to yours and what's in them makes your stomach drop in the best possible way.

movement and come back to yours and stay there.

The silence holds for exactly one more second.

Then her eyes drop. Your mouth. Back up. And when she speaks her voice is low and unhurried and completely certain, the voice of a woman who has made a decision and is done negotiating with herself about it.

"I want to take this dress off you," she says. "I've wanted to since I saw you walk out of that bathroom."

"Then take it off," you say.

She kisses you.

Deep and deliberate, her hand sliding from your jaw into your hair, and when she pulls back you're both breathing differently and her eyes are darker than they were a second ago.

"I've been thinking about what's underneath it," she says, low, right against your mouth. "All night."

Something pulls tight in your stomach. "All night," you repeat. "And you said nothing."

"I'm saying it now."

Her fingers find the zipper at your back, slow, deliberate, not rushing, like she wants you to feel every second of it, and you reach for her too, hands finding the fabric at her waist, pulling the green dress taut.

"You're not the only one," you say. "Who was thinking."

She pauses. Looks at you. Something shifts in her expression, darker, more interested, the look of a woman who has just been handed something she intends to do something about.

"No?" she says.

"No."

Her mouth curves. Not a smile, something better than a smile, something with teeth in it.

"Tell me," she says, and her fingers resume their work, and yours do too, and the green dress and the black dress and the whole long evening are all running out of time simultaneously.

You feel the zipper give. Her fingers trail the newly exposed skin of your back and you breathe out.

"I was thinking," you say, "about your mouth."

Her fingers pause.

"All night," you continue, steady, holding her gaze. "Every time you put it near my ear. Every time you smiled at something Voss said and I had to stand there and watch and do nothing about it."

She looks at you for a moment. Something shifts in her expression, darker, more focused, the look of a woman recalibrating.

"What about my mouth," she says. Low. Not a question, a pull.

"What I wanted it to do," you say. "Where I wanted it."

The silence lasts exactly one second.

Then her hands are moving again, more purposeful now, less patient,and she steps closer and her mouth finds your jaw, your throat, and she says against your skin: "Show me."

Your breath catches.

"Natasha—"

"Show me," she says again, quieter, right at your pulse point, and you feel her smile there. "Where."

Your hand finds her hair. Guides her. And she goes, willingly, without hesitation, like she's been waiting to be told, and the sound she makes when she gets there is

Her zipper gives completely under your other hand. The green dress falls.

She pulls back just long enough to look at you. Flushed, hair loose, eyes so dark they've swallowed the green entirely, and she looks at you like you are something she intends to take her time with.

"Bed," she says. One word. The voice that closes rooms.

You go.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you go down without breaking eye contact. 

The sheets are cool against your overheated skin, a sharp contrast to the way Natasha crawls over you, predatory and graceful. The green silk is a forgotten puddle on the floor, leaving her bare in the dim light, stunning and terrifyingly focused.

She settles between your legs, her hands planted on either side of your head, caging you in. Her hair falls around your faces like a curtain, blocking out everything but her. She's so close you can feel her breath against your lips, see the way her pupils swallow the green of her eyes.

You lift a hand, tracing the sharp curve of her jaw before your palm settles against her cheek. Her skin is impossibly soft, burning hot beneath your touch. She leans into it instantly, eyes fluttering shut for a fleeting second as her expression softens from predator to something much tenderer.

"You're so beautiful," you whisper, watching the admission shatter her composure.

With careful, deliberate movements, Natasha finishes unhooking your dress, sliding the fabric down your body to reveal your bare skin. Her eyes drink in the sight of you, her pupils dilating as she takes in every curve and detail. 

She runs her hands over your newly exposed flesh, worshipping your form with her touch.

Her touch skims over your collarbone, down between your breasts, tracing the curve of your waist before her palms spread flat across your stomach. 

A shuddering breath escapes her as she leans down, pressing her forehead to yours.

"Absolutely breathtaking," she murmurs against your lips, her voice thick with something far deeper than lust. Her thumbs brush your lower lip, gentle and reverent.

You surge forward, crashing your lips against hers in a deep, hungry kiss that steals the air from your lungs. 

Mid-kiss, she captures your hand, guiding it down the front of her torso until she slips it firmly between her thighs. The sensation makes you gasp sharply against her mouth, you can feel exactly how hard she is for you, throbbing and desperate beneath your fingertips.

"Feel that?" she breathes against your mouth, hips shifting to press more firmly into your touch. "That's what you do to me. One look, one touch, and I'm harder than I've ever been in my life."

"God, Natasha..." You whisper, your voice shaking with desire. You can feel her length pulsing against your palm, and you can't help but squeeze gently, making her suck in a sharp breath. "You have no idea what you do to me."

She lets out a ragged moan, her forehead dropping heavily against your shoulder as your fingers tighten around her. "I think I have some idea," she pants, her hips bucking instinctively into your grip. "You're destroying my control, sweetheart. Every single inch of me is screaming for you."

"Then don't hold back," you murmur, your thumb tracing slow circles over the leaking tip, feeling her shudder and drip in your palm.

"Fuck," she groans, her composure finally shattering as she grinds herself desperately against your hand. "I want to fuck you so bad it hurts. I want to be deep inside you, feel you clench around me, hear you scream my name until you're hoarse." Her words come out in a heated rush, raw and unrestrained.

"God, yes," you whimper, your legs spreading wider as you imagine her thick length filling you completely. Your own arousal drips down your inner thighs, and you can feel yourself growing increasingly wet and needy. "Natasha, please," you beg, squeezing her hard length again. "Fuck me."

"Not yet," she grits out, wrenching her hips back just enough to escape your grasp. Before you can protest, she's moving down your body, kissing and biting at your skin until her face is level with your dripping core. Her eyes rolling back at the sight of you.

"Natasha," you gasp, lifting your head to look down at her. 

Her expression is one of pure hunger, her gaze locked onto your glistening folds like a starving woman presented with a feast. Without a word, she leans in and drags her tongue through your wetness, tasting you deeply.

Your back bows instantly off the mattress, a sharp moan tearing from your throat as her tongue flattens against your clit. She eats you with a terrifying intensity, alternating between broad, heavy strokes and pinpoint flicks that make your toes curl. 

Your hands fly to her hair, tangling in the red strands to anchor yourself against the overwhelming pleasure. 

"Natasha, oh god."

"Mmm," she hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your system. 

She spreads your legs wider, burying her face deeper between your trembling thighs. Her hands grip your hips, lifting them slightly to change the angle and expose you even more to her merciless mouth.

You moan out, your thighs trembling as her tongue finds that perfect spot inside you and circles it relentlessly. 

Pleasure builds like a storm behind your navel, your nails scraping against her scalp as you hold her tight against your soaking core. 

"I'm close," you warn in a broken voice. "Natasha, I'm gonna—" 

She doesn't slow down.

Your eyes roll back in your head as she sucks your clit into her mouth and flattens her tongue against it. You scream, your entire body convulsing as your orgasm hits you like a truck. 

She swallows every drop of your arousal, lapping at your folds like a woman possessed.

Only when your trembling begins to subside does she pull back, her chin and lips glistening with your release. She crawls up your body, pressing her wet face into your neck with a satisfied groan.

"Still want me to fuck you?" she asks, her breath hot against your ear, her hard length dragging against your overstimulated folds.

"Yes," you whimper desperately.

Without hesitation, she slips between your thighs, her thick head pushing against your sensitive entrance. You spread wider, pulling your knees back to give her better access. 

She grabs your legs, spreading them even wider and hooking them over her shoulders for leverage.

"Fuck," she groans, pushing in slowly despite her obvious desperation. 

You're so wet and sensitive from your orgasm that she slips in easier than expected, but you're still tight enough to make her see stars.

Natasha's jaw tightens as she pulls out slowly, watching her wet, shiny length slide out of you. She pushes back in with equal slowness, her eyes fluttering at the incredible sensation of your tightness surrounding her. Out, then in, out...

"Natasha," you moan, your walls fluttering around her despite her agonizingly slow pace. 

You grip the sheets, needing something more to anchor yourself as she rocks back and forth at this torturous rate.

"You're so tight," she grits out, her hips stuttering as she watches herself disappear inside you. "You feel so good," she admits, her voice strained with effort.

She pulls out almost completely before pushing back in, her eyes rolling back at how perfectly you squeeze her.

"Fuck," you whimper, your nails digging into her arms as she continues that slow, deep thrusting. Each withdrawal leaves you feeling empty, each push back in hits that perfect spot inside you. 

"Natasha... please..." You're begging without even knowing what for....more speed? Deeper?

"Please what, sweetheart?" she whispers, her voice dangerously low as she leans down to nip at your bottom lip. 

She pulls out slowly, her length sliding out until only the tip remains inside you. She holds still, teasing you with that shallow penetration.

"More," you pant, trying to lift your hips to take her back in. "Fuck, Natasha, give me more." You need her deeper, faster anything but this agonizing slow pace that's driving you mad.

"Deeper?" she asks softly, pushing back in slightly slower than before, watching as her length disappears into your tight heat. "Like this?" She pulls out again, leaving just the tip inside, making you whimper. "Or do you want it faster?"

"Yes, like that," you gasp, your head falling back against the pillow as she bottoms out inside you. "And faster, please Natasha, fuck me faster." 

Your legs tighten around her waist, heels digging into her ass to encourage her.

With a low moan, Natasha starts moving faster, her hips snapping forward with more force. The slow torture is replaced by deep, quick thrusts that make the bed shake and your breasts bounce. 

She hooks your legs higher over her shoulders, changing the angle to hit deeper inside you.

"Oh god, just like that!" you moan out, your back arching beautifully off the mattress as she hits that perfect spot inside you. The new angle is devastating, allowing her to plunge so deep you see stars with every thrust. "Don't stop, Natasha, please don't stop."

Natasha's composure finally shatters. Her head falls back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat as a loud, broken moan tears from her lips. Her eyes roll back, lost in the overwhelming sensation of your heat gripping her tightly. 

"Fuck—oh god, you feel so good," she pants breathlessly, her rhythm faltering slightly as pure pleasure washes over her.

She's reduced to incoherent moans and curses, her hips moving wildly as she loses herself in the feeling of being buried deep inside you. One hand grips your thigh tightly while the other reaches down to spread you wider, giving herself better access.

"Natasha..." You whimper her name like a prayer, your voice breaking on a high note as she hits that perfect spot inside you again. 

Your hands fly to her bouncing breasts, squeezing the soft mounds desperately as pleasure overwhelms you both.

Natasha leans down, capturing your mouth in a messy, passionate kiss that steals your breath. You pant into each other's mouths, tongues tangling as she continues thrusting hard and deep. 

The kiss is sloppy and needy, a perfect reflection of how desperately she's fucking you.

With a low groan, Natasha pulls out slowly, her wet length slipping free of your dripping core. You both watch, panting heavily, as she brings the tip to your mouth. 

"Taste how wet you are," she pants, rubbing her slick head against your lips.

You open your mouth obediently, your tongue darting out to lick along the tip, tasting yourself mixed with her. Natasha moans, thrusting slightly deeper between your lips. 

"Good girl... Suck," she commands breathlessly, gripping your hair. You wrap your lips around her and take her into your mouth, bobbing your head as she slowly thrusts down your throat.

Natasha's eyes roll back into her head as your mouth works her wet length, your tongue swirling around the tip while you suck eagerly. 

A moan rips from her throat, her thighs trembling as pleasure rockets through her. 

She grips your hair tighter, fucking your mouth with shallow, desperate strokes while her head falls back, completely lost to the sensation.

Her red hair falls wildly around her face and shoulders, green eyes squeezed shut as she rocks her hips forward, feeding you more of her length. 

Your own hair is messy from her fingers, face flushed and dripping with saliva as you enthusiastically take her, cheeks hollowing out with each suck.

Natasha's large, round breasts bounce freely with each thrust into your mouth. Yours heave with every breath you take around her length. 

Natasha's thick, veiny length glistens with a mix of spit and precum, stretching your lips wide as you suck her. Her green eyes are still rolled back, mouth open in a silent moan. 

Your jaw works overtime, tongue flattened against her shaft while you bob your head eagerly, cheeks caving with each greedy suck as a string of saliva connects with each suck.

Natasha's green eyes flutter open, half-lidded and glassy with pleasure as she looks down at you. Her gaze is fixated on her length disappearing between your stretched lips, a low groan rumbling in her chest at the sight. 

She watches, transfixed, as your mouth works her over eagerly, the wet sounds of your sucking filling the room. 

With a pop, Natasha pulls her length out of your mouth, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the tip. 

She drags the wet head down your between the valley of your breasts, coating each before moving lower. 

She presses the tip against your clit, rubbing it in slow circles that make your whole body shudder.

"I need to come so bad..." Natasha moans, her voice trembling with desperation. 

She rubs her wet tip against your clit, teasing you both mercilessly. 

You respond by spreading your legs wider and arching your back, wordlessly begging for her to fill you again.

"Then fuck me," you whisper breathlessly, your hips lifting toward her. 

Natasha groans, sinking her length deep inside you in one smooth thrust. 

"Fuck—" she gasps, her forehead dropping to your shoulder as she starts moving, chasing her release with every deep stroke. Her pace quickens, chasing that edge.

Your eyes roll back, a desperate moan escaping your lips as you grip the sheets beneath you. 

"I'm— I'm close," you gasp, your walls tightening around her in warning. 

Natasha pushes deeper, her hand sliding between your bodies to find your clit, two fingers pressing against it as she thrusts harder. 

"Come on my dick," she demands it, her fingers rubbing tight circles against your sensitive bud as she drives into you relentlessly. 

The pressure snaps instantly, your back bowing off the mattress as a scream tears from your throat. Your vision whites out, your entire body shaking violently as you clamp down around her, dragging her over the edge with you. 

"That's it, baby," she grits out, pounding you through it. "Fuck!" 

Natasha's entire body goes rigid above you, her length pulsing deeply inside you as she comes with a strangled cry. Her hips stutter, losing rhythm as she spills into you, painting your tight walls white with her thick release.

Her head drops to your shoulder, teeth grazing your collarbone as aftershocks wrack through her. 

A broken moan vibrates against your skin, her fingers still pressed to your clit as she rides out every pulse inside you. 

"You feel— fuck— can't stop—" She's trembling, entire body locked in the aftermath, completely undone beneath her usually composed exterior.

"Natasha..." you moan softly, your hands sliding up her trembling arms to hold onto her as your own orgasm fades.

Your body feels like jelly, completely spent and utterly satisfied. You nuzzle into the side of her neck, placing gentle kisses along her jaw as she catches her breath against you.

Natasha presses lingering, open mouthed kisses against your collarbone, her lips trembling against your skin. 

It's a reverent, grounding touch, the final release of months upon months of tightly wound control finally snapping. She holds you impossibly close, burying her face in the crook of your neck as if anchoring herself to reality.

"I've needed this," she whispers hoarsely, her voice thick with emotion. "Needed you—so fucking badly." 

Her arms tighten around you practically painfully, 8 months of suppressed desire pouring out in every tender kiss she presses against your neck. 

"You have no idea...How much I've craved your touch... your voice... your smile," she murmurs roughly, trailing kisses down to your chest. "Being with you—it's heaven. Pure, perfect heaven after so long in hell."

"I'm right here," you whisper softly, running your fingers through her hair gently. "I'm not going anywhere." You tilt your head up to press a tender kiss on her lips, pouring all of your love and dedication into it. "I've been waiting for you, too."

Natasha's eyes flutter shut at your words, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she leans into your touch. She presses her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with yours as she just... exists in the moment with you. 

Izuku Midoriya, the literal saviour of the world that you would never forget seeing on screen as a teenager, happens to also be a teacher at your school. He had just started that year and wasn’t even your teacher, he was assigned the first years while you were in your last.

During your time at UA you had only crossed paths with him once. He made a guest appearance in your class during hero history and oh how your cheeks burned when you saw him pull his sweater off in the middle of the lecture, his shirt underneath slightly caught between the bottom of it and for a brief moment lifting up both fabrics to expose the most perfect set of abs you've ever seen, straight out of a commercial. 

The admiration from afar had ended one day. Every time that memory resurfaces your whole body heats up and thus, you never want to think of it. And the fact that it was such an innocent and brief interaction added to the embarrassing aspect of it all.

You were just training, routinely sparring with a classmate after lessons, when none other than Mr Midoriya walked past the training grounds. The moment you felt his gaze in your direction, all focus was lost. You felt nothing but that shameful burn coursing through your entire body. You were so incredibly riled up that you tackled your opponent in a fit of rage, forgetting about your quirk and exerting pure, brute force.

“Hey, no fair! I thought we were training our quirks, you can’t just…” your classmate rambled on, but you heard nothing, your senses focused entirely on Mr Midoriya, who was now in range. 

He didn’t even say anything, just flashed a small smile at you as he passed on his way to the exit, but that split second of direct eye contact made you burn. You looked away immediately, fearing what your degenerate mind would do if you held that gaze for even a single second longer. You hoped to god that you weren't visibly blushing, despite feeling near drunk from the heat spreading in your cheeks.

You would replay that memory, spinning that sliver of an interaction to hell and back. Luckily, but also unluckily for you, he never taught your class again in your final year. Soon enough your cohort had graduated, meaning you wouldn’t have to face your stupid schoolgirl crush again.

At least that’s what you had thought back then. Even years after graduating, after making a name for yourself and achieving all those heroic aspirations you had as a little girl, you could never let go of that longing you had for that fuckass green-haired professor in your senior year. 

The truth is, when you put all morals aside, you couldn’t live with yourself if you didn’t at least try with him. Even just once, anything would suffice to smother that flame that had been lit since high school. 

And you had gotten that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity this evening. You and pretty much the rest of your class and the whole of hero society were gathered one night for some charity event, something about raising donations for quirk awareness.

Fuck if you actually cared, you were there with one goal and one goal only.

You moved through the whole event on autopilot, a practiced smile plastered on your face. Your brain was completely off as you went through all those firm handshakes, polite laughs and promises to 'catch up soon' with your former classmates who were now doing all kinds of hero work across the country. It was all on schedule and unfortunately a necessary part of the job you’d chosen. But your real mission wasn't on the schedule.

You spotted him near one of the open balconies, a quiet island of green hair in a sea of sequins and dark suits.

Izuku Midoriya. He was nursing a drink, looking unfairly handsome in a tailored dark suit that did little to hide the powerful physique beneath. He was slender in frame but the moment he shifted his weight, you could see it all— the hardness and muscle underneath. Your breath slightly hitched as you watched him adjust his tie, the motion pulling the fabric taut across his chest and forearms. 

Throughout the night, your brain was a factory of dumb excuses. Every time you mustered the courage to move, a new obstacle appeared. He’s too busy, you’d think, watching him get pulled into a conversation with a stern-faced head of a major agency. He’s with them now, I can’t just interrupt. Then, a group of his former classmates would swarm him and you’d shrink back, turning to another conversation to distract yourself. He’s catching up with old friends, it would be rude. He was the number four hero after all, a living legend. Of course, he was a magnet for people, there was hardly a moment where he wasn't surrounded by a constant stream of admirers, colleagues and officials vying for his attention. 

You watched him laugh at something an older hero said, his head thrown back, the line of his throat exposed making your heart skip a beat. You saw him patiently explain a technical point to a young sidekick, his hands moving with an earnest energy that was so uniquely him. Each observation was a fresh wave of longing.

After a few drinks for confidence and a flurry of praise from your various interactions throughout the night, you felt bold. You’d felt his glance in your direction a couple of times, quick, curious looks that you pretended not to notice, but each one sent a tingle through your stomach. You were practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect that your stupid teenage crush, the one who seemed so unbearably out of reach, might actually think you were desirable.

Surely it couldn't be that hard. You were a flirt when it came to all the other men and women in your life. This was just… more difficult. That embarrassing crush was such a liability. 

Pull yourself together, you thought, a wave of annoyance washing over you. You were a pro hero in your own right, climbing up decently high on the ranks yourself. You were no longer that silly schoolgirl back at UA. You got this, you tried to soothe yourself as you finally caught a glimpse of him alone. Nows your chance. You downed the rest of your champagne in one go.

You walked over, heels clicking confidently on the marble floor. "Hey, Midoriya," you started, your voice smooth and casual.

He looked up and it took him a second to place you. His eyes, a startlingly vibrant green, scanned your face. A polite, professional smile immediately settled on his lips. "Oh, hey!"

You waved a dismissive hand, leaning slightly against the railing next to him, letting the cool night air brush your skin. "I saw your latest quarterly report, by the way. The takedown of that smuggling ring was impressive. The way you utilized your environment to contain the villain's quirk was textbook."

His eyes lit up, that dorky, earnest passion instantly surfacing. "Oh! You read that? Thanks! It was a tough one. His viscosity quirk was a nightmare to contain without causing structural damage. I was worried the whole building would come down. We ended up having to coordinate with the local fire department to dilute it."

"Absolutely," you purred, letting your gaze linger on his lips for a moment before meeting his eyes again. "Though I think you downplay your own analysis. Your quirk-factor breakdowns are still required reading. They're incredible."

A faint blush dusted his cheeks. "Ah, well, I just write what I think about. It's nothing special." He took a sip of his drink, his eyes darting away for a second.

"I disagree," you said, your voice dropping a little lower. "It's very special. So, rankings are out tomorrow, right? Any bets on where you'll land? I have twenty bucks on you cracking the top three."

He choked on his drink slightly, coughing into his hand. "T-top three? No way, that's— I'm just happy to be doing my part. Mirio's been having an amazing year and Nejire is always a contender. I think I'll probably stay around the same."

"How humble," you teased, stepping just a little closer. 

You let your fingers 'accidentally' brush against his. He flinched, a tiny, almost imperceptible jolt, but he didn't pull away. You held your fingers there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, a silent test, before slowly retracting them.

You saw his throat bob as he swallowed, his gaze fixed on the spot where your hand had been. You decided to push, just a little.

"You know," you began, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made him lean in ever so slightly to hear you over the distant music, "for all the talk about stats and strategies tonight, no one's mentioned how different you look out of uniform."

It was a compliment wrapped in a layer of plausible deniability, but the heat in your eyes made your meaning crystal clear.

He let out a breathy, awkward laugh, the sound breaking the tension as he immediately reverted to the gesture you knew so well: rubbing the back of his neck. "I, uh, I don't really have a choice for these things. My agent picked out the suit."

"Well, your agent has excellent taste," you said, your voice dropping even further. You let your eyes drift appreciatively over the sharp lines of his fitted jacket, down the knot of his tie and back up to meet his gaze. "But it's not just the suit, Midoriya." You were eyeing him shamelessly now, letting him see exactly what you were thinking.

The tension was so thick you could taste it. He was flustered, the blush on his cheeks deepening to a lovely crimson, but he wasn't running. His body angled towards yours and you could see a flicker of something else in his eyes, a spark of interest. 

He cleared his throat. "You can call me Izuku, by the way." He paused, his eyes searching yours.

"Izuku," you tested the name on your tongue, "I like that."

The two of you spent a decent amount of time talking after that, the initial tension melting into an easy, engaging rhythm. The ballroom, with its suffocating crowds, faded into the background. Feeling clammy from the heat wafting out the venue, from the crowds and all the sweating bodies pooled inside, you decided to get some air. You stepped out onto the back terrace. It was quieter here and, thank god, a much more comfortable temperature for the both of you. 

Just as you were about to suggest going somewhere more private, a voice cut through your bubble. "Hey! I was looking everywhere for you. Just wanted to say bye before I go."

You turned to see a former classmate, who gave you a quick hug. Her eyes, sharp and analytical, darted between you and Izuku before a look of pleased surprise crossed her face. "Oh! Mr Midoriya! I didn't expect to see you over here," she said, her emphasis and a pointed look making it clear she knew exactly what she was interrupting. 

It wasn't exactly a secret that you had this blithering crush on your teacher, especially among your friend group, who were split between either fawning over the pro hero with you or mercilessly teasing you for your silly infatuation. 

You knew in that moment exactly what she was thinking, the heat and thrumming in your chest from earlier, before you had made your move, returned once again.

Izuku's polite smile was firmly back in place, though it looked a little strained. "It's good to see you. Congrats on going independent."

"Haha, thanks, teach," she said with a bright smile. "Best decision I ever made. And you?" She turned her gaze back to you, her tone turning teasing. "Still trying to get the scoop on all the top heroes? Some things never change."

You forced a laugh, trying to steer the conversation. "Just networking. You know how it is."

"Well, don't let me keep you," she said, completely missing the tense undercurrent. She gave Izuku a respectful nod. "It was great to see you, sir. Tell Mr Aizawa I said hi next time you're at UA." Then she looked at you, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Don't stay out too late."

With a final, friendly wave, she disappeared back into the crowd.

You tried to play it cool, forcing a nonchalant shrug and looking back out at the city lights. "Haha, yeah. It's been a while."

Izuku was no longer looking at the view. He was looking at you, his friendly expression completely gone. It was replaced by a sharp, calculating focus. He was replaying her words, putting them together with your familiarity, the mention of UA and the way you seemed to know him. 

Realization dawned in his eyes. "You were my student.”

“Barely” you shot back, defensively “We had one class together and trust me, I would remember. It doesn't even count, honestly.”

“That’s not the point,” he shakes his head, features hardening in disapproval. “I was a teacher and you were my student, even if it was just for a single class. It just doesn’t feel right. I can’t do this—”

“Oh come on,” you roll your eyes dramatically, “Whatever. You were eye-fucking me all night from across the room, you thought I didn’t notice? You’re only acting like this now with all your morals and bullshit after you found out. You didn’t even recognize me before.”

Izuku opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He stares at you contemplating and all flustered, you close in on the space between the two of you. His whole body went rigid.

“I can’t do this to you” he repeated.

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. "You can't? Or you won't?" You leaned in even closer. "I'm not a student anymore, haven't been for years. And I'm standing here right now telling you I want you. Are you really going to say no to that?" 

Izuku squeezes his eyes shut as if your presence is causing him great physical pain. “Shit—” he gasps, clamping a scarred hand over his mouth.

“Stop pretending like you don’t want this.” you breathe against the shell of his ear. “Where is that energy from earlier, huh?” you taunt, so close to him now your voice a low, mocking whisper. You’re so close now that you’re standing between his legs. “You actually thought you were being slick? I could literally feel your eyes all over me. Oh but don’t worry, I liked it.” 

You laugh a little at the way his eyes widened at that last admission. You were so close now, you feel his heavy, constrained breaths against your cheek. That slight flush on his freckled face and hardly contained desire in his eyes egged you on.

His hand was trembling. You watched, fascinated, as a war played out across his face. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking furiously. For a thrilling second, his eyes flashed, raw power. He looked like he was about to lunge, to finally give in. His gaze dropped to your lips, and for a heartbeat, you thought he was going to kiss you, to devour you right there against the wall. But then he squeezed his eyes shut, took a shuddering breath and when he opened them again, the hero was back, albeit a fractured, desperate version.

"Please," he whispered, the word raw and broken. "You don’t know what you’re doing"

“Oh I do. You have no idea how badly I want you, wanted you all the time. You have no clue how much I actually wanted you, even back at UA.” you grew bolder now, arms wrapping around his neck. Your hips finally touch his and oh, you could feel the hardness pressing against your thigh now, just another thing to fuel your fire.

The friction was electric, and you felt him twitch against you, a thick, hard pulse that answered your question more clearly than words ever could. A strangled sound escaped his throat, half-groan, half-protest. His hands, which had been gripping the wall behind him, flew to your hips. For a moment, you thought he was going to pull you closer, but instead, his grip was firm, holding you still, stopping your motion. It was a losing battle and you both knew it. 

“Maybe even back then, I would daydream about seeing you after classes, for whatever silly reason. Then you, in the most cliche, pornographic way, spreading me out on some desk in a random classroom and having your way with me.” You continued. His pupils were blown wide, black practically swallowing up the beautiful green rings of his iris.

“Maybe I knew you were going to be here tonight,” you smirk. “And maybe I plotted this entire interaction because I wanted to rile you up and because I wanted you that badly. And you can get off your moral high horse, because I know you reciprocate.” you pointedly grind your hips forward, right at the evidence of his arousal.

“In fact, I bet in reality...” you giggle, maybe flying too close to the sun now. “The fact that I was your student is turning you on, you’re just feeling too guilty about it because you want to be all righteous. In reality, you’re just as bad. Great old hero, saviour of the whole world Deku, really just wants to bend his student over and—”

"Enough," he ground out, strained, "You need to... you can't..."

You ignored his fractured plea, your voice saccharine "Or what, sir? What are you going to do to me?" The title was the final twist of the knife.

"Are you going to put me in detention? Are you going to teach me a lesson?" You pulled back just enough to look him dead in the eye.

That was it. The last thread of his composure snapped. 

That somehow flipped a switch. There was always that switch in Izuku, the one that flipped between the regular, slightly awkward man and the hero Deku. That rare, terrifying version of him, full of deathly determination and raw power, only reserved for the most sinister of villains. That look caused a strange stir in your chest and for some reason and started bleeding into his expression just now.

“Seriously? Seriously?”

He’s glaring down at you, fury mixed with lust. 

“Struck a nerve, huh?” You really never knew when to stop.

The next thing you knew, you were flipped around, back against the wall where you had previously, pridefully cornered Izuku. He slammed arms beside your head, completely caging you and leaned down, biting at the junction between your ear and bare neck. 

His teeth work their way torturously down to your collarbone, leaving a trail of burgundy and faint violet as his knee pushes up between your legs. You gasp at the contact. His sudden assault on you left you completely breathless and unable to continue your thoughts, your body only being able to grind back against the knee lodged between your legs to relieve the burning desire in your chest.

“Do you even think about what you’re saying?” he hisses as he leaves a particularly harsh suck right below your pulse point that makes you throw your head back in a breathy moan. The motion left him a wider opening to attack your throat, leaving more wet, sharp bites against the open expanse of skin.

“You seriously came here like this just to provoke me?” he continues as his one hand now slips under your dress to slide down your waist, the other pinning your one wrist tight against the wall as you writhe against him. The multitude of sensations and your inability to escape them had you reeling. 

Despite the brain fog his ministrations had caused, you muster out, “Are you gonna keep talking?” you glare up at him defiantly, though your voice has lost some of its previous confidence “or actually fuck me?”

For a brief, heart-stopping moment, you see him consider it. His eyes flicker from your lips to the darkened alley behind you. But then he snaps back into reality, straightening up, the raw hunger in his eyes blanked. You were still somewhat in public. Sure, no one was around, but it was still risky. He seemed to sober up immediately at the realization. 

The goading had worked, but not in the way you'd expected. He didn't lose his cool, not completely. He looked like he wanted to ravage you, but somehow he had the restraint of a god. The anger and annoyance in him were palpable, and frankly, he looked terrifying to you with how he was holding back. You realized you had completely misjudged the situation, you wanted him to break but this terrifying control was something else entirely.

You stared at him, breathless.

"We’re done here."

Your heart sank.

"What? No, I—"

"We're leaving," he cut you off, his tone leaving no room for argument. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair, a gesture that seemed more analytical than stressed. "Too risky here. Sure there’s no one around but we’re in the back alley of one of the biggest hero events this year, someone will come out eventually." He was thinking out loud, assessing the situation like a mission plan. He looked back at you, his gaze sharp and decisive. "We're going to my place. Now."

The command was so simple, so direct, it sent a shiver down your spine. You could only manage a dumb nod. "Okay."

Before you could process the thought, he was grabbing your hand, his grip firm and unyielding. He pulls you from the alley, back through the throng of people, his long strides forcing you to practically run to keep up. He doesn't say another word. He leads you out of the ballroom, into the cool night air and to a sleek, black car parked at the curb. He opens the passenger door for you, a gesture that feels so jarringly polite after what just happened that you’re momentarily speechless.

You slide into the leather seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. The ride to his place is a special kind of torment. You’re practically in heat, your eyes glued to the way his suit jacket stretches across his broad shoulders, the way his forearms flex as he grips the steering wheel, the veins on his hands standing out. You’re eye-fucking him shamelessly, but he doesn't seem to notice or care, eyes focused on the road dutifully like the law-abiding hero he is.

He’s all normal again and it drives you crazy. He went from the verge of snapping to this in a flash. He is scarily silent, his eyes fixed on the road. You’re melting next to him. He usually rambles like crazy, you’ve seen enough interviews to know that. But him being deadly quiet the whole ride home sent chills down your spine.

For some insane reason, your dumb confidence reappeared the second you were in the comfort of his apartment. 

You had all your past escapades completely wrapped around your fingers and you thought it would be no different this time. You loved letting the controlling side of you bleed into the bedroom.

The second he closes the door behind him, the click of the lock echoing like a starting pistol, you were all over him. You crashed your mouth against his, kissing hard, all teeth and tongue and impatience. Whatever happened back there in the alley was nothing, you were in control again. You ravaged him, pouring all the hunger for your former teacher that had been building up for years into this one moment. You were going to destroy him, you wanted to see him wither under you, gasping and panting and completely undone.

Somehow, you managed to both land on his couch, a tangle of limbs and desperate hands. You straddled him, all confident and cocky, certain you were about to get exactly what you wanted. He’s gasping for air when you finally disconnect from the bruising kisses, his lips swollen and red.

Oh, how beautifully disheveled he looked. His suit, an upscale version of the casual clothes he’d wear back at UA, was rumpled beyond repair. His green hair was a mess, a few strands plastered to his sweat-slicked forehead. You let your fantasies run wild. You had him right there, your teacherunderneath you.

"Look at you," you purred, grinding your hips down against that hard ridge, straining against his slacks. "Did you think this was how your night was going to go, Mr Midoriya?"

You didn't wait for an answer. You shifted, your hands moving to his belt, your movements sure and practiced. You peeled his slacks back, and finally, there it was. No more imagining. The sheer, thick weight of him in your palm made your own breath hitch. You stumbled off the couch, sinking between his knees on the floor. He attempted to pull the straps of your dress down, his hands clumsy with desire, but you batted his hand away.

"Ah-ah," you tsked, shaking your head. "Not yet."

You took him in one swift motion, taking him as deep as you could. You were diligent, your head bobbing, making a show of it, your tongue tracing the thick vein on the underside as you hollowed your cheeks.

See? you thought to yourself, a smug sense of satisfaction washing over you. None of that schoolgirl bullshit. I'm grown. You were trying to prove it to him, to yourself, that you could be here, on your knees, taking his dick down your throat and still be the one in complete control. You looked up at him through your lashes, expecting to see him lost, undone. But he wasn't.

His head was tilted back against the couch, his jaw tight, but his eyes… his eyes were open. They were fixed on you. There was no desperation in them, no mindless pleasure. He was watching you, studying you almost analytically. He was cataloging your every action and the smug confidence you felt just moments ago began to curdle into something else.

He brought a hand up, not to touch you, but to rest his scarred fingers against his own lips, as if in thought. The sight was more unnerving than any aggressive move he could have made.

Fuck this, you concentrated harder, hollowing your cheeks and giving him your best doe eyes, moaning around him. The reverberations caused him to gasp, a sharp, broken sound that was music to your ears. You did it again, a longer, deeper moan and felt his thigh muscles tense under your hands.

Ah ha. You're not so immune after all.

You continued, alternating between deep, punishing sucks and smooth, twisting motions of your hand. He faltered, his hips giving a small, involuntary thrust upwards. You were slowly fraying away at his composure, he was panting, his scarred chest rising and falling in ragged bursts.

"Ah— shit," he gasped, his voice strained. "The… the angle. When you do that… it's…"

His words trailed off into another sharp hiss of breath as you swirled your tongue just under the head. His hand left his lips, his fingers digging into the leather of the couch beside him.

"You're… surprisingly methodical about this," he panted out, words strained and his eyes struggling to stay focused on yours. 

And then he spoke again, his voice a low, steady murmur that sent a chill down your spine. "Your technique is good," he said, his tone borderline conversational, as if he were critiquing a training exercise. "A little too much wrist action on the upstroke, but your gag reflex is impressive."

Your movements faltered. The heat in your belly turned to ice. You pulled back, your lips swollen, a string of saliva connecting you to him before you broke it. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

This has quite literally never happened to you before.

He just kept smiling that unnerving smile. "I'm just making observations," he continued, his green eyes glinting in the low light. "Now if you’re done messing around…"

He reached for the straps of your dress, his calloused fingers sliding them down your shoulders. The light brush of his hand against your bare skin made you visibly shudder, a betraying tremor that had nothing to do with cold.

Now you were pissed off. This wasn't how you had planned this.

"Hey! We're doing what I want," you snapped, the words sounding silly and petulant even to your own ears. You swatted his hand away as he worked on the other strap. You went to jump back on his lap to assert yourself, but this time, he wasn't letting you.

He caught you easily, his hands firm on your waist, stopping you mid-motion. You were strong, of course, as any hero would have to be. You didn't really think you could overpower number four, but the thought of trying had made you triumphant when you first pounced on him. But now… he was not holding back anymore.

"Hah," he let out a short, amused breath, unimpressed by your feeble attempts and you pathetically squirming against him. Then his expression went serious. In one fluid, terrifyingly easy motion, he flipped you over, throwing you onto your back on the couch and caging you beneath him.

You struggled against his grip now. You were seriously putting all your strength into it, your muscles straining, but you genuinely could not overpower him. His grip was unyielding. You could not even budge.

“Fuck”, you panted. That thought sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust through you. He was this strong even without a quirk. The sheer, raw physical power he was exerting without a hint of effort was intoxicating.

He seemed to sense the shift in your struggle, the way your frantic pushing turned into something else. He scooped you up as if you weighed nothing, lifting you from the couch. You flailed in his arms, not to escape, but to test his limits. He just held you, his expression thoroughly entertained by all this.

He carried you effortlessly towards the bedroom, tossing you onto his bed unceremoniously, like you were a stack of papers for him to grade. Fuck, fuck, fuck, your head was spinning wildly. You bounced on the mattress, a gasp torn from your throat as he was immediately over you, caging you. The switch happened again. All that playful, terrifying restraint was gone, replaced by a raw, consuming hunger.

He was biting you all over, eating you alive. You’re gasping, overwhelmed under him and he hasn't even touched you between your legs yet. He's just holding you down, his hands pinning your wrists to the mattress above your head as his mouth attacks every sensitive spot he can find. The crook of your neck, the hollow of your throat, the delicate skin just below your collarbone. He wasn't kissing you, he was marking you, leaving a trail of sharp, stinging bites that bloomed into purple bruises.

You’re so confused. You’d never been with anyone this meticulous, this borderline sadistic. He looked like he was practically getting high off of this, his pupils blown wide and his expression crazed as he watched you writhe and suffer, unable to escape his mouth. 

He took his sweet, sweet time.

You’d had your fair share of hookups, most of them saw foreplay as a chore, something to be rushed through to get to the main event. Izuku looked like he could happily do this, just devouring you with his teeth, for the rest of the night.

And you were starting to get so restless.

"Please," you whimpered, trying to grind your hips up to meet his, to get some friction, anything. "Izuku, please."

He chuckled against your ear, a low, amused sound that vibrated through you. "Please what?" he mumbled, his teeth nipping at your earlobe. 

"Touch me," you demanded, your voice strained. "Stop teasing."

"Teasing?" He lifted his head, a faux-innocent look on his face that was utterly infuriating. 

"I'm not teasing. I’m testing you out. This spot, for example.” He leaned down and sucked a hard mark right over your pulse point, you cry out “Makes your whole body tense up."

"Fuck you!" you squirmed, pulling uselessly against his grip. "Just fuck me already!"

He laughed again, a real, genuine laugh this time and the sound made you want to scream. 

"You're so demanding. You really thought you could just waltz in here and have your way with me?" He shifted his weight, pressing his knee firmly between your legs, right against your clothed, aching cunt. The pressure was a torturous relief. 

He went back to his assault, his mouth moving lower, tracing the line of your ribs through the thin fabric of your dress. Every touch was a calculated torment. He was mapping your body, learning your responses and using them against you with a precision that was terrifying. 

He toyed with the straps of your dress again, peeling the fabric down your shoulders. You learned not to protest anymore after your last attempt, so you let him, breathless and pliant beneath his gaze. He stared down at your exposed breasts, his gaze so intense it made you blush like a virgin.

He didn't look away, shamelessly staring down at you. You were exposed, vulnerable and he was doing whatever he wanted to you while still fully covered. 

“Jeez, you perv,” you squealed, your hands flying up to cover yourself like a shy maiden. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Oh, you’re impossible,” he rolls his eyes “I’m the perv? After everything you were doing earlier?” He ripped your arms away from your chest. 

His head practically crashed into you and you were met with the surprising softness of his curls on your bare chest. His mouth latched right onto your nipple, a hand coming up to tweak and roll the other between his calloused fingers.

You wailed, the pleasure so sharp. He went from light touches and teasing licks to harsh, sucking pulls, making dark, possessive marks all around your breasts.

“Fuck, fuck, please-” you babbled, your mind going blank.

He was toying with you. He'd squeeze the soft flesh of one breast hard enough to leave faint red marks while his teeth grazed the other, his tongue swirling and flicking until you were a mess. Every touch sent shivers right down your spine and you could feel yourself pulsing.

No one had ever touched you like this before. 

He pulled back, staring down at you reverently, at the marks he'd left on your skin. "Look at you," he breathed. 

Then he slapped them.

Holy shit. You were going to die. This was heaven. You died and this was heaven.

You tried again, your voice a wrecked whisper. "Are you gonna fuck me or not?"

“You already tried that one. It doesn’t work,” his breath tickled against a certain spot just below your ear and you shook all over from the sensation, causing him to tighten his grip on your waist, pushing you further into the mattress and delivering a punishing bite right over the same spot on your neck, his finger twisting a nipple, hard. You nearly screamed.

“You need to calm yourself,” he has the gall to laugh, he’s laughing at how desperate you are. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”

Out of all the ways you had imagined Izuku to act, all the dirty fantasies you had about your teacher, this was not even close. The pure, picture-of-innocence Deku portrayed all over hero media was so far from the truth. Even you knew he had an edge to him, but this was another level. He was getting off on your desperation, a sadistic glee in his eyes as he watched you fall apart. 

You try grinding against him now, attempting to give him your best fuck-me eyes. "I need you, Izuku," you whine, your voice thin and reedy. 

"Please." You try again, staring up at him through thick lashes with a pleading look you know would have sent any of your previous lovers into a frenzy.

He is entirely unfazed. He ignores your request completely and proceeds to lick your nipples, only lightly, the wet tip of his tongue tracing slow, agonizing circles. He would do so over and over, not stopping even when you thrashed like you were being electrocuted, only holding you down harder.

"Shhh, just be still for a second," he murmured, wet against your skin "Let me see."

"See what?" you gasped, your back arching off the bed as he switched to the other nipple, giving it the same maddeningly light treatment.

"How sensitive you are," he said, as if explaining a simple scientific principle.

He suddenly switched from the light, teasing licks to a harsh, sucking pull, his teeth grazing the peak. The sudden shift in sensation was a shock, a bolt of pure pleasure-pain that made you cry out. He alternated between the two extremes.

You couldn't think.

You tried to get him to touch you, to put his fingers where you actually wanted him, to finally put his dick in you. But he would smack every one of attempts away dismissively.

You couldn't believe it.

As much as you loved foreplay, being caressed and worshipped all over, this was far too much, too overwhelming. He seemed to enjoy the fact that you couldn't handle his light touches all over and the way your body betrayed you.

"Look at you," he said, his voice laced with a wonder as he watched you struggle. "So sensitive." He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "Cute."

You could cry. 

You grind against his clear, hard length, trying a new tactic, trying to maybe rile him up. You had no idea how he was so patient, how he hadn't even shown signs of breaking yet while you were close to tears.

He shrinks away from your motion. "No, I don't think so," he mutters, his voice a low warning. "We're not done yet."

He continues to suck bruises now across your chest, placing a particularly harsh suck right against your nipple. You scream.

You start losing it genuinely, all pride and dignity out the window. You start begging, tearing up as he continues to overwhelm your senses.

"Please, Izuku. Plea- please ah- plea-"

He shuts you up with a hungry kiss, all bite, muffling your desperate attempt. "You don't even know what you are even asking for," he teases as he disconnects from your bruised, parted lips. "Can you not speak properly? What happened to that talk from earlier?"

How long had he been playing with you? An hour? Two? Time had dissolved completely. You could practically feel yourself pulsing between your legs, a desperate, empty ache. In a moment of pure instinct, you attempted to squeeze your legs together for some stimulation, but Izuku's knee came down hard, parting them mercilessly and not granting you the reprieve you so desperately needed.

"Please fuck me. Please. I want you in me so bad. So bad," you babbled, the words tumbling out of you. "I will do anything please. I will suck you off— I’ll let you do anything please just— ah—" you choked out, the desperation fogging up all your thoughts until you were incoherent, a mess of pleas and whimpers.

"Ahh, you should've said earlier," he mocks, a smirk twisting his lips. He finally, finally grinds down against you, the rough fabric of his trousers a glorious, agonizing friction. "See what being nice gets you?"

He nearly rips your panties, throwing them to the side, fingers immediately finding your swollen clit, rubbing torturous circles that were just barely enough.

"Hah— ah— fuck—" you could hardly believe how drenched you were. You could feel the way your own slick smeared and stuck to your inner thighs when he dragged your panties off you.

"Fuck, Izuku—"

"So much swearing," he chastises, his tone that of a disappointed teacher. "You know, you were so beautiful when you were asking nicely. Now you're ruining all that progress again."

"Shut— ah— Shut up," you moan, your eyes losing their focus as he continues toying with your clit. His fingers were just barely there, the light but intent rubs making you completely lose focus.

“Fuck— fuck— you,” you snarled, annoyed at how he was dragging this out, at how he was enjoying your unraveling.

"Such a dirty mouth for a pretty face," he tutted, and without warning, plunges a finger into you. You jolt, your back bowing off the bed as if you’ve been electrocuted. His finger sets a punishing pace, slamming into that spot inside you, hard and unrelenting.

“Don't care— stupid, don't care—” you argue, your words broken by the force of his thrusts.

"I guess I'm not doing enough if you have the energy to talk back," he muses. The pleasure was searing through you, that feeling building up all too quick, way too quickly than you were familiar or comfortable with. "You can keep acting all high and mighty, but I can feel you." He leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "You're so wet. Can you even feel anything?"

To emphasize his point, he slaps your cunt. The sound is so lewd, so wet, it echoes in the room. The sharp, stinging pleasure makes you gasp.

His finger suddenly slows down, pushing deep, nestling right there where you're most sensitive. He stops thrusting and starts rubbing, pressing hard against that spot, abusing it, rubbing it raw. 

You nearly shriek. 

“Can you feel it, there?” he was taunting, his voice a low, cruel whisper. "Can you?”

He emphasizes his point, finger pressing deep, massaging that spongy, sensitive patch with impossible focus. 

You start crying, tears spilling down your cheeks, not being able to hold back anymore.

"Asshole," you sob, still trying to be defiant. "Fuck you."

You are so close, the coil in your stomach wound so tight you can feel it vibrating through your entire body. 

And then he draws his fingers out.

"No! Fuck, close, close, I was so close—" You thrash against the bed, tears leaving wet patches on the sheets crumpled under you.

"I know," he says, sweetly. "I could feel you." He looks down at you, at the tear tracks on your face and the utter desperation in your eyes, admiring.

To your overwhelming relief, he plunges his fingers back into you, but slowly, so slow it’s a new kind of torment. The observant fuck he is, he knows just how to touch you, just where to rub at what pace. He knew your body better than you did at this point, it was terrifying.

You beg him dumbly, desperate for release, barely forming words. "Please, please, please, Izuku, I need—"

"Look at you, you can't even form a sentence. So dumb just from a couple of fingers." His voice is so sickeningly sweet.

"I'm not dumb," you muster out, a flash of defiance cutting through the blur. "I was top of my cla— ah—"

"Well really," he interrupts, his tone patronizing.

You nod, sloppily, way too far gone to form any reply. 

"Then, miss valedictorian, how about a little test? Since you're so. Very. Bright." He punctuates each word with a harsh, deep thrust of his fingers, his knuckles slapping against your flesh, making you gasp. 

“Huh? wha-“ you uttered, delirious

"So, let's start off easy," he begins, his fingers slowing to a maddeningly deliberate pace inside you. "Name the hero who pioneered the use of capture weapons in modern urban combat."

"Ah-ah, it's—" Your mind is a complete blank, a soupy mess of pleasure. "It's... Present Mic?" you guess.

"Wrong," he says flatly. "Try again."

"Uh... Midnight?" Another stupid guess.

"None of the above," he drawls. He flips you around harshly and you yelp as your face hits the mattress. 

He fucking spanks you, the sudden, sharp hit causing you to squeeze around his rough fingers impossibly tighter.

"Huh? You liked that." he observes, sounding way too satisfied with himself, and smacks you again, the other cheek this time. You cry out.

He leans back down, his chest pressing against your bare, sensitive back. It's so hot, so hot, so hot. He continues, breath a hot brand against your ear. "What was the civilian casualty percentage during the villain siege of Hosu City three years ago?"

"Ah- ah—" You can't lie. Even under normal circumstances, you were terrible with numbers. Despite being such a nerd back at school, the moment you left, you hadn't touched a single book.

"Ooh, disappointing," he says, and another spank lands, right next to the last one. The pain is sharp, thrilling. "What is the primary weakness of Water Hosing quirks?"

You were so close again, the coil in your stomach tightening with every punishing thrust of his fingers. "Ha— ha," you pant, so close, only focused on trying to cum, not wanting to alert him. You attempt to not squeeze around him, to betray yourself with your body's reaction.

"Ooh, too slow," he says, and he pulls his fingers out. He did notice. Fuck.

He uses that teacher voice again, scolding you. "You should be more decisive with your answers." He has the audacity to sound disappointed. "Are you sure you were top of your class? My first graders know better, those were the questions from their last midterm."

He's just messing with you now, but you had no strength to bite back.

"Another question," he continues, his fingers back at your entrance, but this time they're rubbing you lightly, feather-light touches that are somehow worse than the rough fingering from before. "Who was the first hero to successfully integrate support tech into their hero costume without a personal support engineer?"

You were going blank. His fingers are back, but the light, teasing touches are making you sob, crying in pure frustration. "No answer? Disappointing," he says, and another smack lands right by the last one, the pain blooming across your skin.

At some point, you completely stop responding to him, just moaning wantonly at every touch and the overwhelming feeling of his breath against your bare, sensitive back.

You were about to come again for the umpteenth time. Just from his fingers. The pleasure built to an impossible peak, before he pulled away completely.

"What makes you think you get to finish?" he asks, his voice cold. 

"Plea-please-"

“That was zero out of four.” he remarks wryly, "You couldn't even get a single question right. So much for being UA's darling pride and joy. I'm disappointed."

You felt like your soul was leaving your body at this point, utterly wrecked, splayed out on his bed. Defeated. Aching. And still so, so empty.

"Please..." you pleaded, the word a broken, pathetic whisper. You knew now that was his weakness, you had to try. He wanted to see you all debauched and begging, you even cried for him.

But he hadn't even put his dick in you and you were completely distraught, jaggedly breathing and staring up at him, entirely submissive.

Never in your wildest, wet dreams did you think Deku would turn out to be like this. The hero magazines painted him as a symbol of unwavering hope, a slightly awkward but determined boy-next-door who just happened to be the fourth strongest person in the country. This was a side of him you never could have imagined, the way he'd dissected your body with the same terrifying precision he used to analyze a villain's quirk and used every weakness against you.

"What do you want?" he queries, feigning confusion. You feebly attempt to grind your hips back against him, trying to convey your desperation with whimpers and squirms, your body doing all the talking your pride won't allow.

"Speak properly," he commands, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I want to hear you say it."

"Please, you-," you choke out, the words so raw and needy you could hardly believe they came from you. What the hell has he done to you?

"What?" he pushes, relentlessly.

"I want you, please."

"Where?"

"Here, please, please," you sob, trying to reach back and guide him in. He shoves your shaky hands away.

"Nuh uh. I want to hear you say it."

"Please put it inside—" 

Fuck. You were not about to say this shit out loud like you’re in some corny porn film. You knew you were probably blushing all over, a humiliating heat creeping up your neck and face. Is he seriously getting off on humiliating you? Having begged and shrieked like an animal in heat wasn't enough already?

"Please just—" you bury your flaming face into the crook of your arms, not being able to stare back at his challenging, predatory gaze.

"You can stop acting so shy," he sounds amused. "I just had my fingers in you."

You let out a breath of indignation. You can’t believe the words coming out of your mouth. "Fuck— Izuku— please fuck me— please put your fucking dick in— please I nee—"

He cuts you off, slamming into you in one brutal, deep stroke. 

“See? It wasn’t that hard now, was it?”

The force of his thrusts shake the whole bed against the wall. You gasp, your eyes widening in shock as he finally, finally fills you up, the stretch so intense and deep.

"Listen," he's breathing into your ear in between thrusts, each word punctuated by the slap of his hips against your ass. "You don't know what you've gotten yourself into."

Then, as suddenly as it started, his movements ceased. He's still inside you, a heavy, throbbing, but his tone shifts, becoming gentle, a caring, genuine tone that feels completely alien right now.

“If you want me to actually stop, say 'All Might.' Loud. I won't touch you, we'll end this."

You huff, a disbelieving sound. "Huh? You think I can't handle this?" How you could even muster up that sentence was a mystery, especially after how he had defiled you for the past god knows how long.

He pulls back slightly to look into your eyes, his expression now genuinely serious, all traces of mockery gone.

"Listen," he warns. "I'm serious. If you want to stop, use your word. Otherwise, I won't let you go. Okay?"

“Keep going.” you whined, you had no idea what possessed you. You wriggled your hips back, wanting him to continue, he ignored you, insisting. 

"Seriously? Say okay."

You give in, nod, "Okay."

Despite it all, you really appreciated this. You had never thought of needing a safe word in the past, but the gesture made you slightly warm and comforted inside, a slightly out of place feeling in your current predicament.

The switch flips again. His pace is punishing, deep, so deep it felt like he was bruising you from the inside out. How was he reaching in so impossibly deep? He was molded to you, the shape of him grinding against every fiber of you that needed it most.

"You feel incredible," he moans, his voice raw. "How are you so wet?"

You feel his hands grip your hips tightly, the pressure grounding. You clench around him, meeting his thrusts, arching your back and pressing your breasts into the mattress. The feeling of the rough sheets scraping against your sensitive, bruised nipples far too much.

"Relax," he notices you arching into him, trying to thrust back. "Just relax." He puts a hand on the small of your back, pressing you firmly into the mattress, forcing you to take exactly what he's giving. Your breathing is labored, dizzy, and you come up gasping, needing to breathe. Your head snaps to the side, panting like a bitch in heat. You stare up at him.

Holy fuck. He's so tall up there, a powerful silhouette against the dim light of the room. His shoulders are broad and sculpted, his chest heaving. His green hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes—his eyes are locked on you. He had taken his clothes off somehow, you have no idea when that happened, but the sight of all that toned, scarred muscle working above you is obscene. 

You probably looked so fucked out right now from his view, a mess of tears and sweat and need. All your snarky, witty remarks were being fucked out of you with every hard, punishing thrust.

You were so close, the coil in your stomach wound so tight you could feel it vibrating in your core. Despite how desperately you needed release, a small, stupid part of you wanted to hold out, just a bit, for him, for your ego, not wanting to cum before him.

You try to get him to slow down for just a second to catch your breath, your hand feebly pressing against the hard, sweat-slick plane of his abs. He just grunts, irritated that you're trying to push back and swats your hand away.

"I told you to relax." he slows his pace, pulling all the way, dragging against your walls. "Just take it." He slams back in, your screams muffled by his sheets.

You try again, your other hand pushing against him. "Izuku, wait, I can't—"

He grabs both your wrists, his grip like iron and wrestles them behind your back. "No, you don't," he snarls. He swats at your already sore ass a couple times, the sharp smacks making you clench around him.

"Why do you have to be so difficult?" He's talking down to you, filthy "Look at you. Can't even keep your hands to yourself."

Suddenly, you feel yourself being flipped over onto your back. He pins your hands above your head and in a movement so swift and skillful it makes your head spin, he fishes his discarded tie from the floor. 

He snaps the silk around your wrists, binding them together with a practiced knot.

"Can't you just keep your fucking hands to yourself?" he snaps, and oh, he was really getting annoyed, letting swears slip out. He was usually so clean and family friendly, even throughout the whole night, all those filthy moments not slipping up once. Hearing him talk like this was a whole new kind of thrill. 

You test out the binds, shifting your wrists around curiously and immediately tensing at the realization at just how tight he made them. You couldn’t get out of there even if you tried. You let out a distressed, high whine, staring at him like a caged animal.

He rolls his damn eyes and slips out of you, cleanly. As he pushes back, he deliberately misses you. You feel the him, hot and heavy, tracing around your sloppy, weeping entrance. He attempts to thrust in again, then pulls back.

"Oops," he fucking giggles, his voice dripping with false sympathy. He lines himself up, nudging against you and you brace yourself.

But he shifts at the last second, sliding smoothly, right past where you need him most. "Oh no, not again."

You sob again, a broken, desperate sound. Not more of this. You don't know how much more you could handle.

"Fuck, I guess you're just too wet," his voice filled with that mocking tone of his "Can't get a good grip." He tries again, this time using his hand to guide himself. You feel the blunt pressure against you, your body clenching in anticipation, and then—nothing. 

He drags the head slowly upwards, tracing circles around your throbbing clit. "Here? You keep squirming so much, I can't tell."

Your hips buck wildly, trying to force him inside, but he just laughs and pulls back. "Ah-ah. Patience."

He lines up for a third time. You're whimpering now, tears of pure frustration leaking from the corners of your eyes. You feel him press against you, a slow, deliberate pressure that feels like it might actually work this time. Your body surrenders. He starts to push in, just the tip and a ragged gasp escapes your lips. 

Then he stops.

"Wait a second," he says, his voice suddenly thoughtful. He pulls out completely, leaving you gaping and empty. You cry out in protest, but he just shushes you.

"I'm just thinking. What was that third question? The one you couldn't answer?" He taps his chin mockingly. "Something about support tech... right. You know, for someone who claims to be so smart, your memory is terrible. Maybe I should stop until you can give me an answer. It might help you focus."

"No, please, I don't know, I don't care!" you shriek, your voice ragged head shaking wildly.

"Wrong answer," he says, and with one, brutal snap of his hips, he finally slams into you, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden, unrelenting fullness after all that is your undoing. The change in angle, the sheer force of it, makes you cum right there, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your entire body convulses. 

“Ah— ah— fuck— shit—” It's a wave of pleasure so intense it wipes every thought from your head. Your vision whites out and all you can feel is the relentless, pounding pleasure as he continues to fuck you through it. 

“God fuck— that was— ah—” you’re voice hoarse, torn from pleasure. “Fuck— Izuku— god.” 

You blinked slowly, coming back to your senses, coming down from that high, but he wasn't stopping. He showed no signs of stopping, let alone slowing down. In fact, you felt him somehow grow harder inside you, his pounding becoming more deliberate, more targeted. Oh.

Oh, you were actually fucking terrified now. 

You looked up at him through wet lashes, sniffling. What met you were hungry, bright eyes, like he was hunting you down. Your arms flexed against his makeshift restraints, squirming at being bound like this.

Oh shit. Oh shit. 

You realized, terrified that he was not joking earlier. You should have taken that warning you dismissed and laughed off, too arrogant and too turned on. 

Your pleasure slowly tipped into overdrive, borderline painful, thrusting up into that spot that once felt like heaven. You shrieked, a raw, ragged sound that was half pleasure, half agony. The tie on your wrists dug in. Every instinct screamed at you to push him away, but you were completely immobilized. 

He fucked you like a man possessed. The way he was holding you now, hands squeezing around your waist, bouncing your helpless body back and forth, made you feel like a goddamn sex doll he was using to get himself off. Your bound wrists were useless above your head, your legs spread wide for his convenience. He was just using you, chasing his own pleasure. For some reason, it sent another unwanted jolt of pleasure through your ravaged body.

"Look at you," he panted, his voice a harsh, guttural sound you barely recognized. "What about all that talk from earlier? Look at you now." He punctuated his words with a particularly vicious thrust. “What was that you said earlier? You think I can’t handle it?  Something like that, right?”

The overstimulation was like a fire, consuming you from the inside out. It was too much, too intense, a pleasure so sharp it felt like it would split you open. You were sobbing openly now, begging incoherently, your body wracked with tremors. You had never felt so used, so utterly annihilated.

“Quiet,” he cooed, his hot breath fanning against your ear as he leaned down. “Someone’s gonna think I’m torturing you.” You shivered, unable to back away from the light contact that made you seize up all over. You were completely caged.

You attempt to shift, skirting your ass up the bed in small, slow increments, trying to angle him so he at least wouldn’t be hitting you right there, just a bit of relief. 

Just like that, yes. You thought, shifting back just a little more.

"Where do you think you're going?"

His voice was utterly devoid of the teasing warmth from before. Your escape plan had completely failed, a rough grip on your hips drags you back down, right back where you were, impaling you even deeper.

"Fuck— please— please—" you sob “No more please—”

"Too much?" he taunts "No? No more? Stop?" 

He leans down, his face inches from yours. "You know what to say if you actually wanted me to stop."

He pauses, his hips stilling for a fraction of a second and a genuine worry flickers in his eyes. His face is so close to yours, a wordless check-in. Hey. Are you okay? Do you actually want to stop?

You don't reply, panting, staring back at him through tears.

He huffs, a short, sharp sound of disbelief. "Oh, so you're just messing with me," he concludes, his voice hardening again. "Needy, pretending you don't want this just as much." 

His hand came down now, palm laying flat on your stomach, pressing and rubbing right where he was nestled deepest, an almost sadistic look in his eyes as he watched you struggle and choke on a sob to no avail. The pressure right on top of where he had you impaled.

"You were the one who wanted this. You begged for this. Now you're going to take every second of it. Okay?"

His other hand moves between your legs, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in tight, harsh circles. The added stimulation is unbearable. 

"Crying as if you're not the one who had been provoking me all night." He delivers another and another hard thrust, sending you closer and closer to the edge of the bed with each one. "You. Wanted. This."

"Fuck! I... fuck, I can't," you sob, "I can't—"

"No. You can," he states, matter-of-fact.

Right as you're about to fall off the edge of the mattress, he hooks an arm around your waist, dragging you back right onto him. The angle is devastating, causing you to scream, your voice breaking.

And by some cruel miracle, you came again. It all happened so fast, the back-to-back pleasure shortening the intervals between your orgasms until there was no beginning or end. Through your daze, you noticed his thrusts getting sloppier, halting and stuttering more.

"Shit. You're so tight," he groans, squeezing his eyes shut. His continued thrusts were genuine torture now after your second time in a row. He was insatiable, every drag of his cock against your oversensitive walls a fresh agony.

"Izuku, please—" you try, blinking through tear-stained cheeks. "Please, I'll suck you off, use my mouth, my thighs, please, I can't anymore— fuck—"

"Shhh, just a bit, I'm close, I promise," he breathes, voice ragged. He places a gentle kiss on your forehead, a stark, tender contrast to the brutal way he's been fucking you. "So good for me."

You keened at the praise, squeezing dutifully around his thrusts.

With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself as deep as he could and finally spilled into you. He stayed there, trembling and finally collapsing on you, his weight pinning you down.

For the first time all night, there was silence.

After a while, you started regaining your senses. You nudged him off you. He unties your wrists. You roll over to stare at the ceiling in complete disbelief.

"Holy fucking shit," you gasped, still shocked, your body going numb now. "In the nicest way possible, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

He laughs now, light and airy, no more of that teasing condescension. It was just the Deku you knew and saw before tonight, slipping back into his normal self. 

"I warned you." more laughs. 

You stare at the digital clock at the bedside table. Holy hell. It had been what, six? Seven hours since the night began, since the event that felt like ages ago. You were in bed for probably three or four hours. His stamina was genuinely terrifying.

"Four hours?" you manage to croak, turning your head to look at him. He was propped up on his elbow, a lazy, satisfied grin on his face, his green hair a mess. "Are you part rabbit or something? That's not human."

He just shrugged, a gesture that was so infuriatingly casual. "Hero training. Lots of stamina and endurance exercises. And from wielding One For All... might have to do with that. I picked up a few things from then."

"A few things?" you scoffed, trying to sit up and immediately collapsing back down when your muscles screamed in protest. "You call that 'a few things'? I think you just broke my vagina. I'm gonna need a wheelchair."

He winced slightly, a flicker of genuine concern in his eyes. "Ah, sorry. Was I too rough?" He reached out to gently brush a stray hair from your forehead, his touch now impossibly soft.

You smacked his hand away playfully. 

"Don't you dare act all caring now, you demon. You were a literal animal five minutes ago. You tied me up with your own tie!"

A faint blush dusted his cheeks. "Well, you kept trying to move. It was a necessary countermeasure."

He paused, a thoughtful look on his face. "Besides, you didn't say the word."

You grin now. "I know." You shift, wincing slightly. 

"Are you always this... insane in bed?"

He groaned, flopping onto his back and rubbing a hand over his face. "Ugh, no. Not usually. It's... yeah, teaching and all that hero work," he sighed, "as much as I love it, it's been so much lately. Had no time to even think about sex. It was... that pent-up energy."

He turned his head to look at you now, a sheepish grin on his face. "Guess I had a lot saved up, glad you came along"

You narrowed your eyes at him, a suspicious look on your face. "Didn't seem like you were that pent up," you shot back. "What even was that? You were teasing me for so fucking long." You smother your face in your hands, blushing just at the thought. "Who even does that? Do you just have a really, really dark side I should know about?"

Pause.

“Anyways, wanna go again?”

the classroom was quickly filled with students. some immediately sat down next to their best friends, while the smart and social kids took the front seats. you noticed the same group of girls sitting together—the popular girls—laughing about something or someone. you didn’t pay much attention as you took your seat two rows from the back, staying inside your own bubble.

you’ve always been the quiet one, an observer. some might even call you a nerd since you still excel in exams or written, just not in performance or social activities.

your professor—ms. jensen, a mid-forties woman with a strict teaching style that every student hate—entered the room, and the entire class quickly quieted down.

“okay,” she started. “since today is friday, i will be giving you all a group project to work on over the weekend.”

she explained calmly while leaning back against her table.

who gives a project on a weekend?

“i have a bowl here with numbers inside. each group will have three members. you will pick a paper, and the number written on it will decide who you’re working with for the weekend.”

she then turned and wrote on the board.

“you’ll have to write a five-page paper about electrochemistry.”

she picked up the container and walked around the room so everyone could draw a number. some students groaned when they realized they weren’t grouped with their friends, while others reacted in mild frustration at their assigned members whom they disliked.

when it was your turn, you simply picked one that felt fine. you unfolded it and saw the number “8.”

“okay, you may use the time to find your groupmates. quietly, and workout with them,” she said before sitting down at her desk and opening her laptop.

you stayed seated, swallowing nervously as students kept coming up to ask for your number which was unfortunately not the same. that’s when daniela—one of the girls from the popular group—approached you.

“hey, what’s your number?” she asked with a smile.

“oh—uhm, eight. you?” you stammered.

“same! lara too. she’s eight,” she replied, immediately taking a seat beside you, which you found a bit unusual. as she did, her skirt brushed lightly against your fingers resting on the desk. she called over lara with a soft, honeyed voice.

when they both settled in front of you, you didn’t notice how they purposefully leaned over the desk, bringing themselves closer, their tank top revealing more of their cleavage, you swallowed as opened your notes.

“well, i think this will be easy for us. since we uhm already went through the topic this week,” you said, scanning your notes nervously.

“hm. of course it’ll be easy for you,” daniela teased, twirling her curly hair with her fingers, tilting her head as she looked at you.

“definitely. you’re always good at these kinds of activities,” lara added, her hand creeping up your shoulder causing you to huff.

“uhm,” you chuckled nervously, adjusting your glasses. “thanks. so we can just use a shared doc for the paper,” you said, rubbing your hands against the rough fabric of your pants as you started to feel nervous.

“docs? shared?” lara asked, furrowing her eyebrows.

“yeah—i mean, i can split it into parts and—”

“don’t you think it’ll be better if we work together?” daniela interrupted, her hand lightly resting on yours that was on the edge of the desk, making you tense slightly. “w-well we are going to work together anyway.”

“but i can’t really focus on writing if i’m alone and i didn't really listen this week,” lara added. “you wouldn’t want us to fail, right?”

“i—what do you guys want then?” you asked, swallowing hard.

“my house is free this weekend. my parents are on a trip,” daniela said immediately. “it’ll be better to work together in person than on a document, right?” she glanced at lara for backup.

“definitely. and maybe you can help guide us with your knowledge,” lara added.

“I-okay then… i can do that,” you agreed.

“great. give me your number.”

the next day, you stood in front of daniela’s house, shifting your weight nervously. it was your first time visiting a girl’s house to work with. most of the time they just send in their parts because they didn't want to interact that much. you adjusted your glasses before the door opened, revealing daniela.

“hi,” you greeted, smiling before your eyes landed on her outfit—an oversized t-shirt that was loose around her left shoulder, while wearing shorts that barely covered anything. that made you gulp, putting your laptop infront of you as you felt your jeans tighten.

“hi. come in,” she said, stepping aside before closing the door. "Lara's already upstairs so yeah." she led you up, the shorts that barely covered anything infront of you, you bit your lip trying to look away.

when you reached it, lara was sitting on the bed, scrolling through her phone.

“so,” you said, clearing your throat as you placed your things down on the desk, turning away from them like you were trying to resist temptation. “we can start now.”

“well, what are you doing all the way over there, silly?” daniela said with a small smile. “come sit with us. we’ve got a lot of work ahead.”

the three of you ended up on the bed, you right in the middle of them. you started explaining the powerpoint ms. jensen assigned for chemistry, going over the parts of the paper you needed to work on. you tried to stay focused—and for a while, you actually were.

about ten minutes in, though, daniela shifted beside you, her hands toying with the metal gear of your belt.

“dani…” you mumbled under your breath.

“hm?” she answered innocently.

you let out a slow breath. “you’re distracting me.”

“well, it’s boring-uh," she said, rolling her eyes before biting her lip. “don’t you think, lara?”

“very,” lara agreed with a small smile, glancing at you.

“w-wait, but the paper—” you tried to pull their attention back, your words faltering as daniela leaned closer, palming you right there and then, while lara's hands brushed against your waist in a way that made your thoughts stutter.

“relax,” she murmured, her voice light but teasing. “you’re taking this way too seriously.”

your grip tightened slightly on the laptop as you tried to ignore it, but it was getting harder—way harder—than it should’ve been. then, lara closed the laptop with a smile, putting it on the bedside drawer revealing your hard dick straining against your jeans. "let's focus on you for now."

"b-but.."

"ah, ah, no buts." lara smiled, silencing you with her index finger. you nodded as you watched daniela kneel down infront of you, playing with your belt. "so hard for us."

"I've been wondering how big you are, baby." lara added, following her daniela down, kneeling right about your legs, both of them settling down to grind on your thighs.

"b-but.."

"i said no buts?"

"no i- just—i've never.." you panted. "never what?" daniela tilted her head while looking at you as she unbuckles your belt. "I've never really been—"

"we've already figured," lara chuckled. "but we got you, don't worry." lara kissed you through the rough fabric of the jeans, causing your hips to jerk up. they both helped you get off of your jeans, leaving you in plain boxers that had a prominent wet patch because of how they were palming you. because you could've sworn two girls kneeling infront of you was enough to make you cum.

"someone's needy. poor baby." daniela coos. both their hands played with the waistband of your boxers before finally pulling it down, letting it settle on just below your knees. your cock sprung free, with too much pre-cum leaking out of the red swollen tip, lubricating the rest of your dick.

"m-fuck. how big do you think?" daniela asked her friend before wrapping her warm hands around the base of your dick to bring it to her mouth, kissing it. "hmm. eight? it's thick."

"are you guys really measuring me right now?" you asked with furrowed eyebrows, panting at how slowly daniela was stroking you, the feeling of her lips against your tip while her thumb strokes your swollen head was making you crazy.

they both chuckled at your disheveled state before they both licked your base up to your tip, collecting your pre-cum with their mouth. the sight was filthy, their saliva replacing your pre-cum, making you throw your head back that hit the headboard with a loud thud. "ah fuck!" your hand immediately went to your head, wincing.

"damn, are you okay?" lara asked, both of them stopping.

"y-yeah. don't mind me just hit my head."

"calm down, we're just getting started and you're already goin' crazy."

they both returned on working against your cock, licking from your balls up to your tip, meeting with a kiss. that alone made your cock twitch, their tongue met against your tip kissing with your dick in between their mouths. after that, they took turns sucking your swollen head, going down inch by inch, making sure to cover the rest with their hands as they can't take you full.

"it feels so good." you whimpered. their hot mouths was all you can feel, making you dizzy. "i-i think.. wait—" you moaned, feeling the coil in your stomach become more powerful before daniela takes you deeper in your throat which was your last straw. you came inside her throat with a groan, your hips bucking up deeper in her throat. you came a lot, flooding daniela's throat making her gag.

"fuck that's so hot." lara whispered before kissing daniela, your cum dripping down their lips along with their saliva, their tongue fighting for it, making you go half-hard again.

when they both managed to swallow, daniela panted, "you came a lot. like a lot. so much."

"sorry.." you breathed out, half lidded eyes staring at them.

"hmm." daniela hummed before kissing her way up your stomach, chest, then kissing your lips, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.

"don't you think it's our turn now, hm?" she whispered, her entire frame blocking your view of lara, who you felt was straddling your hips. "do you know how to eat a woman?" she asked in a sultry voice while her fingers crept up your jaw.

"i—i.. yes..?"

"how? tell me how. how do you know?"

"w-well—ah—" you cut yourself off with a moan when you felt your tip enter lara's tight and warm cunt.

"fuck you're so big." she moaned, inching herself down carefully to adjust.

"so?" daniela asked you again. "i—i watched.. back then when i was.. s-ff—fuck—a freshman."

"that's good, baby." she giggles before sitting up on your torso, then kneeling down right above your face, her slick dripping down your mouth. she was glistening, "I'm so soaked for you." she whined before lowering herself down slowly. the same time she did, lara inched herself deeper, taking you whole.

"Shit." you moaned against daniela's cunt, the vibrating sending pleasure through her spine. you wrapped your hands around her thigh, making her drop her weight entirely on you, "ah! shit." she grinded against you, while you suck on her clit. you gave her pussy long licks before entering your tongue inside her, tasting her. she was sweet, so tight.

while daniela was grinding her pussy against you, lara's pace was becoming more and more relentless, wanting to reach her high as she wasn't that far off because of how big you are, your tip hitting that spot inside her.

daniela felt herself getting closer from how you were alternating from flicking her sensitive bud and entering her with her tongue. "c-close.. I'm gonna— oh! y/n!" daniela came with a scream, holding onto the headboard for dear life, shaking on top of you. you helped her ride out her high before she collapsed beside you, chasing her breath.

"l-lara.." you whimpered before switching your position, bottoming her out. once you've got on top of her, she wrapped her legs around your waist, pulling you closer against her. you thrusted inside her with a needy pace, chasing your own high while daniela watches. "oh—you're s-so tight." you whispered before burying your head against the crook of her neck.

"shit! I'm so close. don't stop y/n, don't you fuckin stop." lara moans right beside your ear, "y-you're—tightening even more.." you whimpered as she was practically strangling you, you felt her walls pulsate before her manicured nails buried themselves on your back, scratching it so hard. you were sure it'd be wounded.

"oh-" you moaned, "I'm gonna cum." you warned her, "let me go, let me go." you urgently said, "no. fucking nut in me." lara tightened her hold of you, her legs holding you in place. "a-ahh-oh my god! jesus." you felt yourself explode inside her, your vision blurring.

your hips jerked from cumming so hard, stammering random words from how good it was. you collapsed on top of her, feeling yourself drip out of her hole even though you haven't pulled away yet.

the three of you rested for 10 minutes, catching your breath before you stood up, clearly having more power that the two girls even though you were the one who came so hard, "i-i'll clean you guys up. dani.. where's the uhh.. towels?"

you helped them clean themselves before they got dressed. you waited on the bed feeling a bit awkward as you've just fucked the three girls.

"well, it's late," dani emerged from the bathroom. "you can stay the night. my parents won't come home until tuesday. lara will stay over too. we càn talk about the paper tonight. I'd order some food."

"i-i have no clothes." you tried to reason.

"i have some oversized."

"o-okay." you whispered, knowing you won't be able to reason yourself out.

well, you guys did not talk about the paper that night.

high sex

bobby loves filming both of you

aerion “brightflame” targaryen - akotsk

such a good whore

“it’s time you fuck the dragon” or when modern!aerion fucked you w/ a bad dragon dildo

shawn heard - eye for an eye

shawn sneaking into your room late at night while your parents in the next room

he’s rough but also gentle towards you (and only you)

peter prior - true detective: night country

going down in you

peter sent this while you were visiting your family and he missed you (low-key sounds like finn 😳)