#explict

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. 

His profile is sharply outlined by the weak light, one tattooed hand resting on the steering wheel, the other hanging out the window with a cigarette pinched between his fingers.

Slowly he turns his head and takes a drag. The tip flares bright for a second, catching the ink along his cheekbone and the lazy half-lidded look in his eyes.

“Hey,” his voice is low and raspy. “Why are you out here alone?”

Sukuna takes another drag, smoke curling into the cold air.

You stay silent, stiff with tension.

“Hoping someone’ll give you a ride?” he says, finally turning his head toward you. His eyes look almost black in the dark. “Trying to get yourself picked up by some fucking creep?”

You frown, raising an eyebrow like you’re asking, And what makes you any better?

Sukuna snorts, baring the corner of his teeth in a crooked grin as he shakes his head and licks his lips. He glances somewhere ahead while slowly rolling the car forward beside you.

For some reason you keep walking next to it.

“Alright, quit being stubborn and get in,” Sukuna orders lazily, though without his usual sharp mockery.

You huff and shake your head.

“Wow, thanks, but no.”

“Baby, it’s a forty-minute walk to town,” he says, taking another drag and tapping the door with his palm. “You’re either gonna freeze your ass off out here or run into some real trouble.”

“Leave my ass alone,” you click your tongue.

Sukuna chuckles low, and heat rushes to your cheeks.

Asshole.

“No choice, baby. Hop in.”

You know he’s right.

And you also know the worst possible decision you could make is getting into a car with him. But your legs burn with pain, your teeth starting to chatter from the cold. And ahead of you, at your pace, are still hours of walking through pitch darkness.

The lump in your throat is hard to swallow.

There’s another thought too, poisonous and persistent: whatever Sukuna might do... whatever he might try... if your father finds out, he’ll shoot the bastard.

You hope so.

You hope that despite all the affection your father has for Sukuna, he wouldn’t believe him if he said his daughter was a whore.

Though… who knows.

“Fine,” slips from your lips almost soundlessly.

Sukuna’s grin widens, something dark in it. He mutters something under his breath, maybe finally, maybe a curse.

He doesn’t get out to open the door. Instead he leans across the passenger seat and shoves it open from the inside.

The door creaks dully.

He leans back again, catching the cigarette between his teeth.

You climb inside.

The car is warm. It wraps around you, mixed with the suffocating smell of tobacco, cologne, and… Sukuna. The scent fills the car, settling in your lungs. You press your lips together and shut the door.

His hat is now lying on the back seat, revealing Sukuna’s dark, messy pink hair. His legs in worn jeans are spread wide, braced against the pedals. He watches you out of the corner of his eye, the edge of his mouth twitching.

The car pulls back onto the road.

The first few minutes pass in tense silence.

You stare out the side window at the lonely leafless trees flashing past in the dark, at the distant lights of ranch houses far away.

Your hands are still shaking, though now not only from the cold.

Sukuna drives carefully, both hands on the wheel, a cigarette caught between the fingers of his right hand. Smoke drifts lazily out through the cracked window.

The warmth slowly starts thawing your frozen fingers, spreading through your body in a heavy, sleepy wave. The exhaustion that’s been building for hours crashes down on you. Your eyelids feel like lead as Sukuna takes another drag, the cigarette tip glowing bright.

Then casually he extends his hand toward you, the cigarette stopping an inch from your lips.

“Want a drag?” he asks, not taking his eyes off the road.

You look at his profile in the dim light for a second before shaking your head.

“I don’t smoke,” you answer hoarsely.

Sukuna turns his head slightly and lets his unreadable gaze slide over your face.

“Good girl,” he says slowly, licking his lips again. It sounds like… surprised approval.

But then his grin stretches into something sharper.

“Never too late to try.”

And for some reason, maybe from the unnatural silence, you slowly nod.

Why not, right? You’ve never even tried.

You lean toward his hand. The sharp scent of tobacco grows stronger. Your lips touch the filter, damp and slightly flattened from his teeth. The rough, calloused skin of Sukuna’s fingers brushes your lips.

“Inhale,” he orders quietly, lazily watching you.

His gaze flicks between you and the dark ribbon of road.

You take an uncertain breath. The hot, bitter smoke burns your throat and floods your lungs. A spasm seizes your chest and you break into coughing, tears filling your eyes.

A low, guttural chuckle sounds above you.

“Not that deep, sweetheart,” Sukuna drawls with that familiar obscene note. “Take it slow.”

He takes the cigarette back and drags from it right after your lips. You wipe the trace of his fingers from your mouth with the back of your hand. You try to get rid of the feeling, but like Sukuna himself, it’s persistent.

You turn back to the window again, cheeks burning. Cold air slips through the crack and hits your face, mixing with the smoke and clearing your lungs.

It’s almost… nice. Right?

The radio, quietly hissing with old blues, suddenly dies in a burst of static. Sukuna clicks it off. Only the steady hum of the engine, the wind, and silence remain.

Your body, against your will, begins to relax completely. The warmth, the gentle rocking of the car, even that sharp smell. It all creates the illusion of safety, a temporary truce.

And in that moment Sukuna’s heavy hand settles on your thigh, just above your knee.

You flinch, your whole body tightening into a knot. Instinct screams: hit him, get away. But your mind whispers: sit still. Don’t piss him off. He’s taking you home. Just endure it.

You freeze, staring into the darkness outside the window, trying to pretend it isn’t happening.

Sukuna, meeting no resistance, slowly begins moving his hand. His fingers tighten slightly, kneading. The sensation echoes through you in a dull, shameful way. Slowly, almost lazily, his hand slides higher up your thigh. Rough fingertips brush along the inner side, making you shiver despite yourself.

Sukuna reaches the waistband of your shorts.

He pauses.

You clench your teeth, trying to breathe evenly.

His hand moves to your stomach, tugging the waistband of your low shorts downward. The warmth of his palm slips under the fabric, moving lower. You feel his pinky brush the elastic of your underwear.

“No.”

You grab his wrist and instead of pushing it away completely, you move his hand back onto your thigh. Just… farther away.

Your fingers tremble.

Sukuna goes still, then exhales heavily, either disappointed or annoyed. But he doesn’t remove his hand. Instead it slides slightly higher again, to the place where your thighs meet your hips, to the warm hidden curve of your body.

Sukuna presses slightly, and you instinctively clamp your thighs around his hand.

He hums, short and satisfied.

“My offer, by the way, still stands,” he suddenly reminds you in a low, coaxing voice. “Fifty bucks for a blowjob and your daddy will never find out his little girl… was out flashing her pussy at night.”

You slowly turn toward him and the nervous tension inside you twists into something sticky and nauseating.

“You… you’d really tell him?”

Sukuna shrugs, and the movement shifts his hand where it rests on your thigh.

“Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t,” he tilts his head, watching you through narrowed eyes. In the darkness of the car they glint faintly. “Depends on… my mood.”

Your jaw clenches until your teeth grind.

“You’re an asshole,” you say quietly, but clearly.

Sukuna jerks his head slightly, frowning.

“Don’t forget whose car you’re in, kitten,” he reminds you.

You roll your eyes and turn back toward the window.

“I’m not a whore to do… that,” you mutter, watching your breath fog the glass.

Sukuna snorts. Short. Humiliating.

“Then what are you? Some girl dreaming about running away to the big city?” he says. “Baby, you know it’s exactly the same there as it is here.”

“And how would you know?”

Sukuna squeezes your thigh harder.

He gets angry when you argue.

“Men are the same everywhere, baby. Only there their wallets are fatter and their dicks are even smaller. That’s why they pay their mistresses twice as much to keep quiet. Is that what you want?”

“Stop.”

Sukuna doesn’t.

“Imagine it,” his voice drops lower, smoother. “You finish your damn university,” he says through his teeth. “Get the job you’ve been dreaming about for years.”

A pause.

“And then your boss,” Sukuna licks his lips, watching you curl inward, “some guy pushing sixty, calls you into his office after work and offers you a promotion.”

Silence. Only the hum of the engine.

“Would you suck him off?” he asks casually.

You say nothing. Your nails dig into your palms hard enough to leave marks.

“No?” he taunts. “You’re lying. You would. Happily. If your paycheck was eight hundred bucks higher.”

Sukuna jerks the wheel suddenly to dodge a pothole and presses the gas. The car growls as it accelerates.

“That’s not true,” you blurt, but it sounds weak. Unconvincing.

Sukuna hums with satisfaction. His fingers start slowly stroking the inside of your thigh again, and goosebumps ripple over your skin.

“Baby,” his voice drops again, almost purring. He leans closer, his breath brushing your temple. “You’re a little slut. A scared one, sure. But still a slut.”

You try to move away, pressing yourself into the door, but he doesn’t let you.

“And that…” he licks his lips, watching your mouth, “is normal.”

His thumb drags slowly across the fabric of your shorts, right where your pussy pulses underneath.

You freeze, forgetting how to breathe.

“You don’t understand anything, Sukuna.”

“What is it, kitten? Don’t like it when someone talks to you like that?”

Sukuna pulls his hand away only to light another cigarette. He slips it between his teeth and finds the lighter with his free hand. A click, and the small flame lights his calm, almost thoughtful face for a second.

“Baby, I know life’s a bitch and fate’s a whore. What’s wrong with that? Young people drink, smoke, fool around with whatever they can get their hands on, and fuck all day. That’s normal.”

His smile spreads wider. Sukuna leans back into the seat and takes a deeper drag.

“And it’s even… good. Empty head, no worries. Knocks all the stupid thoughts right out of you. Especially when,” he glances at you through narrowed eyes, “a good thick cock is filling your pussy. Pure bliss, right, baby? Don’t lie to me.”

You grimace and turn away, shrinking closer to the door.

“Maybe there’s nothing wrong with sex,” you say. “But not with just anyone. Not like that.”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow skeptically. He studies you again for a long moment, but you stubbornly stare ahead through the windshield where the rare lights of ranch houses flicker past.

“You really want only one dick in that hole your whole life? Your future husband’s?” Sukuna pinches your side. “Didn’t think you were such a nun.”

“Can you stop talking like that?”

“Talking like what?” he shoots back.

“And what’s wrong with not wanting to sleep with just anyone?” you grumble.

Sukuna suddenly becomes more serious.

“You know all men are assholes.”

You’re not sure if it’s a question or a statement, but you snort anyway.

“Including you?”

“Including me,” he agrees calmly.

“Well at least we agree on something,” you say dryly.

Sukuna rolls his eyes, slipping back into his usual tone.

“Take your dad for example. He cheated on your mom and beat her.”

The silence in the car thickens, heavy and pressing. You slowly exhale.

“I know he’s a fucking piece of shit.”

Sukuna nods as if confirming something to himself.

“All men are assholes, baby.” He takes another drag and exhales smoke. “That’s just how it is.”

“So what are women supposed to do then?”

“Women just got unlucky,” he says flatly, without malice. “So why not just say fuck it? Why not live however you want? Fuck whoever you enjoy. Get paid for it if the world’s gonna call you a whore anyway.”

“You’re saying that because you want me to suck you off,” you mutter.

Sukuna bursts into a low laugh and shifts in his seat, pushing his hips forward.

“Baby, I knew it! You’re the one thinking about my dick!”

You grimace in disgust.

“You really are a fucking asshole.” Your voice is tired as you lean back against the seat. “And I… thought maybe you’d gotten a little… I don’t know. Better. Or something.”

Sukuna just shrugs.

“Life’s a bitch,” he mutters, watching the road. “Fate’s a whore. And a blowjob, like sex, always feels good. If you don’t get that it just means nobody’s fucked you properly yet.”

Sukuna flicks the cigarette butt out through the cracked window.

The car becomes so quiet you can hear only your breathing and the low hum of the engine.

You didn’t mean to say it. Not at all. But the strange twisted honesty between you, the smell of his cologne and cigarettes, that stupid almost-closeness between you… it blurs the boundaries.

“I don’t know how,” you mumble. “I don’t even know how to do it.”

Sukuna slowly turns his head. The leather steering wheel creaks under his fingers as he grips it tighter.

“What?”

“I said…” you swallow, feeling his gaze on your profile, on your hands, on the way your thighs press together without you meaning to, “I don’t know how to suck a dick.”

The pause that follows feels endless. You expect laughter, some cruel remark, humiliation. But Sukuna, strangely, stays silent for a long moment.

He looks… confused. Genuinely surprised.

“You mean… never?”

You hiss through your teeth.

“So what?”

Sukuna makes a short sound, almost a chuckle.

He looks back at the road, but his face grows more thoughtful. His jaw shifts as he considers something. Then he glances at you again, studying your tense posture.

He stays quiet long enough that you start hearing your own heartbeat.

“Baby,” he nudges your thigh. You resist, but he places his hand on your knee and squeezes, forcing you to turn toward him. “What are you… a virgin?”

“None of your business!” you snap, hitting his hand again as hard as you can.

He doesn’t even flinch. He just catches your wrist and holds it.

“Hey,” he exhales, almost gently. Almost. “Don’t clam up now, baby.”

His thumb strokes your wrist, right over your pulse.

“So what?” your voice trembles. “What’s so special about that?”

Your answer confirms his guess and Sukuna lets out a strange sound, something like a long low “ohhh.” His hand drops back onto your thigh and suddenly becomes… softer. He changes his approach.

“Baby… that’s fucking amazing. Just thinking about it already gets me hard.”

“You’re kidding me?!” you hiss, staring at him in disbelief.

Sukuna is a fucking pervert.

“I thought...” he glances back at the road, then at you again. “Hell, I figured little Yuji had his chance about three years ago.”

“He’s not like you.”

Sukuna’s mouth twitches. Almost a smile.

“Yeah. He’s not,” he agrees easily. “That’s… good.”

The thought of Yuji, of his kind eyes and the idea of sleeping with him makes your stomach twist. That would feel wrong. Completely wrong.

And what about his older brother?

The tight ache low in your stomach returns, and you hate yourself for it.

“Alright, alright.” Sukuna pinches your thigh again. “I’ve got a new offer. Considering… the situation.”

You grimace immediately, already sensing trouble.

Who told him your virginity was even his problem?

“Three hundred bucks for your first time, with the full—”

Sukuna notices the confusion on your face and his eyes light up, already ready to start listing everything included in the “full package.”

But you cut him off.

“Who the hell do you think I am?! I told you I’m not fucking you!”

Sukuna clicks his tongue in irritation.

“Fine. Seventy for a blowjob then,” he says stubbornly. “But on one condition. You let me teach you how to do it properly. And… let me feel your tits.”

You turn toward him, trying to see in the darkness whether he’s joking.

Suddenly Sukuna flicks your chin. You jerk your head away instantly.

“That’s wrong.”

Sukuna only snorts.

“You’re already selling yourself, baby. Working at that gas station, washing other people’s cars while creeps stare every time your shorts ride up.” He presses the gas harder. “I’m just offering a better exchange rate. Or am I wrong?”

And damn it, Sukuna is right.

“So why do you want this?” you insist, still not ready to give in so easily.

“You’ve got… a pretty face,” he shrugs. “Nice tits too. And I want you. Simple.”

You sit there staring into the darkness, feeling the pulse low in your stomach that you desperately try to ignore.

Thinking about the money.

About how you’ll look your father in the eyes at dinner if Sukuna tells him you’re a whore.

And whether it would actually be easier if you just became one.

“So?” he nudges lazily.

You close your eyes. The cold glass against your temple, the warmth of his body, the aching exhaustion, and that dark forbidden curiosity Sukuna has stirred so easily…

“I agree.”

You nod.

Barely noticeable.

Sukuna grins wide and slams his foot on the gas. The Mustang shudders and growls as it picks up speed, and you’re pressed back into the seat by the sudden lurch. Then he jerks the wheel and the car swerves off the highway onto a dirt road.

You’re thrown against Sukuna’s shoulder and immediately recoil, pressing yourself against the door.

The dirt road winds between scrub bushes, the headlights cutting through dry grass, and then he brakes and kills the engine.

Silence crashes down all at once.

The cabin sinks into darkness, broken only by faint moonlight.

Sukuna turns toward you and your heart jumps into your throat.

No cars around. No lights.

Just the endless Texas sky full of stars above.

What the hell have you gotten yourself into?

“No one’s gonna bother us out here.” Sukuna’s voice drops lower, rougher. In the darkness you can only make out his silhouette: broad shoulders, his head tilted slightly down, and the faint glint in his eyes.

He reaches toward you—not suddenly, slowly—but you still flinch and press into the door. His hand passes by you and reaches for the switch above your head.

“No!” you blurt, grabbing his wrist.

Sukuna freezes.

Then very slowly turns his head and looks at your fingers wrapped around his hand.

Then at your face.

“I… I want it in the dark,” you breathe out and immediately pull your hand back as if you burned yourself.

He clicks his tongue in irritation.

“Baby, how the hell are you supposed to see anything in the dark? My dick, for example?”

The sarcasm creeps back into his voice, hiding the annoyance beneath it.

Safer than the strange seriousness that had hung between you on the road.

“What, is it really that small?” you shoot back, surprising even yourself with the boldness.

Sukuna’s reaction is instant.

His hand comes up and his fingers tangle in your hair at the back of your head. He jerks you down, straight toward his crotch. Caught completely off guard, you don’t even get your hands up—your cheek slams against his jeans. Through the thick denim you feel his hard cock, big and rigid, throbbing with arousal.

His cock is practically pressed against your cheek.

“Well?” he murmurs above your head, low and tight.

“You’re... huge,” you mumble, too embarrassed and too disoriented to even push yourself up.

Sukuna chuckles.

“Baby, thanks for the compliment,” he exhales through his nose, still holding your hair. “But when did you learn to tell how big a dick is… with your face?”

The words snap you back to reality.

The humiliation flares again.

You jerk upward, trying to shove yourself away with your palm against his thigh.

Sukuna holds you tight, and the only thing you can think of is biting his leg.

“Ah—hey! Don’t bite, you damn girl!” Sukuna yanks you back by the hair, pulling you away from his thigh. “Alright, alright. In the dark then.”

Maybe you shouldn’t.

But… what’s the point of backing out now?

You try to convince yourself there’s some logic behind this insane decision.

Inside you, shame and pride wrestle with something sticky and strange.

Curiosity.

You hate him. You’ve always hated Sukuna. But right now that hatred twists in your stomach and aches sweetly between your clenched thighs as the metallic sound echoes in the quiet car.

The heavy buckle of his belt clinks loudly against something. Then Sukuna drags the zipper of his jeans down.

Your hands start trembling.

You curl them into fists, nails digging into your palms to stop it.

It doesn’t help.

You see Sukuna’s broad chest rise and fall beneath the stretched fabric of his T-shirt, outlining the hard lines of muscle.

The beam of moonlight slides higher, briefly lighting the lower half of his face: the sharp line of his jaw, the corner of his lips with that familiar mocking smile, and the edge of the tattoo creeping along his cheek toward his chin.

You hold your breath when you hear a low hiss from Sukuna. He pushes his underwear down.

The muscles in his thighs tense as he moves.

Your gaze drops without meaning to and you make out the shape of Sukuna’s half-hard cock. You can make out the curve of him, the heavy tip catching what little moonlight there is.

You swallow, noticing the size again.

Jesus…

“Like what you see?” Sukuna’s voice comes from the darkness, mocking but rough.

“I’m not—” you start, but your voice cracks.

Sukuna doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush you. He just leans back against the seat, watching as you try to make out the shape of him in the darkness. His chest rises and falls slowly. Silence. Only your pulse pounding in your ears.

“You don’t have to rush,” he says. Not mocking. Not ordering. Just... letting you look. “Take a good look, baby.”

His words tighten something low in your stomach. You glance toward his face again in the darkness, barely able to see it, but you know that crooked smirk is there.

“Cocky,” you breathe.

“Damn right,” he agrees easily.

He rests his hand on his cock. Not jerking it yet, just lazily stroking it.

“So?” he says, dragging his thumb slowly across the head once, making his cock twitch. “You gonna keep staring or are we starting?”

The tremor in your fingers grows stronger, almost uncontrollable. Slowly, uncertainly, you scoot closer. Your hands are still clenched on your knees.

“What... what do I do first? Touch it, or...?”

Sukuna lets out a short sarcastic laugh.

“What, kitten? First time seeing a dick?”

You frown into the darkness.

“Of course not,” you mutter, trying to salvage a shred of dignity.

“Yeah?” he drawls with obvious mockery. “Only in porn, right?”

You click your tongue again, this time almost angrily. And for some reason, without even understanding why, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind just to hurt him. To prove you’re not some naïve idiot.

“Yuji showed me his dick.”

Sukuna goes still.

In the darkness you shift nervously under his stare.

“Did you touch it?” he asks, trying to sound calm.

You blink.

“What?”

“Did you touch his dick?” This time it’s almost a growl through clenched teeth.

You swallow, staring into the darkness where his eyes should be. Something tightens inside you. Slowly you shake your head.

After a couple seconds Sukuna nods once.

Satisfied.

No joke. No comment. No mocking.

He just… accepts the information.

It’s strange.

The next moment he sounds completely normal again, even harsher, more demanding.

“Alright. First take my cock in your hand.”

Your fingers touch hot, velvety skin and Sukuna sucks in a sharp breath.

“Fuck,” he exhales.

Sukuna tenses sharply under your touch. His cock jerks in your palm, pulsing under your fingers.

“Wrap your hand around it,” he orders, his voice rough, almost pleading despite his attempt to sound harsh.

You obediently close your fingers. His cock twitches again, growing hotter and heavier in your hand. You’re burning with embarrassment. Curled up on the seat, cheeks flushed, breathing uneven and shallow.

“Tighter,” Sukuna orders, licking his lips. “Work your hand, baby. Jack me off…”

You obey, moving your hand awkwardly at first, hesitant and tense. A bead of slick has already gathered at the tip, warm and sticky, making it easier for your hand to move.

Sukuna makes a low sound, something between a groan and a hiss. He lifts his hips slightly, pushing into your hand. He tugs up the hem of his shirt, exposing his stomach, and you see the muscles of his abs tighten in the dim light.

He watches closely, trying to make out your movements in the dark while you keep going. Your hand moves faster now, more confidently. You feel more of his slick spreading over your fingers, across your palm.

You slide down to the base and squeeze harder, almost instinctively, fascinated by this strange new sense of control.

Sukuna hums approvingly.

“More,” he hisses. “Grip tighter. Press right here…”

Suddenly his hand covers yours and pulls upward. A strange feeling—his fingers over yours, tangled together. Your stomach twists sharply again, sweet and painful.

Sukuna moves your hand more firmly now, showing you how to stroke him properly. But suddenly he stops and mutters almost regretfully,

“Enough.”

He exhales, tense.

“Come on, kitten. Time to use your mouth.”

Your chest tightens.

“Don’t be shy,” he adds softly. “You’ll manage.”

You pull your hand away and shift your position. Climbing onto the seat with one leg tucked under you, turning to face him, almost hovering over his lap.

It’s cramped and awkward, but you manage somehow. Your face is now dangerously close to his cock. Sukuna leans back in the seat, studying you with a hungry gaze.

“Don’t use your teeth,” he warns, surprisingly patient. “Try your tongue first.”

You nod, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Sukuna exhales heavily, almost a half-groan.

“Jesus, you’re killing me,” he mutters.

You stick out your tongue and touch his cock carefully, just the tip, sliding it along the hot velvety head. The taste is salty, slightly bitter, but not unpleasant.

Sukuna hisses again.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Just like that. Come on, baby…”

You rest your hand on his thigh for balance and his knees twitch upward.

You lower yourself a little more, dragging your tongue along the shaft. Then back up to the head again, circling it slowly.

Sukuna’s hips jerk upward instinctively and his cock slides deeper into your mouth. You flinch when it presses against your palate, but you don’t pull away. You glance up at him uncertainly.

Sukuna smirks in the half-dark.

“What, waiting for permission? Seriously?”

He grows a little more serious.

“Yeah, pretty girl. You can take my cock in your mouth. All of it. Go on.”

You exhale, realizing you’d been holding your breath. You lean down again. Take him into your mouth, a little at first, just past your tongue. You try sliding him against your cheek, licking, trying to go deeper. Trying to copy what you’ve seen in porn.

But when you try to take him the same way, his cock hits the back of your mouth again and it hurts.

Sukuna is big.

Very big.

You gag reflexively, your throat tightening, and you immediately pull back, straightening up and gasping for air. You look at Sukuna helplessly. A strand of saliva and slick stretches from your swollen lips to his wet cock.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, breathing hard.

“It’s not working,” you whine, looking up at him. “I can’t… do it right… It’s too much… Maybe we should change position or…”

Sukuna lets out something between a chuckle and a frustrated groan, tilting his head slightly to the side.

“I could fuck your throat over the hood of the car,” he mutters. “But you seem like you’d rather have the gentle approach, right, sweetheart?”

Sukuna wipes a drop of saliva from your chin with his thumb, holds his thumb to your lips, and you obediently lick the slick from it. His hand slides back, settling at the nape of your neck, fingers combing through your hair as he slowly twirls a strand around one finger.

A sharp shiver runs down your spine.

“I know what you’re asking for,” Sukuna says quietly. “Relax.”

He gently but insistently pushes your head down. You obediently lower yourself, taking the head of his cock into your mouth again. His fingers at the back of your head hold you there.

“Relax your throat,” he instructs, and before you can prepare, before you can even take a breath, he presses down on your head, forcing you lower.

You choke as his cock pushes deeper than you could take on your own, hitting the back of your throat and pushing further in. A cough tightens your throat around him. Your saliva slides down his cock. Tears well in your eyes, blurring your vision.

You try to pull away, jerking backward, but Sukuna holds tight, not letting you move.

“Easy, easy,” he murmurs, rubbing your neck with his thumb. “It’s fine. You’ll get used to it. Just… stay like that.”

You nod automatically, eyes squeezed shut, trying to relax and take more of him. After a while, it starts to feel... almost normal. Still weird. But bearable.

“Good girl,” Sukuna breathes out, satisfied. “Now try taking a little more. On your own. Slowly, alright?”

You try to shake your head in protest, but all that comes out is a muffled sound, a low, helpless vibration around his cock that makes him groan quietly in pleasure.

Sukuna presses down again. Then he goes still, letting you adjust, and a moment later he tugs you back by the hair, slowly, smoothly pulling his cock from your mouth almost all the way, leaving only the tip resting against your parted, wet lips.

You gasp for air.

The next second, Sukuna shoves you back down. Hard, rough, without warning. His cock slams into your throat, pushing deeper than before. You gag, but the sound drowns in wet, choking gurgles.

He hisses, throwing his head back.

“Fuck, baby,” Sukuna breathes toward the roof of the car.

Wet sounds fill the car. Tears spill down your cheeks from the strain. You hear your own helpless whining each time Sukuna pushes especially deep into your throat.

Without realizing it, you start shifting on the seat. The knee you’re bracing on starts to tremble. Your crotch is pressed against your heel, your sneaker planted on the seat, and every jolt drags you against the hard edge of the sole.

You can’t control it.

You grind against your sneaker like a bitch in heat, instinctively searching for friction, for some relief from the aching sweetness building between your legs. The fabric of your shorts is stretched tight, your underwear soaked. Your clit pulses, the muscles inside you clenching uselessly, craving something, anything, to fill them.

Fucking bastard.

Ryomen Sukuna.

Sukuna tugs your head back by your hair so he can see your face.

“You like it, baby?”

Sukuna watches you with blown, nearly black pupils. With his free hand, he takes his cock and drags the tip over your lips, across your cheek, smearing sticky slick over your skin and leaving behind a wet, glossy trail. Then he nudges the head back against your parted lips and tugs your hair, pulling you down again.

“Breathe through your nose,” he reminds you, almost gently.

With a filthy, wet sound, he yanks you down all the way, taking you to the base. Your lips press against his pubic bone. His cock fills your mouth and throat completely, reaching somewhere deep inside.

Sukuna holds you there for a moment, breathing hard and uneven, head tipped back as he rakes his free hand through his damp peach-pink hair, pushing it away from his face. The hand fisted in your hair trembles.

And then you choke again because you got distracted. Your throat tightens around him. But Sukuna keeps you there, not letting you pull away. You force yourself to breathe through your nose, tiny, shaky breaths, fighting the gag reflex, and after a minute it starts to ease.

You whine around him, low and pitiful, almost needy.

Not quite complaining, not quite begging.

For what, you don’t even know.

More?

For it to stop?

You keep grinding your cunt against your heel, desperate, feeling the wetness soaking straight through your shorts, your panties sticking to your swollen, sensitive folds.

Sukuna lets out a low hum when he notices what you’re doing.

“You want more, baby?” he breathes. “Getting off on your own, huh?”

Even in the dark, you can see the satisfied, predatory gleam in his eyes.

Sukuna tugs you back again by your hair, almost pulling his cock all the way from your mouth, but before he can say a word, before you can even think, you lean forward on your own, catching the tip with your lips, taking it back into your mouth, sucking, hollowing your cheeks.

“And you said you weren’t a slut, baby. Such a fucking liar…”

Sukuna switches hands in your hair, freeing the other, and reaches down, bending over you. His palm lands on your ass, squeezing one cheek through your shorts. Then he smacks it, not hard, but enough to sting, the sharp sound ringing through the silence inside the car.

And you whimper around his cock.

“Fuck…” Sukuna curses under his breath, grumbling something else.

He kneads your ass, making you squirm, move more, grind harder. You work your mouth harder too, instinctively understanding that he likes it, that every sound you make, every movement, sends a shudder through him.

Sukuna gives you a light smack under the knee, forcing your thighs wider. His palm slides from your ass up your bare lower back, damp with sweat. Then it slips beneath the waistband of your shorts. He grabs you, spreads your ass apart, then drags his hand down to your pussy over the soaked fabric of your panties.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the sound startled, almost reverent, touched with something like awe. “Baby, you’re fucking soaked…”

You make a muffled sound around his cock, trying to protest, trying to object. Sukuna presses right against your pussy, teasing, pushing into you, grinding against your clit through your wet panties, while at the same time yanking your head down again, forcing you to take him deeper.

“Work that mouth, baby. Don’t get distracted,” he orders.

You almost whine out loud, as much as you can with him in your mouth. You lick and suck, hollowing your cheeks, trying to please him while grinding your pussy against his hand, greedy and desperate, though an hour ago you were so stubborn, so “proper,” such a virgin.

“That’s it, baby… feel how I’m pulsing in your throat?”

You realize he’s getting close when his hips start moving on their own, short, sharp thrusts upward into your mouth, fucking your throat. He keeps that same rhythm with his fingers between your legs.

Wet, filthy sounds fill the car, mixing with your muffled whimpers and his roughening breaths.

Sukuna comes hard, swearing loud when it hits him. A sharp, guttural exhale tears out of him. His hips arch in one last deep, uncontrolled thrust. His fingers still on your clit, pressing down as hard as they can. And a hot, thick, salty stream of cum shoots straight down your throat.

Again. Then again.

You choke, but Sukuna keeps you there, not letting go, pressing your face against his pubic bone as his cum spills straight into your mouth.

He keeps coming for a long, agonizingly long time, and only when the pulses start to weaken does he finally relax and let go of your hair. You pull back, falling against the door, breathing through your mouth, coughing, smearing saliva and cum across your cheek. Your body trembles. Between your legs, there’s a pulsing emptiness, hot, wet, aching.

Sukuna turns his head and looks you over. In the darkness, his gaze is drunk and satisfied, hazy, sated. He leans forward and drags a finger along your chin, gathering up his cum before bringing it back to your swollen lips.

“Lick.”

You do, and Sukuna leans back against the seat with a satisfied hum, resting his head against the headrest. His eyes are closed. His chest rises and falls heavily. One hand rests on your thigh while you watch beads of sweat slide down his neck, and beneath the hem of his lifted shirt, faint streaks of cum glisten across his tense abs.

Sukuna feels your stare and turns his head toward you, still looking dazed and half drunk with satisfaction.

“What?”

You don’t answer.

His gaze drops, to your lips, to your chin smeared with his cum, to your throat, to your chest rising heavily beneath your sticky tank top. Then lower. To where your thighs are still trembling, where you keep pressing them together, rubbing them against each other without even realizing it, trying to soothe that pulsing ache.

Sukuna swallows.

“Want me,” he asks, voice rough and lazy, “to get you off?”

A pause.

“Since you tried so hard.”

“No,” you say, and for some reason regret it immediately.

You sit up straighter, the damp fabric of your shorts pressing against your pussy.

Sukuna just shrugs, casual, smirking to himself. He fixes his jeans, pulling up the zipper and tugging his belt tight, the buckle clinking softly. Then he starts the car, and you pull back onto the road.

On the way back, Sukuna doesn’t speak.

You stare out the window at the dark fields rushing past, at the occasional distant lights of farms. Sometimes you catch him looking at you. But you don’t return it. You curl up in the seat, trying not to think about how sticky and wet you feel between your legs, about how you smell like him, like sex and sweat.

Sukuna drives into your neighborhood and stops right in front of your house. You jump out of the car without even looking at him. You don’t slam the door, but you close it too quickly. You run to the porch, up the steps, into the hallway.

“Night, Dad,” you throw out in a wrecked, hoarse voice, your throat still sore, and bolt up the stairs to the second floor.

Your father answers something from the living room, but you don’t hear it over the TV as you rush into your room and slam the door, leaning against it.

You let yourself breathe out.

Shame. Anger. Confusion. Need.

And that aching, pulsing warmth between your legs that refuses to fade, that demands, begs for more. A strangled, muffled sound tears out of you and you drop face-first onto the bed. You kick at the mattress, helpless, furious at yourself, at Sukuna, at the whole situation, at your own body.

Would you let him fuck you? Probably...

You jerk upright and start pulling your clothes off.

Your shirt clings to your skin, soaked with sweat, saliva, and his cum. The fabric sticks unpleasantly to your chest and stomach. You yank it over your head. Even your damn shorts are damp. You undo the button, pull down the zipper, and slide them off. You toss everything on the floor and stand there in nothing but your lace underwear.

“Fuck!” you hiss. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

A knock at the door.

You jolt on the bed, your heart dropping into your stomach, a scream freezing in your throat.

“Dad, I’m changing!”

The door creaks open.

You turn around, already preparing to lie, to make up some story about why you’re home so late, why you smell strange...

And you see a shock of peach-pink hair slipping through the crack, a tattooed cheekbone, and one arrogant, laughing, thoroughly pleased eye.

Fucking Sukuna.

You rush toward the door with a hiss, trying to slam it shut again, trying to shove him back into the hallway, but he’s already slipped inside, grinning broadly, standing in your room, huge and arrogant, filling the space.

“Easy, easy, kitten, or your daddy might hear us,” he purrs, glancing around your room—the cheap floral wallpaper, the old creaky furniture, the pile of clothes on the chair, the scattered schoolbooks.

Then his gaze stops on you.

On your lace bra. Your bare legs. The torn, wet shirt and dirty shorts on the floor.

And from the look in his eyes, you’re sure he’s already hard again.

Sukuna is unbearable.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you hiss, crossing your arms over your chest to cover yourself, though it looks ridiculous. “Where’s my dad? Did you say something to him?”

Sukuna lazily leans against the doorframe, sliding his hands into his jeans pockets.

“I did,” he says casually. “Told him I gave you a ride from the gas station. Said you were working late, tired. And that we got held up a little, reminiscing about our shared childhood.”

The shameless lie knocks the breath right out of you.

“Childhood” is what you were just doing in his car?

“Talking” is when his cock was pulsing in your throat?

Sukuna smirks, clearly reading your thoughts.

“Your old man said you’re a pain in the ass. I agreed, but I told him you’re a good girl, just going through a difficult age.”

He reaches into his jeans pocket.

“And you ran off so fast I didn’t get to pay you. Had to come by, kitten.”

Sukuna grabs your hand, pries open your fingers, and slaps crumpled bills into your palm.

Fifty dollars.

You stare at the money.

Then at him.

You want to refuse—throw it back in his face out of principle.

But you don’t.

A deal is a deal.

You close your fist around the bills.

But why not the full amount?

Sukuna leans closer, as if reading your thoughts again, and you’re afraid his scent will seep into your skin forever.

“Don’t think we’re even yet, baby,” he says softly. “This deal isn’t over until every condition’s been met.”

His gaze, hungry and shamelessly stripping, drags over your chest in the lace bra, over the tight line of your stomach, then only briefly lower, to your thighs pressed tightly together. The corner of his mouth twitches with something like regret.

You mutter a curse under your breath as heat floods your cheeks, your neck, your chest.

You reach for the clasp of your bra behind your back, ready to just get it over with, if that’s what this is, if that’s why Sukuna came here right now, into your room, while your father is downstairs…

But Sukuna lets out a low whistle and stops you with a flick of his hand.

“Damn, baby, I could get used to this. You got obedient all of a sudden,” he says, tilting his head. “Sorry, kitten. Not tonight. I want to stretch out the fun.”

“When?” you demand.

Sukuna draws out a slow “well…” and leans close to your ear. You feel his warm breath on your skin and almost expect his lips to brush your neck.

“I like the privilege of surprise. I want you thinking about it. All day. All night. All week.”

His bent index finger brushes over the tense plane of your stomach, stroking so slowly it’s almost torture, barely touching.

“I want you touching yourself and remembering my cock. I want you going crazy, baby.”

He pulls back. Looks straight into your eyes, arrogant.

“I’ll come whenever I feel like it. And you’ll be waiting.”

Like a whore who owes him.

And before you can answer, Sukuna turns and disappears through the door. You hear his footsteps going downstairs, then the front door slam.

You’re left alone in your room, fifty bucks in one hand, that pulse between your legs still refusing to fade.

Ryomen Sukuna is a fucking asshole.

What the hell…

Summer has only just begun.

But who were you kidding? You always thought of him. It was the worst at night, when the adrenaline pent up throughout the day faded, you'd lie in bed drifting on the verge of sleep and the memories would ambush you. 

You'd touch yourself, trying to replicate the fire he'd ignited, but it felt like you were clumsily rubbing rocks together, only mustering up pathetic little sparks.

Fucking annoying. 

You had each other's contact and he'd text every now and then. A "Hope you're not breaking any bones out there" after a particularly nasty villain fight you were in made the news. "Are you ok?" followed by a link to some article that mentioned an attack in your prefecture, that you'd deliberately left on read for three hours before replying, dryly "yeah". 

Nope, not texting first, you'd tell yourself, staring down at your phone in between shifts. The ratio is off. I texted last time. It's his turn. Actually, actually— I texted first that one time, so he needs to text me two— no three times at least before I can even consider.

You keep these dumb, prideful tabs in your head. Because yes, it was that deep. You had to prove to yourself you were not desperate. It had already been a humiliation ritual the way you had practically thrown yourself at him that night, no shame whatsoever. 

Sure, you felt great in the heat of the moment, fueled by all that built-up desire and exacerbated by alcohol. But in retrospect, after you had started psychoanalyzing every little detail of the interaction, you were positively cringing every time your own words from that night jumped back to haunt you.

It was an unending cycle of shame. 

It started that evening after, the shame when you rushed to the last open corner store to buy a contraceptive. 

Shame when you had to cover the ungodly amount of bruises he had carelessly littered across your shoulders to shield yourself against the prying eyes of the media. Shame when you, as a result, found yourself at the store again, buying another tube of concealer. Shame when you forced yourself out on a night, desperate to fish for another warm body to bring home. 

Shame when you'd then close your eyes with them, to imagine him. 

So this texting framework you came up with was just you clinging onto any semblance of dignity left.

You would not, under any circumstances, be the one to go back and ask for more, especially not after how needy you had acted. No matter how bad you needed him, you were not going to be the one initiating.

On one shift, patrolling the bustling commercial district, you, like an absolute idiot, walked straight into a pole all because you were too transfixed on a giant billboard of him splashed across the side of a skyscraper. It was just something generic, not suggestive in the slightest, just a professional campaign shot for a hero safety initiative. He stood there, smiling that bright, media-friendly smile alongside other top pros. 

He still looked so polished, so untouchable. It was a stark, brutal contrast to the feral man who had been fucking you useless into a mattress weeks ago.

Even after touching so intimately, after your bodies had intertwined and you'd felt the very thrum of his life under your fingertips, he somehow seemed more out of reach now. 

You would occasionally cross paths with him in your line of work, but he was constantly overwhelmed with people— sidekicks, reporters, colleagues. You were just another planet in his crowded orbit. 

So for three weeks, you had said a total of zero words to each other in person.

He was the nation's favorite, a shining star of hope and charisma. He had press conferences and charity events on top of a class of little aspiring heroes to teach and god-knows-what-else. 

He was busy and important, you had to meet him right there. 

If he was so busy being important and all, then so were you. You lost yourself in your work, taking on extra patrols, volunteering for the most difficult missions. 

For the most part you enjoyed it, but then, of course, there were the dreadful, dull parts— paperwork and worst of all, meetings. It was already hard enough to stay awake with how brutally you'd overfilled your own schedule, but at least your usual work had some action to keep you going. 

Now, trapped in a sterile conference room, you could hardly focus. You found yourself drifting off during an annual meeting on safety regulations, just a bureaucratic nightmare. 

You wanted to doze off so badly, but you were also surrounded by the most powerful heroes in the nation. The sheer gravity of the room was sobering enough to keep you awake.

Your eyes scanned the room, landing on Izuku, several seats down. He looked sharp and attentive, nodding along as a commissioner droned on. 

And just like that, you weren't so tired after all. 

I'll just stare at him so I don't fall asleep. 

The way he tapped his pen against his notepad, the serious furrow of his brow as he listened. You’re supposed to be a respected colleague right now, but all you could think about was how that focused intensity felt when it was directed at you, your body, exposed and pliant underneath him. 

Look at you, when he pulled back to stare down reverently at the marks he'd left. 

Look at you, he'd taunted as he saw you sobbing, spasm and convulse uselessly. 

Look at you now, voice raw and primal as he fucked you into oversensitivity. What about all that talk from earlier? Look at you now. 

Look at you, hot breath fanning against your ear as he leaned down. Someone’s gonna think I’m torturing you, and then had done exactly that, hand unrelenting, rubbing right where he was nestled deepest as he watched you struggle and writhe and—

A piercing, high-pitched alarm ripped through the room, accompanied by flashing red lights. The room full of the most powerful heroes in Japan erupted into chaos. Chairs scraped back and everyone began moving swiftly toward the exits.

You stumbled as you followed suit, your sleep-deprived body betraying you. 

A strong arm shot out and wrapped around your waist, catching you before you could face-plant into the floor.

"I've got you," a familiar voice in your ear. Izuku.

He steadied you, his grip firm and sure and then he was practically guiding you, his body like a shield as he maneuvered you both through the panicked crowd and out into the bright afternoon sun.

Outside, the plaza was a mess of heroes and support staff. The alarm blared for another minute before abruptly cutting out and a harried looking building engineer came out with a megaphone.

"False alarm, everyone! Sorry about that! A sensor malfunctioned. We need to evacuate for a full system reset. The building is closed for the rest of the day. All meetings are postponed!"

A collective, relieved groan went through the crowd, followed by a wave of good cheer. Everyone was free. You were free. The exhaustion and relief washed over you. Time for a nap. 

You turned to leave, mentally canceling your evening plans.

"Hey."

You stopped. It was Izuku. He was standing there and for the first time in a while, no longer surrounded by people, his full attention fixed on you.

The sun caught in his hair and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

"Are you okay?" his brow furrowed with genuine concern, "You seemed… out of it in there."

"Just tired," you mumbled, feeling your face heat up as your stupid brain flashed the incriminating montage of thoughts you just had about the man standing in front of you. "Long week."

"Right," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

An awkward silence stretched between you. He was studying you.

"You know," he started, his voice hesitant. "I've been trying to figure something out."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "What?"

"When I see you, like just now— or back at the event, or when we see each other sometimes for work— you look at me…” he trailed off, searching for the words. "Like you're— I don't know. It's just really intense. But then when we text, it's— it's like you're two different people. I don't get it."

This was far too embarrassing, what are you even supposed to say? Admit you’re a big loser?

Okay time to run

"I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable," he said, earnest. "I just— I don't understand. And I'd really like to."

He’s rubbing the back of his neck. It was such a classic Izuku gesture that it completely disarmed you. He looked away for a second, toward the dispersing crowd, before turning back to you with a quiet resolve. 

"There's a cafe just down the street, we could talk. Or, you know..."

A faint blush bloomed under his freckled cheeks, his eyes darted away from yours. 

"We could just... not talk."

Oh

"Okay let’s just get out of here," you managed. You turned before he could see the full extent of your blush, leading the way with quick steps. Your heart beat so rapidly you could hear it in your ears. He followed right after. 

You had no plan at all, just trying to get out of the busy open street, anywhere you could breathe. When you made it around a random corner, bright afternoon light out of view, you looked back momentarily. 

Before you could even talk, he grabbed your face with both hands. The wind was knocked out of you as his lips crashed down. You let out a startled gasp that he immediately swallowed.

Then he let you go abruptly, stumbling back as if he’d been burned.

"Sorry. I just really needed to do that. I'm sorry if—"

You shut him up immediately, surging forward and reconnecting. It was a bite, all the hunger and desire and frustration from the past weeks poured into it, your foreheads clashing, desperately conveying yes, yes, yes, I want this. 

He retaliated, bit back, pushing you against the rough brick of the wall, devouring you with an intensity sharper than that weeks ago. 

Just as soon as he had you pinned there, he pulled back. 

"We should go somewhere," he rasped, forehead pressed against yours.

"No, stay," you whined, dragging him back, tempting him with another kiss.

"No. We're leaving," he said, voice firm as he backed away completely. 

You pouted. "You're no fun."

"Mhmm," he hummed.

You tried grasping at him again, pulling him back, but he simply turned and started walking. He ignored you and you ended up getting dragged along for a few steps before you caught on and hurried to follow. 

You were practically running to keep up, following his lead through the bustling city, dazed. You ended up at the nearest hotel minutes away.

The moment you walked in, a waft of floral scent and cold air hit you. The ceilings were high enough to echo, polished marble everywhere.

This is so wasteful just for a fuck. 

"Okay, c'mon, let's just go to mine," you whispered, trying to pull his arm. 

"No," he said, voice flat.

"We can go somewhere else. There's probably another place close," you bargain.

"I live like 30 minutes away. It's not that far," you attempted again when he didn’t respond, your voice small as you neared the receptionist.

"It is too far," he stated, not even looking at you. 

The door clicked shut and you barely had a second to register the sheer size of the room before you were slammed into the wall. His mouth was on yours immediately, more like a collision than a kiss. Frantic, teeth and tongue, foreheads clashing together in a dizzying, painful thud that only spurred you on.

You shoved back against him, a confession I need you, I need you. He bit down on your lip, a sharp, stinging reprimand. You retaliate, sinking your nails into the skin of his neck. 

"Off," he chanted against your mouth, his hands fumbling, clawing at the zipper of your hero suit. "Off, off, off—"

“No you,” you bite back nonsensically, ripping away at his suit with more vigour, practically wrestling him naked.

"Want you now," he pulls, gripping your waist "now, now, now" chanting, dragging you towards the bed.

"Yes, yes, yes," you were nodding so hard it hurt your head, frantically pushing in the same direction, a whirlwind of grasping, clumsy, aggressive motions, all coordination lost to a singular, primal need.

His eyes were so clouded with desire, a look that matched your own so beautifully

You were overcome with the urge to maul him, to scratch everywhere. I need you so much, I want to hurt you, like cuteness aggression but twisted into something carnal and violent. 

"I want you now," he repeated, kissing you incessantly while crowding you until you stumbled back, hitting the edge of the bed.

"I need you now," you one-upped him, pulling him, dragging him down with you into the soft sheets. In a smooth, practiced motion, you flipped him over, straddling him, breathless. "Need you now."

He didn't even entertain it for a second. "No," he snapped as he grabbed your waist, agitated.

"No, let me," you pried his hands off and slammed his shoulder down, ready to devour him.

"No, you don't," he flipped you over again. It was raw strength, that previous playfulness wiped clean, bordering on painful as he pinned you down. 

"I want to— let me—" you were flailing.

"No, no, no," he met every bit of you struggling with increasing strength, his movements so fast and dizzying. His gaze was borderline predatory and utterly devoid of any teasing, a frightening focus set on one thing. 

"Ha— ah— god, what— Fuck, hold— ah— on," you gasped as he hoisted your legs up, not even giving you a chance to breathe. "Hmh, tight, tight, wait, hold on—", you reason breathlessly, trying to adjust and wriggle out of your painfully compromising position.

He didn't let up, every plea flying straight over his head. 

You shakily snaked your hands up to grip the backs of your own knees, pulling them toward your chest. The shift relieved the sharp strain from your hips where his weight had pinned you. 

He slammed in with no warning, your whole body jolted up the mattress.

"Ha— fuc—k— you're so—" you couldn't even finish your thought, he was fucking downwards with such intent and focus, like he wanted to drill you into the mattress, practically folding you in half.

“Mhm”

His frantic energy seemed to cool off with each thrust, like he was fucking every pent-up emotion into you. Your legs shook uselessly in tandem with his rhythm.

"S-sorry— ha—" he muttered against your ear, breath tingling ever so softly it made you shiver.

He lifted off of you, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to your knee, then another your ankle. His hips stilled, settling into a slow, deep grind. 

"Are you okay?" he sounded so sober all of a sudden, that aggression faded.

Then he stopped altogether. You were breathless for a moment, chest heaving.

"Fucking continue," you slapped the arm he looped around your legs, the resounding sound so sharp you winced a little. 

Oops, too much.

"Ouch. What was that for?" he looks down at the faint pink of where your hand had connected, genuinely offended.

The shift was immediate. His usual softness vanished again, replaced by a silent, barely contained fury. He didn't wait for an answer, simply moved, pulling back and slamming into you again, harder this time. The force was enough to make you scream, a raw, involuntary sound ripped from your throat.

"I will continue," he panted in reply, muttering in between thrusts. "All day. We will be here for so long"

"Whatever. You're—" you stuttered through the relentless assault,  "You're all talk."

"No. You’re all talk," his rhythm hitched, causing you to whine in protest. 

He went completely still again, his body hovering over yours. "We are not stopping," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "I'm serious."

"You just— did," you stuttered, amused, albeit mildly confused.

"Why do you have to be so difficult?" He's practically grinding his teeth. "I'm not joking. We are not stopping, and I'm warning you. Do you remember the word? I don't want to hurt you."

Ugh

"Yes, yes, yes," you said, waving a dismissive hand. "Just keep fucking going, my fucking go— ah—"

He was back at it again, punching into you and you were no longer able to think, screaming and flailing. He’s robbed you of any control, ripping shameful sounds from your throat with every thrust. 

Fuck that is not me. Fuck. Fuck. Ew.

You tried muffling yourself, a hand flying to cover your mouth, your teeth sinking deep into your own fingers. You sound borderline pornographic. 

Ew. Ew. Ew.

You toss your head into the pillow, an added layer to drown out anything and everything. He pushed your head to the side with a firm hand.

“No— no, why are you hiding? Don't hide." 

His hips stutter as he reaches to grip your wrist, surprisingly gentle as he tries to guide your clamping hand away. You swat his touch reflexively, fucked out but still so stubborn. 

Before you could even process, he flipped you with a single, powerful motion, grappling until you were down on your knees, chest against the mattress and ass pushed up in such an obscene way.

“Wha— ha—”, you gasped as he dragged your hips back, your body flush against his in an instant. He wrestled your arms behind you, clumsy at first, then pure, devastating strength crushed them together once he had your wrists pinned against your lower back.

"Stop hiding from me," he demands, sheathing himself inside you again in one smooth stroke. 

Defiant, you crashed your face into the sheets, successfully muffling your startled scream.

“No hiding.” he repeated, one arm sliding under you, grabbing you by the chest. 

“Leave me—” you hiss, twisting your face back into the dampened mattress as you feel another noise on the verge of escaping. 

He hauls you up before you could do so.

“Ha- ah—” 

He’s dragging your hips back to slam them down, the angle punishingly deep.

“Wait— Izuku— wha—” you babbled, trying to reason, feeling far too vulnerable and exposed. 

“What are you gonna do now?” he slurred, delirious yet triumphant, holding you with a rough grip. His other hand snaked around your front, roughly gripping your breast like a vice to hold you in place as he continued to fuck into you from behind.

“Why? Wha—” your protests twisted into distressed, needy cries. His calloused hand on your chest loosens, only to pinch you, grabbing a nipple and rolling it between his fingers. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You had nowhere to hide, nowhere to bury your face.

“Exactly. Yes, yes,” he murmured appreciatively against the bare skin of your neck before delivering a sharp bite to your pulse point.

“Ha— ah— too much—”

“No. More, more, more,” he disagreed feverishly as he used his strength to force your back into an obscene arch.

He released your wrists and that hand came up to tangle your hair, gathering it into a bunch and rolling it tight like reins, immobilizing you completely as he continued pounding. The tension made your scalp sting. So much, so much, so much.

"M’close— close, close," you sobbed. That familiar tightening in your core close to snapping, pulling every muscle taut. Every fibre in you focused on the frantic, climbing tension. Yes, yes, yes.

He stills abruptly and dropped you from his grip. You flopped down uselessly, face flat on the mattress.

“Huh? Izuku— what—”

He pulled out. And just like that, it was gone. The intoxicating pressure snuffed out in an instant. 

"What the fuck, Izuku? Why? Why?" you shrieked, pure rage, twisting around to kick him, but he just dodges simply, completely unfazed by your outburst. He holds his hands up in surrender, yet there's a familiar glint in his eyes as he slowly inches away from your squirming figure.

"Oh, were you going to come?" he asked, patronizing, “Sorry, I couldn't hear you very well. You kept hiding." He shrugs simply, a small smirk forming on his lips.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you were crying pitifully now, the tears hot on your cheeks "What about what you were saying before? I need to finish, please."

"I said we're not stopping," he clarified, his tone maddeningly reasonable. "I didn't say anything about you finishing." 

He trailed the points of his fingers up your spine, making you shiver. You could feel the shift in him, the way he got even harder at the sight of you squirming under the pads of his fingers. Fucking sadistic.

"You're so mean." you choke out, glaring daggers.

"Mean?” he repeats, this time genuinely exasperated, green eyes wide and appalled at the mere suggestion, “I'm helping you. We're not stopping for a long time. I'm trying to help you so you can get through it." 

"What the fuck does that mea—" 

He forced you back down onto your stomach before you could finish, pushing in, the change in position so swift you felt like you were being thrown around like a ragdoll.

He was inside again, but not moving this time, just still and wriggling forward with fierce intent, brows scrunched tight in concentration.

"Closer, closer," he murmured, eyes completely fixed on where you were connected. He pulled you impossibly deeper, not even thrusting. Somehow his new, twisted goal was to impale you as deep as possible on him, ignoring your distressed cries completely.

"Okay, okay, please," you babbled in resignation through tears "Enough, enough."

You could see the slight bulge of him on your lower belly and he fucking caressed it in awe, as if you weren't crying, squirming, screaming because of it. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him while he began moving again, so very slow. 

"What? Too much?" he coos as he’s leaning down, overwhelming you with his frame, but his free hand is tracing delicate lines down your arm, his lips brushing over yours like a secret.

A phone call is here! A phone call is here!

Alright. What the fuck?

He froze, buried deep inside you. 

"What is that?" you groaned, the sound muffled against his shoulder.

"Uh, sorry—" he panted, his voice strained. "It's my phone."

The moment was gone, yanked back down to earth by how insanely unsexy the sound of All Might's shrill, cheerful voice was.

"Seriously? That's your ringtone?" you teased, incredulous. 

He pulled back, pink blooming under his freckled cheeks in such an endearing way.

I’m gonna bite him.

"Sorry," he mumbled, tone so jarringly different now. 

He started to pull out, but you clenched around him, a desperate, silent plea to get him to stay. It was no use. He was sobering up real fast, ever so dedicated to his work. 

He fumbled for his phone on the floor, breathless when he answered "H-hello?"

You just laid there, heart beating far too loudly in your ears and tingling all over, still spread on the mattress. The intense, desperate need from moments before had been replaced by a surreal, buzzing quiet, the sound of his professional voice on the phone so bizarre to you in your current state

Curious about what had interrupted your taste of heaven, you turned to watch him, your eyes following him as he distanced himself from you, pacing around the room. 

He sounded so clean again. So polished. There he was again, pro hero Deku— the version you would keep on a pedestal in your mind, too shiny, too bright and too hot a star to get close to without getting burnt.

But he was right there, right across the room from you, naked. 

You stared, fixating on his back. 

In the heat of it all, you’d scratched him and hadn’t even noticed. The thin, red lines stood out against the shifting muscles of his shoulders. The fresh redness of yours blended with the fading, silvery scars he had acquired through years of hero work, forming an intoxicating masterpiece across the canvas of his back. That contrast sent butterflies to your stomach— well— more like a nest of feral hornets. 

And you couldn’t look away, fully embracing the heat that surged through you from the view. This picture perfect hero just fucked me.

"Mhm, yeah– I'll try to get to it, I think we can reroute the patrol routes to cover the gap, it's mostly low-level traffic so it should be fine, we just have to—"

He sounded so stern and focused. The professionalism felt insane in this context, right next to the disastrous looking bed, humid mess of sheets and you laying there, exposed and spread. 

The fact that he could be so pristine and composed while you were a messy, wanting wreck just for him. It made your stomach clench.

You turned your face away from him again, staring up at the ceiling, restless and throwing impatient glances back at him that he couldn’t even see, too focused on whatever conversation he was having. Whatever the fuck just happened— being turned on by him on a call— meant you needed him back more.

You want him back. Now. 

Let the call end. Let the call end.

"Alright, just send over the incident reports, yeah- uh—" His voice was closer now. You snapped out of your trance and found him right back at the bed, his eyes transfixed on you.

You gave him a confused look. What are you doing here? 

He kept staring intently, taking in your naked form so shamelessly it made you shiver with the urge to curl up. He had stopped speaking entirely, green eyes raking you.

"Ah, sorry, I was just thinking, yeah—" 

He couldn't stop looking, his eyes hungry even though you just stared back, utterly confused.

"I'll need the final analysis before I can approve the—"

He slithered back into bed, moving back to where he had been almost as an afterthought. 

"—so just make sure they get that to me by morning."

You tensed next to him, eyes widening comically when you finally pieced together what he was planning. 

He slowly, slowly slips himself back into you. 

“—and cross-reference it with the witness statements. We need to make sure there are no discrepancies before we—"

Your eyes darted wildly between his absent expression and where you and him were connected, still on the call, silently screaming, what the fuck are you doing? He didn't even see your expression; his eyes completely fixed on where you were joined, entranced and almost helpless, like you were a magnet pulling him in. 

Wish granted, but not at all how you had expected.

It wasn't a focused fuck at first; he was torn between the call and you, starting with languid, slow, deep strokes.

"Oh, um, can't— I'm off duty," he said, reminding what sounded like an intern on the other end. "Yes, yes, I know I'll be in early tomorrow, but I gotta go, I'm a bit occupied right now."

"Uh, no, I can't do that— I have to go." 

The professional decorum was faltering. His eyes finally snapped out of the trance and locked onto your helpless expression. 

Something flickered in his eyes.

He thrust again, once, properly, hard and fixed right where he knows you'll scream. And he was looking at you expectantly, so evilly entertained when you struggled to stifle the moan he ripped out.

"Okay— fine, yes, yes." you could practically hear his eyeroll as you tried to focus on keeping quiet. "Uh— no, I can’t do that—"

Under normal circumstances you would probably wonder what had agitated him, but now you were razor-focused on staying silent. He kept thrusting, purposefully targeting you now. 

"Listen, I'll talk to you tomorrow," his voice was so cool and polite, despite the sinful things he was doing. "Mhmm, hmmm," he was nodding along to whatever the other person was saying, speeding up even more, impossibly so. 

You were looking at him, horrified, pleading. Your hands clamped over your mouth again in that familiar way, but this time it was worse, it wasn’t an instinct, it was intent and desperate with genuine fear. You hoped desperately that your expression could snap him out of it but it had done the exact opposite— he seemed to be fueled by it. Sadistic Fuck.

"Just make sure the perimeter is secure before you clock out."

He was still just boredly thrusting, almost playfully now after seeing your reactions, smiling ever so slightly while he continued fucking into you. He couldn't even hide his amusement. 

You were so close, eyes squinting shut in focus, tensing around him with a razor-sharp aim. He’s off guard, he won’t notice, he can’t stop you now. Yes, yes.

“Of course, yeah— don’t worry about it.”

He pulled out of you immediately and smiled, shaking his head in mock disapproval. No, he mouthed, like he was disciplining an angry puppy or something.

It took everything in you not to hit him.

“Alright, then. See you tomorrow,” he smiled blithely, tracing his fingertips torturously light over your torso, tilting his head in appreciation as you squirmed under his infuriatingly delicate touch. “Mhmm. Bye, bye.”

The second he placed his phone down, you lunged.

“What the fuck is wrong with you—” 

He caught you mid-air, his grip firm but surprisingly gentle and he was giggling. 

Oh this fucker. You thrashed in his hold, genuinely trying to land a hit, but it was like fighting a mountain. Your fists beat uselessly against his chest as he simply held you, his laughter growing as he watched your furious, ineffective struggle. With an effortless shift of his weight, he maneuvered you back onto the mattress, pinning you beneath him with ease.

"M’ sorry about that," he chuckled while dipping his head to press a soft, teasing kiss to your nose.

"No— you're not," you managed to gasp out, the words catching in your throat as he continued nipping away at you. You could feel the grin on his lips as he placed light, hasty kisses all over your seething, squirming form. All your anger slowly corroded away under his incessant, soft kisses.

"Hmm.. I just can't help it," he murmured, his voice a low hum. "Look at you."

Look at you.

You sighed in relief as he nudged his way back in, so slow it made your back arch. He was kissing you again, teasing and gentle all over, lips tracing patterns on your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. It was so loving it made your heart squeeze.

"You know— you looked so— hot— on the phone" you admitted through the sharp breaths he was stealing from you.

"Hmmmm, really?" He nipped at your earlobe, making you shiver.

That familiar feeling returned far too fast for you to admit, coiling with an intensity that made you uncomfortable. The way he had left you on the edge earlier made it impossibly harder to hold back now.

"Mmmm— no, don't, don't—" , he pulls out when he feels your traitorous clench, shaking his head as he parts from you, despite you wrapping his back with desperate legs.

"Whyyyyyyy?" you whined, defeated and teary. No more strength left to kick or bite back. He kisses your forehead so soft and earnestly, it felt like an apology.

"I just want it to last longer," he explained, his voice gentle, no teasing in his tone this time. "I want to have you—" he kissed your cheek, his lips lingering. "—as long as possible." Another kiss, to your temple. "—I don't want to overwhelm you."

Oh.

The breath hitched in your throat. A sudden, overwhelming wave of fondness washed over you. You had been so certain he was just toying with you. 

His lips trailed lower and lower, a silent apology melting all your thoughts away. Your eyes widened as you felt his breath, warm and damp, fanning against your inner thigh. You threw your head back with a sharp gasp, your entire body trembling.

And when he stops, it's so unsettlingly still,

You stared down, seeing the messy green curls of his head, fixed between your open legs, not looking up. He was strangely fixated on something.

"Izuku?" you muttered carefully. He remained there, unmoving, unresponsive, just breathing. And you could feel the rhythm of his breath against your skin, it was growing more and more rapid. 

You gave his head a careful, testing shove. 

"Uh— is something wrong?"

No response.

You leaned up on your elbows curious, trying to get a better look. 

When you finally met his eyes, they were completely unreadable. Your eyes wandered just a fraction before you finally understood.

There was a faint, purplish bite mark on the soft, delicate flesh of your inner thigh, almost hidden where your leg met your hip. 

And it wasn't from him.

Some girl from the bar last week. You had already forgotten all about it and any evidence that night had left behind.

"Uh, Izuku? Are you okay?" you tried, his demeanor revealing nothing. 

He was silent, so very silent.

"Uhm— c'mon, let's just—" you stammered, scrambling to get up, to distract him, to do anything.

It all happened so fast. Before you could even reach him, he’d flipped you over, pressing a hand down on your back with such force it stung straight through to your spine. He hauled you up by the waist, dragging your ass up in such a rough, degrading way.

"Wait— what—"

And he bottomed out in one go. A thrust so sharp, it was aimed to hurt. Each stroke was cruel, deliberate. 

"Wait, Izuku— what—", you tried desperately to come up with something, anything to appease him, but nothing came out but ragged, pitiful gasps.

His movements were relentless. Your head was spinning wildly, your body confused, not knowing whether to run or submit. The pressure built, bordering on painful. He doesn't utter a word. 

Through the haze, your panic sets in as you feel yourself too close to the edge of the bed, threatening to spill off.

"Hold on— hold—" , your arms flailed backwards, desperate for purchase, anything to stop the fall. 

“Wait—p-please—AH–”

You thumped onto the floor, your head pounding from the impact. You weakly tried to get up, shaky arms clambering for the edge of the bed to stabilize yourself. Before you could even stand, he's jumped down right next to you. You hardly recognize the look in his eyes, he looks near possessed and it makes your blood run cold.

"Uh, wait, wait—" you scramble to get up.

"No. Stay."

He presses you down, rolls you over with such brutal ease you felt flimsy. He slides in again, deep and punishing, his hand splayed on your belly pinning you in place. A choked cry tears from your throat. His palm flattens against your stomach, pressing down, thumb rubbing mercilessly over the taut skin where he was connected.  

The sheer depravity of it—being taken like this, on the fucking floor—sends a shameful heat through you.

"Can you just— just calm down— we can… we can talk…"

"Talk?", he's practically sneering, "Talk? About what?"

"I don't know, I don't know—" you whine shakily, the angle too much, his force too much, all of it too much. "Please, please..."

"Hmm, no." He rocks into you. "What is there to say— hmm?" He wipes a damp strand of your hair from your cheek, so gentle, so out of place, it feels condescending.

"Just stay right here," he murmurs "Take it."

"Okay— okay— fine," you pant, throwing a hand back in surrender, your eyes wide and frantic. "You win. You— I'm sorry— just hold on—"

His hand shifts, finding your clit. Your hands fly to your hair, pulling, clinging to your sanity. You fight with every fiber of your being to hold out, for him. 

"Wait, wait, no, I’m close, wait, please—" You swat blindly at his arm, trying to snap him out of it, trying to alert him because of his own words earlier "Please, I'm close— can't hold—"

His thumb pressed harder, circling with ruthless precision.

"No, no, no, what are you doing? I thought— I can't—" 

“Mhmm”

"Please, please— wait, I can't hold it—"

"I don't care. Then don't."

Your body betrays you, a violent shudder racks your frame as you convulse around him. So intense you felt your vision go black, everything was spinning. 

"Already? You're so easy," he laughs, humourless. His tone was no longer teasing, not at all. It’s so bitter and demeaning. There’s a venom you had never heard in him before, ever, it made your skin crawl. 

He’s utterly unbothered, watching you squirm with cold, detached eyes, still driving into you with the same intensity. The friction starts turning from pleasure to a raw, unpleasant sting, your senses far too overwhelmed and he’s still punching into you with frightening accuracy. You kick back, your heel connecting hard with his thigh. It’s enough to startle him, to make him still. You take your chance, scrambling away, backward on the floor.

"Where are you going?" His hand shoots out, fingers tight wrapping around your ankle as he dragged you back across the carpeted floor. He tugs one of your hands closer to his groin, then guides his still hard cock into it.

"Put it back in," he demands, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth.

"Huh? What—" Your gaze drops to your own hand, limp and useless. He grips your wrist and impatiently tugs you, motioning you to slip him back in. 

“But i just came— it’s enough—”

"Put it back," he repeats, agitated. He doesn't wait for you to comply, forcing you, making you line him up. You whine, eyes wide and pleading. Heat floods your face. 

"C'mon," he ushers in his disappointed-teacher tone, shaking your wrist, so hard it slaps his cock right against your oversensitive clit, making you wriggle your hips away at the contact. He folds himself over you, his weight pinning you, forcing your legs back, back, back until your knees are pressed to your chest. 

"In”, he snaps. “Now.”

“Alright- alright—“

You give in, letting his hands guide you. He settled in so deeply, right there, right where it felt most intense and you couldn’t even back away, crying at the overwhelming sensation.

"You're so mean..." you sniffle, barely audible.

"I'm being mean?" He scoffs, exasperated. "Mean? Yeah. Ha, sure. I'm mean." He sloppily jabs an accusatory finger at your damp forehead. "You'rethe one who’s mean." He pushes against your forehead once for good measure, before gliding his finger down the side of your sweat-damp face absentmindedly. 

He takes advantage of your panting, open mouth, slipping his finger in almost as an afterthought. You let out a confused, muffled moan as he sunk deeper and deeper. He stares at you, in thought, forcing in a second finger around your dampened cries before giving an experimental push. 

You gag around him immediately, eyes wide with confused shock. For a second, something flickers in his eyes as he watches you—the tip of his fingers pressing against the back of your throat. You're crying, pitiful and muffled, silent tears tracking through the mess on your face.

"You’re the one whose mean," he repeats, almost a whisper, pupils blown wide and fixated on your helpless expression, gagging around his fingers "I'm giving you everything you want. How can you— how can you say I'm mean?"

He finally disconnects his fingers, a thick string of saliva connecting them to your lips. He wipes it onto your own cheek.

"What the fuck are you saying?" you pant, squirming away from his touch.

“Stop swearing so much,” he mumbles as he dips his head down, mouth finding the sensitive skin of your neck, nipping and biting everywhere.

"I don't care, fuck you," you slur nonsensically, defiant.

"God, can you just stop swearing?" 

He pulls back, looking down at you with genuine annoyance cutting through the haze. "Why can you not just—"

“No. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you—”

Before you can process it, he's shoving something into your mouth, gagging you.

It's your own underwear, you were being smothered by your own underwear. It's so absurdly lewd, you could cry. Your eyes go wide, appalled. You slap his arm, not even slightly guilty about the sharp, stinging crack this time. 

He catches your wrist in a vice-like grip, stilling you instantly. 

"Hm? What?", his voice low and so infuriatingly sweet "I'm doing you a favour. You like hiding, right?" He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "I’m not mean. See how nice and considerate I'm being."

You contort your head, wrenching to the side to spit out that nasty, damp piece of fabric. You look up at him, defiant, elated by your small, successful rebellion.

"Fuck. You."

He yanks your captured wrist back, forcing your hand to where it was earlier, wrapping around his cock as he pulls himself out of you completely.

"Put it back in," he demands, a condescending smirk on his lips. 

He's so forceful this time, he's practically doing it for you, his grip tight as he guides your own fingers. You seize up immediately as he buries himself to the hilt, flailing wildly, but your scream is muffled as he shoves the makeshift gag back into your mouth.

"I'm being so nice," he whispers right against your ear as he stills his hips, now focused on scouting out your weak spots and latching onto them. A feather-light, mocking kiss right under your pulse point, the tenderness making you flinch.

"You love this."

A sharp bite on your collarbone, hard enough to make you cry against the damp fabric, your back arching off the floor.

"You're— you’re using me," his mouth hovers over the sensitive skin of your shoulder, "and I'm giving you— everything— you want." 

His head dips lower and his teeth scrape against your nipple before his mouth closes around it, sucking harshly. Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in messy green strands.

"How can— how can you say I'm mean?" he pants against your wet skin. "How can you curse at me like that?" 

He finally rips the drenched fabric back out. Your gasp for air twists into a broken moan as he shifts to grind his hips in torturous circles.

His hand presses down deliberately on the bulge in your belly where he's nestled right against your deepest, weakest spot. 

"Ah, ha—" you gasp a hiccupping sob, squirming away from his evil caress.

"Too much?" He stills for a fraction of a second, the pressure of his hand lifting just enough to let you suck in a ragged breath.

"M-h, yeah—" you nod shakily.

"Hm." He tilts his head, feigning concern. "That's too bad." 

He drives into you, punctuating his words with deep, grinding thrusts.

"Cause I—" thrust  "don't think it's—" thrust "enough."

His hand comes down again, not a press this time, but a sharp, stinging slap directly against your clit. The shock of it makes you scream.

"Too much, please, too much— I can't— I can't—"

"Then use your word," he mutters, his hips still, buried deep inside you.

You lay there panting, tingling from the sudden stillness. You watched the tense line of his shoulders, the way stared down at you, momentarily sober, his own chest heaving. When he realized you weren’t going to respond, you could literally see the frustration return to his eyes.

"Can you stop fucking pretending?" he snaps "It's getting annoying."

"Fuck you." you spat, shredded raw from overstimulation.

"What should I do with you?" he sighs with a condescending disappointment, glaring down at you squirming on his cock.

You're clawing at his back now, nails raking across his skin in a desperate, futile attempt to retaliate. The floor, despite the carpeting, is becoming unpleasantly grating against your spine, each of his punishing thrusts exacerbating it.

"God— ha— can you just fucking finish?" you pant, completely overexerted. 

"You’re so—" he pants, his rhythm becoming erratic “—difficult.”

"Mhmm," you buzz, so overwhelmed you can barely form a thought, just a wave of frantic, desperate energy.

"M' close... okay, just hold on—"

With a final, deep groan, he emptied inside you, his body shuddering as he blows off the last of his steam. Then he rolled over, collapsing onto the floor beside you, not looking at you once.

"Uhm… are you okay?" you asked after you had collected yourself, your voice small in the sudden stillness. 

Sure, fighting with him was kind of fun in its own twisted, sick way, but you were starting to get worried about that sudden shift.

"Yeah." he replied, back still turned against you.

What a liar.

"No, you're gonna tell me—" You push yourself up and grab his shoulder, turning him over, forcing him to face you. He’s still not meeting your eyes.

After a long stretch of silence, he finally spoke.

"How often do you do…" he gestured vaguely between you and him, sharp and awkward "...this?"

You watched his shoulders tense up instantly. He won't meet your eyes, his gaze fixed on a loose thread in the carpet. He looked almost… hurt by the question.

"Uh… every now and then," you replied vaguely, trying to keep your own voice light.

"So— uh— am I just another one of your…" he looks up at you briefly, expression unreadable "You know…"

"What?" you blurt, suddenly feeling small by the confrontation.

​​How can he even suggest that? How can he possibly think he’s just another one of those “you knows” on a Friday night, when the entire, miserable point of those nights was to try and forget him? He’s upset about being a number in a line, but he’s the reason the line even exists. 

“I don’t— I don’t know what you’re talking about", you settled for. Deny, deny, deny.

"Mhmm," his eyes slide away from yours again, drifting toward the wall.

"This isn't—" you’re scrambling, putting up a confused act  "What does that even mean?"

He just rolled away, curling into himself on the floor.

"Hey, hey," you protest, reaching out to pull on his shoulder. "Don't just—"

He resists for a moment before flopping onto his back with a sigh, staring at the ceiling. He doesn't say anything. Just briefly lifts his hand, gesturing vaguely at your thigh with a tired expression. Right.

"Okay, that— that was—" 

But there’s no reasonable excuse to get you out of this one. A cat bit me? I got burned? No. It's damning evidence— a clear, very human, bite mark, teeth and all, in a place that could only mean one thing. Well, shit. 

I fucked a random girl to distract myself from you? No, you can't say that. 

"Uh, I— during the meeting earlier," you begin, scrambling "I was looking at you so I wouldn't fall asleep." You conveniently leave out the part where you were thinking about him fucking you senseless. This was your own roundabout way of somehow defending yourself, somehow proving him wrong. 

His expression doesn't change. 

"I was on my knees praying because I couldn't stop thinking about you," you blurt out, "I'm not even fucking religious." You look at him, searching "I'm not joking”, you add for good measure. 

He just stares back, unamused. 

"And then— I saw this billboard. Something about a safety initiative — you were in it— and I walked straight into a pole. A pole. Because— I was staring at your face." 

Still nothing. 

And now he’s not even facing you anymore. Great. He’s rolled onto his side, back against you again. You sigh in defeat, but still reach out to shake his shoulder lightly, just wanting a glimpse of his face. Why is he hiding?

He doesn't budge, a stubborn, dead weight.

With a huff, you pushed yourself up, leaning over his curled-up form to peer down at his front.

And that's when you saw it.

He's hard again. Unmistakably.

What the fuck? Didn't he literally just finish? Yeah, unfuckingdoubtedly. You could still feel the slick between your thighs, it was leaking out just minutes ago and there’s still a small wet patch on the carpet from it.

What the hell?

But that's not all. He's curled his face into his own bicep, trying to hide it and the tips of his ears, the only part of his face you can really see, are burning a bright, pink. 

A slow, sly grin spread across your face. You leaned in closer, your hair brushing against his arm. “Izuku," you tease, poking at his arm lightly. "Are you blushing?"

He made a muffled, disgruntled sound into his own arm, curling up even tighter.

"Aw, don't hide from me," you purr, reaching out to gently trace the shell of his burning ear. He flinched at the touch. 

"It's just… I'm a little confused. I thought you were mad at me." You let your hand drift down his side, your fingers skimming over his ribs. 

"But this…” you gently tap him, right on the head of his cock, "tells a different story."

He finally moved, just enough to glare at you from over his shoulder, but it’s more endearing than it is scary. His face was flushed, his green eyes glassy and dazed. Cute.

"It's a biological reaction— it’s not like I can control that” he grumbled, curling away with more vigour. "It doesn't mean anything."

"Doesn't mean anything?" you grinned, leaning down, pressing a soft kiss to the flushed skin of his shoulder. "It means something to me."

You shifted, swinging your leg back over to straddle his thighs, pinning him in place and centering yourself over his, somehow, hard cock. "It means you're not as mad as you pretend to be."

He huffed, turning his face away again, but he didn't try to fight you.

He just looked… wrecked. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing shallow and a fine sheen of sweat beading on his temples. He looked almost feverish.

"Okay," you whispered, your voice softening slightly. You leaned down, your lips brushing against the nape of his neck. "Okay." 

You rocked your hips against his, a slow, deliberate grind. He lets out a choked groan, his head falling back against the carpet. His hands fly to your hips to hold you in place.

"Please," he gasps, his voice ragged. "Please don't stop."

You couldn’t help smiling. You lean down, your lips hovering just above his. "I thought you were mad at me," you murmur, low and teasing.

"I am," he breathes against your parted lips, his eyes fluttering shut. 

"Hmm, sure, sure," there's a teasing lilt to your voice, but your movements are anything but.

You rise up slowly, almost letting him slip out of you before sinking back down, a deliberate, rolling motion that steals the air from his lungs. Every time you take him in it's an unspoken apology, a confession.

He's panting now, raw, breathless, his hands gripping hard enough to bruise. You lean down, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the bridge of his nose, then to the constellation of freckles scattered across his cheekbones. 

"You're so pretty," you murmur, almost as an after thought, taking him in.

"F-faster," he gasps out, eyes squinting shut in concentration, his voice strained. "Please."

Well who would’ve thought.

You smirk, slowing down instead, a maddening, teasing roll of your hips that has him squirming underneath you. "What was that?"

His eyes snap open and they're dark, dazed, a stormy green burning with need. "Don't— don't tease," he pants.

"Well that’s very rich coming from you.” you hum against his cheek, leaning down to nip at his jaw. “So it’s only okay when you do it?"

"You—" he grits out, his hands sliding from your hips to grip your ass, pulling you down harder against him. "Just— move."

"Like this?" you ask, your voice syrupy sweet as you obey, lifting up almost completely before slamming back down. The force of it punches a moan out of both of you.

You set a rhythm, steady, back and forth that has his hands scrambling for purchase on your hips. The room fills with the obscene sounds of your bodies connecting, again and again and again.

His eyes are squeezed shut, his mouth slightly parted as he pants and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

"Y-yes," he stammers, "Like— that."

His praise sends a thrill straight through you, egging you on. You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, your hair falling around his face. The new angle lets you grind down on him and you feel his whole body jerk.

"Fuck, yes, yes," he babbles "Don't stop, please don't stop."

You're not going to stop. You can't. The coil in your stomach is winding tighter and tighter. You watch his face, the way his brows are furrowed in concentration, the way his freckles stand out against his flushed skin. You're completely lost in him. With a final, shattered cry, you convulse, fluttering so tightly and you feel him pulse in response, a familiar warmth filling you from the inside.

You collapse onto his chest, boneless and giggling, feeling triumphant. 

"Hah," you pant against his skin. "You finished."

His head is still thrown back, his eyes shut. He looks so beautiful it makes your heart ache. His eyes flutter open, green, bright, meeting yours. 

"No— uh— I haven't." 

Your stomach drops.

Shit. 

"Oh— you— you didn't?" you sputter, exasperated. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You push yourself up, determination warring with the ache in your muscles. You can't leave him like this. You force your tired body to continue, grinding and squeezing tight around him even though your abdomen screams in protest and you're whining, overstimulated, with every motion.

Come on, come on. Your hips are moving desperately now.

"So beautiful," he groans, his hands tightening on your waist. You cant your hips desperately in response, weak.

"Mhmm, pretty, pretty, pretty," he rambles, against your sweat-damp skin. His thumb brushes against your cheek every so lightly and you shudder all over.

"God, I can't, holy fuck," you gasp, pleasure bleeding into discomfort. "Ah— ah— fuck." 

Persevere. Fuck.

But your body betrays you. You can't torture yourself any longer, the sensations too sharp. Too much, too much, too much.

"Fuck— Izuku—"

"Sh, sh, sh," he murmurs, one hand rubs comfortingly up and down your back, trying to soothe you, while the other grabs your face, a bit rough, to tilt it towards him. "Shhh, look at me. Look. You're okay, it's okay."

But you halt, your body giving out. You collapse on top of him, no longer able to force yourself to move, to hit yourself right where it hurts. You're sobbing into his shoulder, inhaling him. 

All your senses are screaming. You feel him inside you so distinctly, like he's carving into you, even though you're sitting completely still.

"Too much, too much, please, ple—" you chant, "Too much, I can't, Izuku, please— please—", your pleas muffled into his skin where your head is buried in helpless defeat. 

You're spasming involuntarily around his length, each clench sending a fresh, agonizing shockwave through you.

He suddenly thrusts his hips up, testing, just lightly, but it feels like he's punching into a deep bruise. You shriek, your head snapping back.

"Ple— please," you sniffle, tears streaming down your face.

He frames your face gently with his hands, his thumbs catching a fresh tear. "Sh, sh, shhh." 

As you calm down eventually, his hand slips slowly from your lips, now brushing your tear-streaked face, tracing each wet path with a thumb in awe. "Pretty."

He does it again, thrusting up, this time not a test, but hard and purposeful. You wail.

"C'mon, you can do better," that awful teasing creeps back into his voice. He stills, deciding to just lay there, looking up at you from the ground with a smug face.

"Come on. Don't get shy now. Finish what you started. Move, okay?", to emphasize, he grabs you bruisingly by the hip, lifting you up like you weigh nothing and slams you back down.

"I can't, too much, please," you sob.

"No, you can. C'mon, keep going."

You try. You really do. You force your trembling thighs to lift and drop, thrust. The feeling overwhelming, hot, sharp. But you falter again, trying to bury your face into his chest, stopping the movement.

He fucking spanks you.

"Keep going," he demands. When you ignore him, sobbing into his shoulder, he strikes again, harder.

"Ha! Fuck, why—" you choke out, pitiful.

“You’re the one who wanted to be on top so bad so keep going”, he delivers another spank over the same spot, "Keep going. I'm not done yet."

You oblige, bitterly, tears of pure overstimulation clouding your vision as you force yourself to ride him, sloppy and weak. A deep, burning ache starts in your thighs, climbing higher with every agonizing roll of your hips. This is starting to feel more like a training exercise than sex.

“Hnngh— can’t,” you sob, faltering as your legs threaten to give out completely. “M’ tired.”

You pause just slightly, a moment of weakness, but his hand comes down, sharp and unforgiving. The sting makes you yelp, and you jolt back. When you don’t move he lands another. One. Two. Right over the same spot, before you finally acquiesce, rolling your hips so pathetically weak.

"There we go," he pants. "Pretty."

You whine and try to lay your head down on him again, but he puts a firm hand against your chest, stopping you.

"Don't be lazy."

You cry out in frustration, trying to go faster, but you falter the moment his hand comes to rub your clit. The touch is impossibly gentle, soft but it catches you off guard. It’s too much, too much.

"Fuck, fuck, it's enough!" you shriek, hand swatting against his chest frantically.He catches your wrist easily, firm but not painful, all while still pressing soft, light kisses to your jawline.

“Enough?”, he hums against your neck, his tone deceptively gentle right before he thrusts up again.

It's so deep, so much. 

Every nerve ending in your body is on fire.

"Enough, enough—" 

"It's never enough," he states, simply. His hand slides down, under where you're connected to him, his fingers finding your clit and start rubbing, so sharp, so cruel.

"Enough— you're so— fucking greedy—" you cry out.

"No, never, never" he chants like a prayer, mindlessly, thrusting up. You're sobbing, tears flowing freely now. 

"Please, please, just a second, a second, please…" you try to reason with him, your hand patting furiously at his chest, pleading.

"Alright, alright, shhh.” 

He finally takes pity on you, stilling for just a moment. His hand gently grabs the back of your neck, so softly, tilting your head down. 

"Look." And then, as if to make an example, thrusts again, emphasizing the spot deep inside where you're connected. He presses against it.

“God— fuck— Izuku— enough—”

"Shhh, sh, sh," he whispers against your lips. "I wanna come. Finish what you started."

"I can— I can suck—" you offer, desperate.

"No, I don't want a blowjob," he cuts you off, his voice firm. "Keep going." Then, to soften the blow, he kisses you, ever so gently. 

"Pretty."

You whine at the praise. 

God, you're so useless, brain turning to mush, obliging now with newfound motivation just from him saying a singular word, bouncing up and down dutifully.

“Mhmm.”

He suddenly grabs your ass, gently and then you’re both off the ground. He lifted you, still impaled so deeply, the angle shift making you squeal. 

“Sorry,” he slurs, as he places you on the bed, wrapped around you still and never pulling out. “Floor kind of hurts my back.” 

God, he's so cute. I’m gonna eat him.

Now he's on top again, caging you, kissing you all over, gentle, before he thrusts again. “Mm, since you’re so lazy,” he murmurs through a languid, deep stroke, “I’ll do it. Since m’ so nice. Remember?”

“Ah ha—”

“Sh, sh, sh, okay, it’s fine,” he pants, not slowing, hypersensitivity screeching at you to run but you have no way out this time around.

“You can take it. It’s okay.” 

Something about him saying sweet things to you while you're practically being torn apart by him was so dizzying.

‘Mkay, yes—”

“Mhmm, good, good, good,” he slurs. “You can take it.”

God, you both sound insane.

“Yes,” you agree dumbly, suddenly with the overwhelming desire to swallow him whole. Wanna be yours, yours, yours. You squeeze around him tighter, despite the burning ache. Wanna be yours. 

“Yours,” you mumble as an afterthought.

“Hm—” his pace is getting wonky, “Take it. Take it,” he's chanting, going mad. “You can take it?”

“Yes, yes, yes, anything, yes, take me, take me, take anything, anything”

It was just pouring out in streams.

“Anything?”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

Then somehow he coerced another one out of you, and he followed suit soon after with a deep, shuddering groan. And you're both laying there. A fucking mess.

For a long while, neither of you spoke, just panting, a boneless, sweaty tangle of limbs

You'd stumbled in here in the bright afternoon and now, the only light in the room came from the city glow bleeding through the massive window.

He shifted beside you, propping himself up on an elbow. His hair was a disaster, and his face was flushed. He looked so soft. 

"Hey," he started, his voice cracked slightly. "Can I ask you a question?"

You hummed in response, too tired to form words.

"When you said... 'anything'..." he trailed off, and you could feel the heat of his blush even in the dim light. "Did you... mean that?"

“Uh— what do you—”

Your own face grew warm when you realized. Oh, god. 

You were practically high moments ago, you'd said whatever felt right. But as you lay there, every muscle aching, you realized a part of you meant it. "Yeah," you murmured into the pillow. "Maybe."

"Okay," you hear him mumbling, so soft.

You shifted onto your side to face him properly. "Okay, my turn now."

"Huh?"

"Can I ask you a question now?" 

“Oh— okay, yeah” a small, tired smile touched his lips.

"Okay," you started, suddenly feeling a bit shy. "So, uh... why the hell do you last so long? Like genuinely."

You felt his body tense slightly beside you. He let out a small, embarrassed huff of laughter and fell back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling. 

"It's... a side effect," he said finally, "From One For All. Or, what's left of it. It changed a lot of things— my metabolism, my healing factor... my stamina. Well— it was way worse when I had the full power, but even after it faded, it never really went back to normal. It just... takes a while— and it’s always so..intense."

"Usually," he continued, his voice getting quieter, "I have to... hold back. A lot. It's not fair to whoever I’m with." He turned his head to look at you, his expression so earnest it made your chest ache. "Thank you for— uh— putting up with me."

Is this guy fucking for real?

You burst into laughter.

“Put— put up with you?” 

“Uhm—” he turned to you, green eyes wide with genuine concern.

“God, you’re so—” you were still giggling, “S-sorry, I— just—” you let out a final shaky breath. “You know that’s, like, the best sex I’ve ever had, right?” 

You were smiling now, meeting his gaze. 

“Uh— oh—” he was rubbing the back of his neck. So Izuku. “T-thanks?”

You couldn’t help burst into another fit of giggles at that. Your mind flicked back and forth between this sweet, blushing man and the feral, relentless force from earlier. 

"I wasn't putting up with you, or whatever " you said after a swallow, your tone turning serious. "That was incredible. So don't worry about it." 

His cheeks turned a faint red dampened by the dim light, a few unruly green curls brushing against them ever so slightly. Oh Izuku.

"And... I do mean it.” you added, your voice softer. “You know.”

“Hm?”

“Anything."

You leaned down to kiss him. One freckle. Then another. Every freckle on his face, his shoulder, tracing constellations until you both drifted to sleep.

The combined exhaustion of overworking yourself and enduring what felt like a marathon of sex really took a toll on you. Tiredness crashed down like a ton of bricks, you haven't been knocked out like that for a while. 

Yet your sleep-addled mind was still just consumed with him, clogging every pathway in your brain. He was all over, even in your dreams, haunting you in every corner. It felt hazy, more like a concept— just flicking images of him: his hair, his scarred hands rubbing your back, his voice drifting in and out. Look at you, look at you. Phantom touches against your most sensitive, aching parts, soft kisses, rough sex, the floor, everywhere touching, everywhere. 

Even in your dreams, you could feel him touching. You, unconscious, are still rubbing your thighs together like an instinct to relieve the deep, persistent ache in your core. You felt thrumming, pulsing and then more and more, it was becoming more vivid by the second, too vivid. 

Your eyes fluttered open in a dazy, dreamy state.

This wasn't a dream. It was very real. He was snapping the waistband of your underwear against you, pulling it around, smoothing his finger along the seam of the fabric, tugging the flimsy thing around like a toy. His head was nuzzled into your back, and he was whining like a fucking puppy.

“Oh my god,” you groan, your head still foggy with sleep. “You can’t be fucking serious.” You turn your head to see him, and he just smiles at you dopily. 

“Mmm,” he sighs into your back, still tugging at your underwear impatiently.

“How do you still have energy?” you whine, defeated, burying your face in his tufts of green locks. You tensed the muscles in your thighs, squeezing your legs together to halt whatever devious plan he’s having again for just a moment.

“Mmmm,” he’s getting more handsy now, gripping the fabric on the side of your hip, motioning to slide it down all the way. “Please?”

He flashes the most disarming puppy dog eyes you’ve ever seen, giving you a hopeful smile that makes you want to squeeze him. 

Unfortunately, you were very, very weak.

“Okay, okay,” you sigh, exasperated. You let the tension drain from your legs, acquiescing, and he slipped it off expertly in one smooth motion despite his own equally exhausted state.

“Mhm, s’ not enough,” he slurs into your back, nudging his way back in, his cock hard and insistent against you. “Too pretty. Not enough.”

You tense immediately when you feel him breach you, a sharp gasp torn from your lips. It’s like he’s forcing the exhaustion out of you with every inch of him. ‘So- greedy—’ you squirm away when he wraps his arms around your chest from behind, shocked by how frigid they are.

“Mm, warm,” he sighs, pulling you desperately closer on another thrust. You flinch when your back connects fully with his chest, another shock of cold. He’s like a fucking panel of ice against you.

“Why are you so cold?” you try to squirm away from his grasp, but he’s latching on stubbornly. He uses his grip to pull you down, dragging you onto his cock with each roll of his hips.

“M’ your fault,” he mumbles, muffling his equally freezing face into your shoulder, tearing another gasp from you. “Keep stealing the blanket... m’ letting you cuz m’ so nice. Not mean.” He giggles, delirious, against your skin.

"Sorry," you mumble "Guess you can warm up now."

"Hmmm," he hums, vibrating against your back. He nuzzles into your shoulder once, fleeting, before his grip tightens and he flips your exhausted, useless body over. You have no energy to resist whatsoever, entirely pliant in his hands as he pushes you to your hands and knees, fingers gripping the sheets.

​​"Cold," he mutters, before hauling the entire duvet over both of you, the heavy weight of it creating a small, warm cave. You sigh into the pillow when he slides his cock in again.

A rough hand slides up the back of your thigh, settling on your ass, holding you open. “So pretty,” he mutters, hazy. He just squeezes, marveling at the way your body stretches around him. 

He pulls out, only to fuck back in, over and over in short, impatient thrusts, like he can't get deep enough. His thick arms, chest, and everything surround you. His cock drives into you like a punch, too hard, almost painful, curved angled just right to push against that spot. 

You wail. He slides out and fucks right back in, hitting the same spot with frightening accuracy and you shriek into the pillow. You're so exhausted, so tired you have no barrier to contain your noises, only the flimsy pillow beneath. Your moan catches in your throat but you couldn't stop it from pouring out even if you tried.

He continues to fuck you like that, over and over, drilling into that spot. Was he even trying to get himself off? It seemed more like he wanted to steal another from you. Fucking insatiable. 

Pathetic cries and gasps poured out of you as you clutch his scarred arms like an anchor. It’s so good, it’s too much and you feel that blinding pleasure rise far too fast. Your eyes go wide in horror when you realize you can't hold it back, your body too tired, too pliant to resist and he shows no signs of mercy.

“God, fuck—“ 

It’s too early to come. And he fucks you through the orgasm, his relentless strokes pushing you past pleasure until you're tearing up again. Overstimulation kicks in, familiar, frightening. “Shit—ah, ah, Izuku— enough, c’mon.”

He whines deep in his throat, unwilling but slows his thrusting to little impatient grinds instead, base stretching you impossibly full. It feels worse like that, his thick length mostly still, hot, a constant demanding pressure filling you up to the point of shaking. Your trembling hands pry at his arms around you, holding you in place like a doll. He shakes them off impatiently, lost in his own world.

“Not in the mood,” he mumbles, his pace not faltering as he pulls you ever closer, content to torture you just like that.

You swat at him blindly, but this time he grabs your wrists, gathering them in one large hand and pinning them behind your back. He never stops moving his hips. You are so, so sensitive, every drag of his cock against you a fresh torment. 

“Izuku please—“ you fucking whimper, biting the pillow to muffle the sound. “Please— ngh, control— your—“

“Mhhhh,” he murmurs, his voice distant and insincere. He slows his pace slightly, only to grind extra hard against that bundle of nerves, deliberate, cruel. Your voice is going hoarse.

“Just—” A long, hard thrust cuts you off.

“Yeah, yeah, so good. So so good,” he slurs. 

There's really nothing you can do other than take it. You have a serious desire to drift to sleep, but his incessant punches against your most sensitive nerves are literally knocking you awake with every thrust. He’s dead set on chasing his end, delirious, exhausted, ruled entirely by his insatiable, unhinged libido. You feel his open-mouthed pants against your nape as he tries to bury more of himself inside you.

“Too much,” you slur, the sound practically being punched out of you with each breath.

“Sorry,” he hisses, guilty yet desperate. He drags his cock out practically all the way and fucks it back in with a groan. “I can’t—” 

Raw power behind every brutal thrust, fucking every breath out of you with his vigour. Unrelenting, devastatingly unrelenting on your overstimulated nerves, making you cum again, like he's on a mission. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fu—“ 

Again. Whatever has happened to you, you're so sensitive that you come again, too fast to handle. He shows still no signs of stopping, fucking you throughout the whole thing, not missing a single beat as you gasp and cry through it. 

You felt the thrum of his blood pumping, pleasure slowly dying down, twisting to agony. As if you weren’t already tired enough, this was going to make you pass out, but the force of each thrust keeps snapping you back out of your sleepy state, over and over and over.

“Izuku,” you whine, mostly muffled by the pillow.

“S-sorry,” he pants through his thrusts. “You feel— too good. Too good—”

“Mmm, too much, please— enough, enough.”

“Ah, sorry—I’m sorry,” he sighs, his voice slurred, still chasing his high. “Just a bit more. Just—”

“Please—” you whine, not even knowing what you’re asking for. Sleep? “I-zuku— please—“ 

You felt so silly, just stuck there taking it, on the verge of sleep only to be snapped back with another thrust. All you can do is clutch onto the sheets and the little sanity you have left, your mind getting dizzy, half from genuine exhaustion and half from dick. 

You horrifyingly realized yourself tightening up again. “Haah, I can’t—“ 

You’re were completely pinned under his heavy body, him practically folding himself over you now with the added weight of the blanket. So hot, so hot, so hot. Your face was shoved against the damp sheets, wet with tears and drool. You’re starting to go lightheaded, the cave of the duvet becoming a hot, humid trap, circulating sex and both of your hot, heavy breaths, tainting your every sense.

“Wait, wait, wait— Izuku, too hot— too hot— just a second,” you babbled, half a genuine request and half a desperate attempt to stave off the yet another fucking orgasm threatening you.

It was surprisingly, thankfully, effective. He halts for just a second before slipping out, immediate relief that settling in from the sudden hollowness. You were practically burning inside, outside, around the ring—every part of you on fire, literally and figuratively. You just needed a breather.

He turned you over and the look in his eyes when you met them sent a chill down your spine. His pupils are blown to infinity, ravenous and insatiable. He looks insane.

“I, uh, I have an idea,” he sniffled, wiping the beads of sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. “Come on.” He laid down now, over the duvet, motioning for you to get on top.

Fuck.

“Mhmmm, Izuku, m’ so tired, please— you can have me— anything else— just—“ you drop your head down, deflated, exhaustion swallowing every one of your senses.

“No, no, no— shh, I promise, just relax— I can— I can do it, just—“ 

He’s looking at you with those eyes that make you go so very weak. Fuck, fuck.

“Please, I need—“ 

You drag yourself on top of him with a sigh, but when you meet his star-struck gaze, you can’t help but oblige, a new fervor taking over. You straddle him and sink yourself onto him in one swift motion, the cool air against your back a welcome relief. 

True to his promise, he pins your hips in place, thrusting up to meet you instead, while placing infinite, gentle kisses over your exhausted form. On the peaks of your shoulders, the tip of your collarbone, right above your breast, behind your ear, that spot over your pulse point that never fails to tear a shameful sound from you. You shiver under each contact, overwhelmed by him, by any and everything about him.

And when he thrusts up again, the angle so sharp and accurate, you cum. From a single fucking thrust.

“Shit, Izuku— wait— wait—“

“I know, I know— m’ sorry, sorry,” he stutters, but he doesn’t stop, not even close. He continues thrusting upward, hitting it over and over, setting your nerves ablaze.

“Wait, please, please— it’s my third— can’t— please,” you gasped, patting at his chest furiously.

“Sh, sh, just— a— bit— ha— hold on—“ his fingers were digging into your hips, his eyes scrunched in concentration. “Close, close— m’sorry.” The oversensitivity and his continued assault were far too much. You crumbled on top of him, bursting into tears, each cruel stroke snapping a hot tear loose, tumbling down your cheek in streams.

“Can’t anymore— fuck—“

“Sorry, sorry— close.”

You could only sob brokenly in reply, your head falling forward in delirium. His hand came up to caress the back of your head, steadying you, holding you right against his face. Your foreheads touch, and you bump the tip of your nose into his, focusing on how they would connect and disconnect, bumping in tandem with each thrust. You muster out a sweet smile at the motion, giggling, so out of it, your eyes staring so deeply into his sea of green.

He looked up at you, his face wet—with sweat or tears, you don't know—but so in awe. You were both panting into each other. He tilted your chin up lightly, connecting for a deep, deep kiss.

“So so close,” he chants as you part from him. You nod along furiously, dumb in another world. “Mm, sorry, just a bit more.” 

In the corner of his eye, just slightly, there were sparkling, lingering droplets. Tears. Not sweat. They fall when he squeezes his eyes shut again, caressing his freckles ever so gently, hypnotically as they slide off his chin. 

Your tongue darts out momentarily, suddenly overcome with the urge to devour him. 

Salty. 

You could taste your own tears intermingled with his on the tip of your tongue. You wanted to savor it. Forever. Taste him infinitely.

Closer. closer.

It's not close enough. You wanted to wear him, wanted to be welded together, wanted him in you so deeply, injected in your veins to have him overtake your every sense, to eat him alive, consume him, flesh, blood, bones and all.

When he finally came, it was so quiet, a gasp he muffled into your lips with a heated kiss, so soft, so gentle. Wet cheeks pressed together, fused into a mess of tears and sweat.

Instant panic sets in. You’re immediately awake, the tiredness and post-coital haze completely snapped away. You disconnect your sticky, damp foreheads and your aching, numb body, shifting back to the back of his thighs. 

“Wait, hold on, Izuku—”

You dart your hand out, shakily, panicked, hurrying to catch the stray tears on his cheek. What were you thinking? He really fucked your brains out. Why were you licking his damn tears?

“I- I’m sorry”, he's crying, full on, staring up at you. 

Your stomach turns to ice. 

“What?! Why? What are you talking about? Why?”

“Uhm, did I… hurt you? I know you didn’t say the word but…” his voice is almost a whisper, a breeze against your damp cheeks. He’s looking at you with wet, teary eyes. And oh, he’s so beautiful, you couldn’t help it.

“No, no, why would you think that?” you’re panicky, reaching to stop another loose tear from trickling down, so much tenderness swelling in your heart seeing him like this. You cradle his face with trembling hands, like you were shielding the last flames on earth from a furious storm.

He smiles meekly. “Uh, it’s just—” 

His eyes are so beautiful, you were staring into them in complete awe. He’s so beautiful when he’s crying. 

“Uh… I feel bad about making you— uhm— put up with me for so long today. I’m sorry.”

“What?! No—” you groan, baffled, all concern snuffed out in an instant. Not this shit again. “No, no, this was incredible. I loved it.”

His already huge eyes widen impossibly more, staring at you with stars in his eyes.

“Okay, m’ sorry, I was just worried,” he murmurs, looking away again. You immediately tilt his face back, framing it in your hands, forcing him to look at you.

You couldn’t get enough of his teary eyes for some reason, every breath taken from you again. You sat still on top of his legs, just for a moment, taking every inch of him in with a new surge of appreciation.

You pull your faces together, so you could feel the universe stretch for a moment longer between your feverish foreheads and the tips of your noses. You want to cherish it for eternity.

Moments pass. You feel his eyes dart up to yours before he slowly parts himself from your hold, the tears now dried. 

“Uh— what—” he starts, voice cracking slightly, his eyes searching yours. “What are— what…What is this?”

You sniffle, your voice so small as you avoid his intent gaze. 

“It can be whatever you want.”

Silence. Uncomfortable silence. You could feel him thinking against you in that overwhelming Izuku-way.

“I want it to— uh,” he’s scratching the back of his neck again, so beautifully himself, a faint blush blooming under his cheeks as he mirrors you, looking off into the distance. After a pause, he brings his hands up to tilt your face to look at him.

“I want to take you out—” he settles. “On a date, I mean.”

What?

Is this real? 

This is too good. He wants to take you out?

Fucking Izuku Midoriya? 

“Wait— are you serious?” 

“No,” he rolls his eyes fondly, laughing, but it’s not his teasing kind. “Yes, of course I’m serious.” He clears his throat, his voice soft but firm. 

“Can I take you out?” he repeats again, his wide green eyes so, so bright they put the stars to shame.

The sun had started peeking out in the early hours of the morning, tinting his freckled face ever so lightly with an orange hue that you wanted to get lost in. You were utterly spent and ravaged, a filthy concoction of fluids spilling out between your legs and smearing all over and yet his words made you blush more than anything.

"You minx! Not you pulling number four!" 

Camie, your best friend and colleague, was currently propped cross-legged on your desk at the agency. She was, of course, the first person you had spilled to about your date later this evening.

“Okay, but real talk, babes. Did you…" 

She made an exaggerated wink.

"Camie, what the fuck?! We're at work!" you whisper-yelled, aghast. You immediately snapped your head down, hiding the dopey smile that appeared at the mere implication.

"Oh, babeeee," she squealed, dissolving into a fit of maniacal giggles "He fucked you gooood."

"Shut up," you groaned, shoving her lightly before adding,

"And no, it was the other way around."

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.