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Third year at UA High School, late spring—the kind of night where the dorm windows are cracked open to let in the faint cherry blossom scent from the campus grounds, mingling with the distant hum of city lights beyond the barriers. Your room in the girls' dorm is a cozy chaos: posters of pro heroes taped haphazardly on the walls, a pile of discarded uniforms in the corner, and your bed piled high with plush pillows and a tangled comforter. The floor is scattered with snacks from the "sleepover" you and Nemuri planned—half-empty bags of gummy candies, a forgotten bowl of microwave popcorn gone cold, and your laptops glowing faintly on the bed where you've both been scrolling mindlessly for hours.
Nemuri's lounging beside you in her silk pajamas, hair tied up in a messy bun, thumb swiping endlessly through her phone with that signature sly grin whenever she finds something juicy. You're in your favorite oversized t-shirt and shorts, legs crossed under the blanket, but your mind's wandering. The screen blurs as a sudden pang hits you—Shouta. His deadpan face from training earlier, the way his hair falls over his eyes when he's focused, that low voice barking corrections. You miss him. It's ridiculous; you saw him at dinner, but the feeling bubbles up like fizzy soda, making you giddy and restless.
You sit up abruptly, phone clattering to the bed. "Nemuri," you say, voice bright and unapologetic. "I miss Shouta. Like, a lot."
She glances up, one eyebrow arched in amusement. "We just hung out with him and Hizashi yesterday. You're obsessed."
You beam at her, already swinging your legs off the bed. "Exactly! So... sleepover's over. Out you go!"
She laughs, tossing a pillow at you half-heartedly. "What? You're kicking me out for your crush? Rude!"
But she gathers her stuff anyway, knowing your moods all too well from your tight-knit quartet— you, her, Hizashi, and Shouta, the unbreakable group that's survived every UA disaster together. She winks as she heads for the door. "Fine, fine. Go pine dramatically. But if he rejects you again, don't come crying to me."
The door clicks shut behind her, leaving the room quieter, the faint tick of your wall clock the only sound. You flop back onto the bed, grabbing your phone and opening your chat with Shouta. Your fingers fly across the screen, spamming without a second thought:
Come
Come
Come
Come
Come
His reply pings almost immediately: It's 1 AM. Go to sleep.
You grin, typing faster: Come come come come come
Stop. Annoying.
But it's urgent!!! Please? 🥺
A long pause. You can picture him in his dorm room—probably already in bed, hair messy, glaring at his phone with those tired eyes. Finally: Urgent how? I'm blocking you.
You pout at the screen, then type: It IS urgent. I need you here. Now. Pretty please, Shouta?
Fine. But this better be good.
Your heart races as you tidy up a bit—fluff the pillows, dim the lamp to a soft golden glow. Minutes later, there's a soft knock at your door. You bound over, flinging it open to see him standing there in sweatpants and a rumpled t-shirt, arms crossed, expression as deadpan as ever—bags under his eyes, hair loose and unkempt from whatever half-sleep he was in.
"Shouta!" you squeal, launching yourself at him before he can even step inside. Your arms wrap around his neck, legs hooking around his waist as you jump into his hold. He stumbles back a step, grunting in surprise, but his hands automatically catch your thighs to steady you—strong, warm, callused from training.
"Get down."he mutters, voice flat, but he doesn't drop you. Instead, he steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him with his foot. The lock clicks, sealing you both in the quiet warmth of your room.
You bury your face in his neck, inhaling his scent—clean soap mixed with that faint, earthy hint of sweat from the day's quirk practice. "I missed you so much! You're here!"
He sighs, long-suffering, and walks you over to the bed, trying to pry you off. "You saw me six hours ago. This isn't urgent."
You cling tighter, giggling as he finally deposits you onto the mattress, but you pull him down with you. He lands half on top, bracing himself on one elbow to avoid crushing you, his body heat seeping through your thin clothes. "It is! I couldn't sleep, and I'm bored, and Nemuri's gone, and I just... miss you." Your voice turns soft, giddy affection bubbling over as you snuggle into his side, one leg draping over his.
He rolls his eyes, settling beside you with a resigned huff, staring at the ceiling. "Five minutes, then I'm leaving."
But he doesn't move. The room falls quiet, save for the soft rustle of sheets as you burrow closer, your head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. His arm ends up around your shoulders—reluctant at first, then relaxing. You trace patterns on his t-shirt with your fingers, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing slow as he tries to doze off. Minutes stretch, the air growing warmer, thicker with unspoken tension. You've confessed your feelings a dozen times—giddy declarations in the hallway, during lunch with the group—and he's always shot you down deadpan: "No." "Stop." But here, in the dim light, with his body so close, the rejection feels like a game, a challenge that makes your pulse quicken.
The restlessness builds. Your hand drifts lower, over his stomach, feeling the firm muscles tense under your touch. Heat pools in your belly, a familiar ache. You've thought about this—him—too many times alone in this bed.
"Shouta," you whisper, propping up on one elbow to look down at him. His eyes crack open, wary.
"What now?"
You bite your lip, heart pounding, but you say it anyway—bold, giddy, like always. "Have sex with me?"
He goes still, eyes narrowing. "No."
But there's a flicker—something in his gaze, dark and conflicted. You lean closer, breath mingling with his. "Please? I want you. I've wanted you forever."
"Rejected," he says deadpan, but his voice is rougher, and he doesn't push you away when you straddle his hips, settling your weight on him.
You grind down once, feeling him harden beneath you, and grin triumphantly. "Your body's saying yes."
He exhales sharply, hands coming to your hips—not to stop you, but to hold you there. "You're being a fucking brat."
"Forget that," you murmur, leaning down to brush your lips against his jaw, feeling the faint stubble prickle your skin. "Just once. Please? It'll be just once if you want it that way!"
A long pause. His fingers dig into your hips, conflicted. Then, low and gravelly: "...Fine. But quiet. And don't make it weird after."
You beam, heart soaring, and capture his lips in a kiss—eager, messy, tasting the faint mint of his toothpaste. He kisses back after a beat, one hand sliding up your back under your shirt, palm hot against your bare skin. The room spins with sensation: the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows on his sharp features, the cherry blossom breeze whispering through the window, carrying a sweet floral note that mixes with his scent.
You break the kiss, breathless, tugging at his t-shirt. "Off. I want to see you."
He sits up with you still in his lap, peeling off the shirt in one fluid motion—revealing lean muscles honed from years of hero training, faint scars from trainings gone wrong, his skin warm and slightly damp from the spring humidity. You run your hands over his chest, nails scraping lightly, feeling him shudder. "You're so hot, Shouta. Why do you always reject me?"
"Because you're a pain in the ass," he mutters, but his hands are under your shirt now, lifting it over your head. Your breasts spill free, nipples hardening in the cool air, and his eyes darken, thumbs brushing over them experimentally. You arch into the touch, a soft moan escaping.
"Quiet," he warns, voice low and commanding, pinching one nipple just hard enough to make you gasp. "Dorm walls are thin."
You nod, biting your lip, and shimmy out of your shorts, tossing them aside. He's watching you—intense, analytical, like he's memorizing every curve. You tug at his sweatpants next, freeing him—thick, hard, the tip already glistening. You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, feeling the velvety heat, the vein pulsing under your fingers. He hisses, head falling back against the headboard.
"Like that?" you whisper, giddy with power, twisting your wrist on the upstroke.
"Too much talking," he grunts, but his hips buck into your hand, betraying him. His fingers find your core—wet, aching—and he circles your clit with rough precision, making your thighs tremble. "You're soaked. Been thinking about this?"
"Of course I do," you admit breathily, grinding against his hand. "Dream about you fucking me senseless."
He hums low, flipping you suddenly so you're on your back, him hovering over you. The bed creaks softly, but he doesn't care—his mouth descends on your breast, tongue swirling around the nipple, teeth grazing as he sucks. The sensation shoots straight to your core, wet heat pooling. You thread fingers through his hair, tugging, urging him lower.
He trails kisses down your stomach, nipping at your hipbone—sharp enough to leave a faint mark. "Brat," he murmurs against your skin. "Always pushing."
"Heyyy.. we're having sex so stop it.." you pout, voice playful but edged with need.
His eyes meet yours—dark, stormy—as he settles between your thighs, spreading them wide. The air hits your exposed core, cool and teasing, but then his mouth is there—hot, insistent, tongue flicking over your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. You buck up, a whimper escaping, but he pins your hips down with one arm, the other sliding two fingers inside you—curling, thrusting in rhythm with his tongue.
"Oh god—" you gasp, hand flying to your mouth to muffle it. The room fills with obscene wet sounds, his jaw brushing your inner thighs, the floral breeze doing nothing to cool the flush spreading over your skin. He adds a third finger, stretching you, the burn delicious, his tongue flattening against your clit in broad licks that make stars burst behind your eyelids.
You whine softly into your palm, the sound barely escaping as your body trembles under the relentless rhythm of his mouth and fingers. He doesn’t let up—not even a fraction. If anything, he slows down just enough to make every sensation sharper, more unbearable.
His tongue drags in long, deliberate strokes now—flat and heavy one moment, then curling the tip to flick directly over your swollen clit the next. Each pass sends a fresh jolt through you, electric and merciless. Your thighs quake around his head; he has to use his forearm across your hips to keep you pinned, the muscle flexing under your lower back as you try—and fail—to chase the pressure.
“Fuckk—” Your voice cracks, muffled and desperate behind your hand. You can feel the vibration of his low hum against your core in response, a wordless acknowledgment that only makes you clench harder around his fingers.
He curls them again—slow this time, dragging the pads along that perfect ridge inside you with excruciating patience. The stretch is fuller now with three fingers, a sweet-burning ache that makes your toes curl against the sheets. He twists his wrist on the next thrust, angling deeper, pressing right against the spot that makes your vision white out at the edges.
You arch so hard your shoulder blades lift off the mattress. A broken whimper slips past your fingers despite your best efforts.
He pulls back just enough to speak—lips glistening, voice rough and low against your soaked skin.
“Keep quiet,” he murmurs, breath hot and teasing over your clit. “You want to cum, don’t you?”
You nod frantically, eyes squeezed shut, tears of frustration and pleasure pricking at the corners.
“Then behave." He says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
And then he dives back in.
This time he seals his lips around your clit—sucking gently at first, then harder, rhythmic pulses that match the slow, deep slide of his fingers. The dual sensation is devastating. Your free hand flies to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands, not pulling, just holding on like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the bed.
Every suck pulls a fresh wave of heat from your core. Every curl of his fingers makes your walls flutter and spasm. The wet, filthy sounds grow louder—his mouth working you open, the slick glide of his knuckles, your own ragged breathing filling the small space between you.
"Close," you whine, hips straining against his hold. "Please—"
"Cum then," he mutters against you, vibrations sending you over. The orgasm crashes through you—waves of heat, clenching around his fingers, back arching off the bed as you bite your knuckle to stay quiet. He works you through it, lapping up every drop, until you're shaking and oversensitive.
You tug him up, kissing him desperately—tasting yourself on his tongue, salty and intimate. "Inside me," you beg, guiding him to your entrance. "Now."
"Be patient and stop squirming." He lines up, the head nudging your slick folds, and pushes in slowly—inch by inch, the stretch fuller than his fingers, burning perfectly. You both groan into each other's mouths; he's thick, hot, filling you completely. He bottoms out, pausing, forehead against yours, breaths mingling in ragged pants.
"Fuck," he breathes, voice strained. "So tight. Move—tell me when."
"Now pleasee," you demand, wrapping legs around his waist, heels digging into his back. He starts thrusting—slow at first, deep rolls that drag against every sensitive spot, the bedframe creaking faintly under you. Sweat beads on his skin, dripping onto yours; you lick a drop from his collarbone, tasting salt.
"Harder," you whisper, nails raking down his back. "Make me feel it."
He obliges, pace quickening—hips snapping, skin slapping softly, the wet slide of him in and out making you throb. His hand finds your breast again, kneading, pinching; the other braces beside your head, fingers tangling in your hair.
"You always this needy?" he grunts, thrusting deeper, hitting that spot that makes you see white.
“Mhm,” you manage, the sound more whimper than word. Your walls flutter around him involuntarily, trying to pull him deeper. “Don’t you want that?”
His eyes flick to yours—dark, hooded, pupils blown.
“Want a lot of things,” he mutters, almost to himself. One hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb pressing just under your jaw, tilting your head so you can’t look away. “Most of them involve shutting you up.”
You try to laugh but it comes out as a shaky gasp when he rolls his hips again—slow, deliberate, dragging the thick head of his cock along your front wall in a way that makes your thighs shake.
“Shouta—”
“Quiet,” he reminds you, but there’s no real bite in it anymore. His free hand slips between your bodies, rough fingertips finding your clit—already oversensitive from his mouth earlier—and he starts rubbing slow, firm circles. Not fast. Not frantic. Just steady pressure that builds and builds without mercy.
Your breath hitches. Your hips jerk up to meet his, chasing more, but he pins you down with his weight, controlling every movement.
“Stay still,” he orders softly. “Let it build.”
You whine behind closed lips, nails digging into his shoulders. The stretch of him inside you, the relentless grind, the slow torture of his fingers on your clit—it’s too much and not enough all at once. Heat coils low in your belly, tighter and tighter, but he keeps the pace maddeningly even. Every time you think you’re about to tip over, he eases off—just a fraction—pulling his hips back an inch before sliding in again, deep and slow.
“Shouta—please—” Your voice cracks, barely above a whisper. “I’m so close"
“I know, I know. 'Can feel you—” His thumb presses harder on your clit, rubbing in tight little circles now while he keeps that deep, rolling rhythm.
You can feel how hard he is—throbbing inside you, so thick it’s almost too much. His breaths are coming shorter, sharper; his jaw is clenched so tight a muscle ticks in his cheek. He’s close too—you can tell by the way his thrusts are losing their perfect control, turning a little sloppy, a little desperate. But he’s holding back. Chasing his own edge while refusing to let you fall first? No—he’s making sure you get there, but only when he decides.
Your legs wrap tighter around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper. The new angle makes him hit that spot dead-on with every thrust, and you can’t hold back the soft, broken sounds spilling from your throat.
“Fuck—there—right there—”
He growls low in his chest, the sound vibrating through you where your bodies are pressed together. His hand leaves your clit for a second—just long enough to hook under one of your knees and push your leg up higher, opening you wider. The shift changes everything. He sinks impossibly deeper, the head of his cock nudging against something that makes white-hot pleasure explode behind your eyes.
You gasp—too loud—and his mouth crashes back over yours, swallowing the sound, tongue thrusting in time with his hips.
He’s fucking you harder now—still controlled, but the restraint is fraying. The bed creaks faintly under the rhythm; the headboard taps once, twice against the wall before he slows again, cursing under his breath.
“You gonna wake the whole floor,” he mutters against your lips, but he doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. His hips snap forward again—deeper, rougher—chasing that same spot that makes your toes curl and your vision blur.
Your walls start to flutter around him in warning. The coil in your belly is so tight it hurts, pleasure teetering right on the knife’s edge.
“Shoutaa—I’m—I’m gonna—”
“Yeah,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “I can feel it. You’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”
His fingers return to your clit—faster this time, rough little circles that match the snap of his hips. No more teasing. No more drawing it out. He’s giving you everything now, driving into you with short, brutal thrusts that make the wet slap of skin on skin fill the quiet room.
“Come on,” he rasps against your ear, lips brushing the shell. “Let go—let me feel it.”
That’s all it takes.
The orgasm rips through you like a shockwave—sudden, violent, blinding. Your whole body locks up; your back arches so hard your breasts press flush against his chest. Your walls clamp down on him in rhythmic, fluttering pulses, milking him as wave after wave crashes over you. Heat explodes outward from your core, tingling down your limbs until even your fingertips buzz. You bite down on his shoulder to muffle the cry that tries to tear out of your throat—teeth sinking into muscle, tasting salt and skin.
He groans—low, guttural—the sound punched out of him as your body grips him like a vice. His rhythm stutters, hips jerking unevenly as he fucks you through it, dragging the pleasure out until you’re shaking, whimpering, oversensitive and still clenching around him with every aftershock.
He doesn’t cum.
Not yet.
His thrusts slow but don’t stop—long, deep slides now, chasing his own release while your body is still trembling from yours. His breathing is wrecked, forehead pressed to your shoulder, one hand fisted in the sheets beside your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.
“Fuck,” he hisses, voice strained. “Don't move—gonna—”
He keeps moving—erratic, desperate—hips snapping forward in short, shallow thrusts as he grinds against you, chasing that final edge while your oversensitive walls flutter weakly around him.
"Shit," he mutters, pulling out suddenly, stroking himself fast over your stomach. Hot ropes spill across your skin—thick, sticky—as he groans low, body shuddering. He collapses beside you, both panting, the room heavy with the musky scent of sex and sweat.
You bite your lip, eyes twitching down to the warm, sticky streaks painted across your lower stomach—glistening in the soft lamplight, slowly pooling in the dip just above your navel. The sight makes your core clench again, a lazy aftershock fluttering through you even though you’re still catching your breath.
You drag your gaze back up to his face, pout already forming. “Not inside?” you ask, voice small and teasing, a little whiny on purpose. Your fingers trail through one of the lines he left, smearing it lazily across your skin. “I wanted to feel it…"
He freezes above you.
His chest is still heaving, sweat-dark hair plastered to his forehead, eyes half-lidded and hazy from release. But the second your words register, something shifts—his whole body goes rigid, pupils snapping back into focus like someone just dumped ice water over him.
He stares at you. Long. Silent. Unblinking.
Then, very slowly, like he’s not quite sure he heard right:
"The fuck.”
You blink up at him, pout deepening into something almost innocent. “What?”
He exhales through his nose—sharp, disbelieving. One hand comes up to scrub over his face, dragging down from forehead to jaw like he’s trying to physically wipe the exhaustion and post-orgasm fog away so he can process this properly.
“We didn’t even use a condom,” he says. Flat. Deadpan. But there’s a faint crack in it—like he can’t decide whether to laugh, yell, or just collapse on top of you and pretend this conversation never happened.
You shrug one shoulder, still playing with the mess on your stomach, spreading it in slow, absent circles. The motion makes his gaze flick down again—briefly—before snapping back to your face like he’s forcing himself not to look.
“I mean…” You tilt your head, smile turning sly. “You thought maybe I’d want to raw-dog my best friend in her dorm room at one in the morning with zero protection because 'you mean'?” He repeats your words back at you, voice dry as desert sand. “That’s your logic?”
You giggle—soft, breathless, still blissed-out and shameless. “It’s good logic.”
“It’s terrible logic.” He shifts his weight, you arching just enough to brush your nipples against his chest. The contact makes him suck in a breath. “Come on, Shouta… you’re still hard.”
...
It’s true. He never really softened—still thick and heavy against your thigh, slick from being inside you, twitching every time you move. He glances down at himself like he’s mildly betrayed by his own body, then back to you.
You bite your lip, eyes flicking down to where he’s still hard—thick, flushed, glistening with both of you—and the sight alone makes fresh heat coil low in your belly. He’s looking at himself too, that faint twitch of disbelief crossing his face like his cock personally offended him by refusing to behave.
You don’t give him time to overthink it.
Without warning, you shift—quick, deliberate—rolling your hips just enough to line him up. The slick head catches at your entrance, still swollen and dripping from round one, and you sink down in one smooth, greedy motion.
He slides in to the hilt with a wet, obscene sound.
Shouta’s breath punches out of him in a sharp, involuntary grunt. His hands fly to your hips—fingers digging in hard, not to stop you, but like he’s anchoring himself against the sudden, overwhelming heat enveloping him again.
“Fuck—” The word is low, ragged, almost surprised. His eyes snap to yours, wide for a split second before narrowing into that familiar, irritated glare. “You little—”
"I'm sorry! You took too long.."
(゜o゜;