☁ blade x f!reader s.mut, honkai: star rail
☁ reader is afab and goes by she/her. alpha/omega dynamics. blade helps you out during your heat, calls you “girl” “sweet girl” “baby”, consent is sexy and blade is very adamant about it. reader is jing yuan’s assistant.
☁ A/N: i cannot get sweet gentle blade off my mind after that car scene and this fic is what happened
☁ 5k words
“Watch where you’re going, miss.”
His hands fall to your waist as your back crashes against his front, attempting to blink away the frazzled state you’re in. Despite his warm hands, his touch feels like the first gulp of ice cold water on the hottest day.
Alpha, your head wants to reel. It’s sickening sweet, the way your slick pools at just a whiff of his scent.
It’s even worse when you turn around and realize who it is. Even with the mask and the sunglasses (does he really think that helps?), your heart drops.
Blade. The Stellaron Hunter who escaped from the Shackling Prison less than an hour ago.
Aeons, this really is the worst day to be getting your heat, isn’t it?
Blade immediately retracts his hands when he realizes your state. He’s been alive too many years to need to run away before his body starts reacting, but he’s still — at least partially — human. Your scent is sweet, almost needy, has his biology wanting to follow you wherever you go.
You whine at the loss of contact, your hand immediately slapping across your mouth as you come to terms with what just happened.
“I-“
“No need to apologize, it’s perfectly natural.”
This little alleyway is only used by those working with the Divine Foresight, and in the middle of a work day, nobody is walking through it. Nobody was supposed to walk through it. Maybe you should’ve figured a long lived, previously acclaimed man like him would’ve known about it and used it.
That thought would’ve been way more helpful when you were trying to track his movements earlier.
Blade’s in no rush. He hasn’t been for a long time. The time will pass anyways, after all. Elio makes no mistakes in his script, so he’s sure whatever happens here won’t affect the later situation. It’s whether you’re in the right mind state to know what’s happening, that’s his biggest concern.
“You’re-! You know rightfully, I should cuff you and bring you back to the Shackling Prison.” You try to be stern, but your core turns, causing you to buckle forward. Blade swiftly reaches across to hold you up.
“I… can help you get close to a medical bay. If your mind is still clear-“
“My mind is perfectly coherent,” you snap, and then your face immediately winces with regret. He might be a so-called criminal, but it’s not like he’s hurt you personally, and Jing Yuan strangely but oh-so-kindly asked for your understanding of him. “It only started today. My mind won’t fog until at least tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Hold up. You’re a criminal. On the run. And you want to help me get to a med bay? Shouldn’t you be… I don’t know, running away?”
“All will come to be as it should.”
You roll your eyes. It’s like when Jing Yuan tells Fu Xuan that it’s “not her time” with some fancy words.
Blade rephrases. “I have nowhere to be, as of right now.”
You feel your knees threatening to buckle, wincing as your hand squeezes Blade’s shoulder tight. If it affects him, his face doesn’t show it.
“Fine. Since you’re the nicest criminal looking to be a Samaritan, please help me get home. It’s not far from here.”
~
Blade is surprisingly patient, even bothers to remove his shoes before coming into the house, gracefully placing you on your sofa.
“Thank you, wanted criminal.”
He scoffs at that, but nods politely. His sunglasses and mask are tucked somewhere away now, no need for them since you know exactly who he is.
There’s a beat of silence. He should leave. He’s done his job. But you’re an omega in distress, alone. And the worst part is, you’re not doing anything.
You’re not grabbing items to make a nest, or calling an alpha, or taking any medication. Are you waiting for him to leave? You likely would’ve said something, given your clear ability to clip back. Your scent most certainly tells him to stay, but he knows better than most what it’s like to be a prisoner to your own physical body, in more ways than one.
All you do is grip at the edge of the sofa and stare at your coffee table, like an endangered animal with nowhere to go.
Maybe it’s his biology talking, but he somehow feels like he should do something.
“Is there anything else you need?”
It’s your turn to scoff, doing your best to shake off your mind. “Wow, you really are nice.” You remove your shoes, slotting them under the couch for later. And then your eyes narrow. “Or were you just looking for a pretty little omega to fuck, hm?”
If this were any other situation, he would’ve taken this opportunity to turn on his heel and leave right out the door, but something about the situation prickles at the back of his neck.
“Is this your first time handling a heat?” He asks directly.
You wince at that, wrapping a throw blanket over yourself. “No… Is it that obvious?” You sigh, bringing your knees towards yourself and pressing them against your chest. “I’ve been on suppressants for a long time.”
Blade gives you your options sincerely. “There’s an app. For those in your predicament. Otherwise, you might want to consider a nest. If you have painkillers on you, that could help too. I’ve heard it’s not much help, but it’s better than nothing.”
You breathe. “Nest. Right.” Your eyes scatter around, holding the blanket around you tight. You look like you want to get up and then you don’t, mind volleying between thoughts and decisions that end up leaving you nowhere. Blade’s chest can’t help but tighten at how lost you look.
“May I?” he asks for permission to step further into your home.
What a criminal, you want to remark. But the way your heart is pumping both from the stress and the heat within you just has you nodding. He opens your bedroom door before walking back towards you and carefully picking you up, slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to interject. To your surprise, you let him, the omega inside of you feels like it’s almost cooing at his embrace. He places you down on the armchair in the corner, washing his hands in the bathroom before taking your blanket and bunching it up in a circular motion, propping up your pillows around it.
“Okay. This is a good start. Add things that bring you comfort around you. If you like soft toys, or something like that. If you’re up to it, it would be ideal for you to shower and get into something comfortable.”
Your scent peaks, making him turn around. Your knees are tucked close to you once more, your eyes glassy. You can feel yourself descending into something, more quickly than you realized.
“Whilst I’m still coherent… I would…” you swallow, your throat feels like you’ve drunken something sweet and forgot to drink water before falling sleep. “I would appreciate if you stayed. Since you said you’re not doing anything. Not that I’m pressuring you. Your scent is…” you feel your face get hot, but Blade just nods.
“I’ll be just outside.”
~
It’s perfectly normal.
Okay, that’s not the right word. Maybe more like, it’s perfectly natural. To ask an alpha to stay with you during your heat. There’s apps for that. That’s what Blade said, right?
The shower water beats over your skin as you lightly scrub it.
Definitely not embarrassing. Or strange. Even if he is a wanted criminal. What was it, something like 8 billion credits? Would Jing Yuan even give you that if you turned him back in?
You press the edge of your palm against your eyebrow. His scent, like the woods and bergamot and faintly of incense. The wanted posters did not do him justice.
~
Blade presses a hand to his pants the moment he closes the door.
Your scent, sweeter than any sin, the glassy look in your eyes that you were so desperately blinking away, the way you gripped him as you gasped into his touch… He is not someone who struggles with self-control, but he can’t deny the way his member hardens.
He desperately tries to think. What do omegas need again? Medication. Something soft. Water.
He hears you enter the shower, the thought of you naked passes quickly in his mind, but has him gripping your doorknob tight all the same. You said something about his scent too, didn’t you? He removes his outerwear, shuffling back into your room to place it on the armchair. Just in case.
He spots your laundry hamper on his way out your room, and forces himself to look away before he gets carried away.
~
As he places a jug of water and a couple glasses on your bedside table, you chuck your hand holding a towel into his field of vision.
He doesn’t take it, instead curiously arches an eyebrow at you.
“Okay, fine, I’ll say it, since the shower cleared my mind. I am aware that you are a big bad criminal. And we’re both aware I’m in heat. But you’ve been nice. So this is my official invitation. Stay with me during it.”
“That sounds more like a demand.”
You push the towel into his hands, and this time he takes it. “We both know you’re perfectly capable of leaving here if you wanted.” You stomp back to your nest, courtesy of the handsome man in front of you, and wrap yourself into your blankets.
“The jacket gesture was nice,” you add, “but you’ve been in the Shackling Prison. Aeon knows what’s down there. So shower, and come back here.” Maybe he’s right. This does sound like a demand. “Is this arrangement… okay with you?”
The corner of Blade’s mouth upturns just a bit, but he steels himself for what he’s about to say. “I’m one of the most dangerous men the IPC has a bounty on. You’re clearly under the influence of your heat, which means we can’t be perfectly clear of your consent.”
“My mind is clear. I’m Jing Yuan’s assistant. You might be strong, but I can take a fight too. Also…” you flush with embarassment, “I have no idea what I’m doing. You clearly know more than me, and I’m guessing I’m about to get worse. Also… Jing Yuan may have told me to be nice to you even though you’re a criminal.”
Blade laughs at that, a warm sound that hits straight to your core, your hand pressing against your stomach.
“You trust the General’s words that much?”
“There’s a lot going on right now! Just take the goddamn shower!” You chuck a pillow at him, which he catches with ease and throws back.
A closer whiff of your scent has him swallowing a noise in his throat. He rationalizes that he surely can’t leave you in the hands of a random Alpha who might take advantage of your lack of knowledge, especially not someone so close to Jing Yuan.
~
“Alphas can act more… barbaric, shall we say, the heavier an omega’s heat gets. You have to fight and say it straight if you don’t want anything, you understand?”
Maybe you should’ve thought this through a little more before, because now you certainly can’t. Blade is wearing nothing except the towel you gave him wrapped low around his waist, his muscles clear and evident, scars littering his body like streaks of comets. He’s stunning.
He watches you ogle him, sighing as he cups your face gently in his palm, forcing your gaze to his face.
“Did you hear me, girl?”
And oh, maybe that’s a mistake on his part, because the moment you make eye contact with him, his breath catches. Your lips are still slick with the water you’ve been drinking, your pupils widened and full of lust. That blank look that is clearly only thinking of him. How long has it been for Blade too, since he’s had a moment like this with someone else? Centuries? Your omega scent fills the air at the skin-to-skin contact, and it makes him feel like you’re a siren pulling him in.
He can see your mind working, doing your best to force your brain to think. “I’ll tell you. I will.”
It’s only then that Blade sits in your nest with you. He notices the way you lean into him, until your head rests against his shoulder, breathing his smoky scent in.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
Blade chuckles. “My only concern is being able to control myself through this.”
You reach for him, press your face closer to his, until your noses are touching. He lets you lead, wants you to lead, so that he knows exactly what it is you want and what you’re okay with.
And you do, your mouth pressing against his, getting the first drink of what he has to offer. He thinks he could drown in you like this. His hand moves to the small of your back, his lips gentle and slow as they move against yours.
You wrap your arms around his neck, and then you’re pulling him in, and it’s like a dam that breaks open. He’s careful not to rest his whole weight on you, one hand propping himself up against your headboard, even as you squeeze your arms tighter. You didn’t realize heats could feel like this, having someone with you to hold as it sinks you in deeper. You bring your nose to the scent gland at his neck, kissing it lightly, and your scent that fllls the room in return has him making a noise akin to a growl as he presses his hand into your waist.
“Careful, girl,” he warns, but you don’t care. God, you don’t care. You feel your heat settling into your body deeper, slick pooling between your legs as you wrap them around his waist. You’re sure he can smell it, especially from the way he tries to still you.
“Mm, a little fast, don’t you think?” His teeth nips at your ear as your hands trail down his chest, over his back, the bumps from scarring only making it clearer to your heat-addled brain that he’s strong, a strong alpha.
“It’s your-,” your words die down before you can say them. It’s your job to keep us in check, you want to say. But your body starts to warm uncomfortably. Blade runs a hand up and down your torso, thumb pressing circles against your waist. Your eyebrows cinch together, kicking of the sheets yet wanting the comfort of them close to you.
“It’s okay, sweet girl. It’s called a heat for a reason.” He kisses your cheek gently, like a lover. You chase his lips, bringing him in for another kiss.
“You don’t feel hot,” you tell him as you break away, confused. Strangely enough, Blade’s body doesn’t add to your irritating warmth. If anything, it feels like the only relief. His body is warm, but where he touches you tingles softly, staving off the heaviness.
“Mm, that’s because I’m taking care of you,” he presses a kiss to your neck, dangerously close to nipping at your scent gland, before descending down your collarbone. His hands move under your shirt, a reprieve from the sweat that’s starting to sheenson your skin. You want to beg him like he’s a god to release you from the cage your heated body has become. Instead, you remove your shirt, pulling him into you once more, his skin against yours like a reverence.
He continues to kiss at the skin he’s been given access to, one hand moving to your breast, cupping it from below and pinching at your nipple. You arch into his touch, and his mind immediately goes to the thought of you arching your back as he presses his member into you.
He wants more. He wants so, so much more.
Does he dare let himself indulge? His thoughts flitter away as you release him from the death grip your arms had him in, allowing him to descend his mouth down to your breasts, to kiss at the skin, teeth scraping lightly over a nipple, his hands skating over your stomach and to the waistband of your pants.
You’re sobbing into him now, somehow he’s skin to skin with you and it feels like it’s not nearly close enough. Your head feels full of cotton, his body and the feeling of his wet tongue lapping at you, lips wrapping around your nipple, encompassing you so fully you sometimes forget to breathe.
You tap his shoulder as he kisses down your stomach, and he looks up at you with curious eyes.
“Can’t- can’t take it,” you heave, hands stroking his hair. “Take me now,” your thighs tighten around him. “Need- I need”
“No.”
His answer is so clipped that it shocks you, and you’re almost distracted by him removing your pants from you, leaving your soft panties for his view.
“Wha- Blade,” you sigh his name, you meant for it to be a scolding, but then he’s kissing right above the waistband of your panties and you feel the air rush out of you all too delicately. “You- don’t you want-”
“This is about what you want.”
“I just told you what I want!”
“You’re not ready.” His words are almost a whisper now, voice gruff between your legs, his hair tickling the inside of your thighs as he presses his nose to your clothed core and breathes you in. God, he feels like an animal, his member hardening at just the scent of your slick. Don’t you know he’s already holding back? Don’t you know the way you’re beckoning him to give it to you now is more torture for him than it is for you?
“What? Blade, you can’t be serious.”
He grunts. “I’m serious.” His saliva coats his mouth, gripping your thighs a little tighter. “May I?”
“God, Blade, yes. Do whatever you’re gonna do since you’re not gonna-”
He relishes in the way your breath catches and the words fall out of your mouth the moment he laps his wet tongue over your clothed core. The sound you let out is a wrecked thing.
You distinctly hear a ripping sound, the material giving way against your skin and chucked somewhere behind him.
“Blade!”
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he groans, and then his tongue is pressed against your folds and oh, it’s like heaven’s greatest sin, so close to the relief you so desperately want. He doesn’t sound any better, moans falling from his lips that are pressed against your core, purposefully wrapping his arms around your thighs and pressing them towards his face so he can have you all around him, your skin and scent and sweat only adding to the way he has to grind his hips into your bed.
You intertwine your fingers with his, gripping tight, and he can’t help but feel his heart lurch a little at how cute the gesture is. You know exactly who he is, but the way you’re gasping his name asking him for more, more makes him feel like less of a monster and more like a lover, your lover.
He swallows every drop of pearly wetness you afford him, his suckles over your folds slowly growing more desperate. He wants to breathe you in, drink you up, give you all he can. He settles with splitting your folds with his tongue, flicking your clit over and over again, gripping your thighs tight, and mumbling into your skin about how “you’re so pretty like this, wanna watch you make a mess on my face” between breaths.
He doesn’t have to wait long, your grip on his hand gets tighter with each lather of his wet muscle, your core tightening as you try your best to tell him that you’re close, so close.
“Yeah, baby? You’re gonna give it to me?” he whispers against your skin, lips glistening as they delve back in. “Go ahead then, show me how pretty you look when you cum.”
He watches you as you cum, letting out a broken moan, your thighs pressing against the sides of his face impossibly tighter, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. You sob as your hips thrust into his face, his hands never letting yours go, tongue working you through every shock of your orgasm. He does his best to savor every drop. It’s for him, because of him, after all.
You’re shocked he’s still going when you come back to, your thrashing going from intense pleasure to overstimulation, your hands pushing against his in an attempt to get away from the way he’s still sucking on your clit.
“Too much! Blade, I’m so sensitive, it’s so much, oh, gods.”
“Mm,” he acknowledges you, but doesn’t let up, still holding your legs tight against himself. He’s not done, doesn’t want to be.
“Blade, BladeBladeBlade, I can’t, I really can’t, wha-“ Something shifts inside of you, and the feeling is like being choked, your lungs out of breath and desperately trying to take in air as the pain gives way to pleasure. Every wave feels like a drug, so quick to become putty in his hands as he drags you to another orgasm. This time it’s slower to build, but so much more intense, your body uncontrollable as it tenses harshly, gripping his hair, and you come undone on his tongue once more.
“Blade, holy, what-“ you try to catch your breath, desperate for each gulp of air you take in.
He groans in satisfaction, his grin carnivorous as he swipes his tongue over his lips, wiping the excess with the back of his hand.
“Good girl. Came so well for me, didn’t you?” His smirk is evident, canines pressing down just slightly against his tongue. He peppers kisses against your inner thigh.
“Gods, Blade. Just-“ your legs shake as you attempt to reel him in, grabbing his hand with yours, and this time he lets you, kissing you deep, his tongue grazing against the back of your teeth.
You lay your hand flat against his abs, sliding them down until your fingertips reach the towel, haphazardly pulling it off. He draws in a sharp breath at the feeling of the cool air on his member, pressing his hand down to your waist. His mind reels with just the thought of having you, the thought of his cock sliding into you, lubricated by your slick and his spit.
When he pulls his lips away from yours, you finally get to look at him, your hand wrapping around his dick as he exhales a soft ‘mm’.
You pump your hand up once, twice, before he’s taking your hand in his and putting it away.
“Blade, please. You’re so hard,” you’re sure between your legs is shiny with your slick and his spit. He doesn’t falter anymore, pressing your thighs back towards your chest, lining himself up with his cunt, gritting his teeth as the sensitive head catches against your folds.
“You’re-,” he grips your thighs a little harder, steeling himself against you. “Stay still, girl.”
“Please.”
“I’m getting there*.”*
“You’ve been teasing me for hours-”
“You’ve cum twice. Don’t make me show you what teasing really looks like.” He finally presses himself into you, a short intake of breath passes through his teeth as the head slips in. He plays with you, he has to be, sliding in and out of you, giving you just a little more each time.
You’re gripping his shoulders, pulling his body close to yours, his grunts so soft you might almost miss them if his mouth wasn’t against your ear. You’re faring no better, pressed chest to chest against him as he sinks into you.
“Oh,” you gasp, and he grunts in return, his forehead pressing against yours so he can watch and feel your every reaction. His hand grips the headboard, the wood creaks as if it’s about to give in to him, trying his damn best not to slam into you like he knows he wants to. He sheaths himself in whole, finally, the head of his cock pressing against your cervix. It feels downright cruel, the way you grip around him, your pretty whines against his ear.
“Are you-”
“Please,” you beg him, because nothing has ever felt so right and you think you might die if he doesn’t give it to you.
He huffs. “You’re not gonna die, baby. I’ll give it to you.”
“Well hurry up with it or I might,” you tilt your hips up, trying to move under his weight but he’s heavy, pinning you down and yet it’s exactly what you need. He moves off of you slightly only to bring his hands behind your knees, pressing them to your chest, and there’s a moment where you’re not really sure where he’s going with this until he-
“You’re so tight,” he grunts, and then he’s slamming into you hard. “Wanted to make this easy for you, ease you in, but you just had to go and be a brat.” You think your mind bluescreens from the pleasure-pain of his cock sliding all the way out to the tip only to press back into you, ramming against your cervix with every other press of his hips against yours, your heat coiling like a serpent in your core, like the slow drip of syrup through your body.
He brings his hand down between your bodies, fingers tapping against your clit. “Taking my cock so well, aren’t you?” His voice is low and heavy, and all you can do is say his name in return. “You’re a good little omega, aren’t you baby? Good girl, good fucking girl.”
You thought he’d be quiet, but something about his cock inside of you has the words tumbling out of his mouth. You can both feel his knot starting to swell, the heat of it making him sweat, the way it widens right at the base. It makes his hips stutter, more desperate, prevents him from sliding out all the way like he was before so he fucks you faster.
“Wanna feel you cum around my cock.” Your legs are over his shoulder now, one hand running circles over your clit, the other making its way around your neck. He doesn’t choke you, doesn’t press down, only holds you there as a show of power, but something about it has you arching your back into him.
He thinks it’s dangerous, makes him feel like you belong to him.
“Wanna cum around your cock,” you whisper to him in return, and he grunts.
“Yeah?” He smirks, but it’s gentle, almost like a smile, a soft upturn at the corner of his mouth. “Been aching for an alpha’s cock inside of you, haven’t you?”
“Just yours,” you tell him, your fingernails scratching at the nape of his neck. The confession has him pressing his teeth right next to your scent gland, making a mark where you can’t hide.
“This pussy belongs to me now, then,” he says it like something between a demand and a prayer. You gasp yes into his ear as you get closer to the edge, teetering off it. “Show me how my pussy cums for me. Cum around my cock, baby. You’ve been aching for it, haven’t you?” You can feel the pulse of his knot, his adam apple jumping as he swallows, mouth dry. “Go ahead and cum for me then.”
It’s your alpha’s order, your body follows like it responds only to his demands, it feels like it’s being ripped out of you as your chest presses against his and your mind goes blank, your slick gushing around his knot. He’s only seconds behind, spilling into you with a groan, his face in your shoulder, his nose against your scent gland so he can memorize the sweetness of you right at your peak.
It’s with a deep intake of breath that you both relax. He’s careful to position his body next to yours, to make sure he doesn’t crush you, even as his cock stays inside of you, his knot still slightly swollen. He swipes your hair back, thumb tracing over your hairline as he kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then presses his lips against yours for something saccharine sweet. You let him, drinking him in.
“Stay,” you tell him, and he chuckles, because it’s still more of an order than a request.
“Still got attitude,” he holds you close, rolling both of you over so you’re lying on top of him. “Not going anywhere, baby. Relax.”
“For my whole heat. Take my number too, while you’re at it.” Your words slur together, but the genuinity shows in your eyes.
“I’m a wanted criminal.” He says frankly.
“Oh yeah? Should’ve- fuck- should’ve told me that earlier. It’s almost like there’s a wanted poster on every street of you.”
“It doesn’t look like me.” He rakes a hand through your hair, his other massages the soreness in your thigh.
“Why’d Jing Yuan let you go anyways?”
“You wanna say another man’s name with my dick still inside of you?”
“Ah, sorry, so possessive. I think it’s going down now.” You lift yourself off of it slowly, and Blade watches with reverence as his seed slips out of you, milky white. He catches it on his fingers, pressing it back.
“S-Sensitive,” your nails press into his chest, and he kisses your shoulder in apology.
you know what? i didn't want to make a post about it. honestly i just wanted to move on and have anon get the fuck out of my blog but since they want to make me and a bunch of my moots pedos and groomers because they aren't happy with the fact that we have boundaries and don't want minors on our blogs.
so here's that: i reblogged that very informative post made by @/meiwok that you can find here that i think is very important for writers, followers and adults in general so go read this. now that being said, i got this ask a few hours later after my reblog:
and i thought it would be over, because anon never sent me any other asks after that,,, but no wonder why they didn't; because they were busy sending the same type of asks to my moots that had ALSO reblogged the same post. you can see dani (@/filthgf) replying to an ask that i am 1000% sure sent by the same anon.
this is obviously very weird but at that one point, i'm like... okay, this is just a weirdo who has too much time on their end and with the type of asks they are sending, they are probably a minor who isn't happy about the fact that we have boundaries and that we don't want them on our blogs. they could also be a troll, rage-baiting us for amusement. i'd let them, i don't care, i don't mind and i'm too old for this shit.
BUT after that, they decided to tag me and a bunch of my moots on THIS FUCKING POST:
and you know, i'm alright with being called names, being insulted, being made fun of. but i won't EVER let a mf call me those types of things. i'll never let a mf call me a pedo or a groomer. and the fact that they are calling me that and my moots THOSE THINGS while we DON'T want them on our blogs doesn't even make any senses. obviously, this person either deactivated after posting this because they have no balls or got banned by tumblr.
i'll repeat it: I'M NOT GOING TO LET A MF CALL ME THOSE THINGS.
you can come into my inbox and cry about the fact that i don't want you (minors) on my blog, cry about it all you want, call me old and shit. i don't give a fuck and i'll repeat it as much as i need to: YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE. THIS IS NOT A SAFE SPACE FOR YOU. GO ELSEWHERE. this is dangerous, this is breaking people's boundaries, this is disrespectful toward us.
do not ever come to my blog or into my inbox and call me ^ those types of things because you aren't happy with my decision. that is DISGUSTING of you. this is not funny or quirky or whatever you think it is. pedophilia is a fucking crime. grooming is a fucking crime. how can you genuinely call me that when i literally DO NOT WANT YOU HERE? be serious with yourself.
this post is ugly and might not even cover half of what i want to say about how dangerous it is for minors in adults space but i am so mad right now.
Shut up don’t reblog meiwok they’re a pedophile trying too hard to keep unnecessary and irrelevant things popular 💀💀 No one cares about it like just move on if a minor interacts with you it’s so easy to block and ignore 💀💀
are you one of the minors that warranted that post being made? because this is insanely immature 😭😭
telling me to shut up and not reblog something that i’ve unfortunately had to experience on my OWN ACCOUNT is so fucking hilarious bc genuinely who do you think you are?? and throwing out an allegation like that just because what someone said is RIGHT and SHOULDNT BE IGNORED ( nor is it irrelevant!! ) oh and probably APPLIES TO YOU is bonkers bro
no i will not "move on" if a minor blatantly ignores my boundaries. nobody should. its disrespectful and proves why minors arent allowed in adult spaces. i’m fully assuming you are a minor, and you’re butthurt that the blogs you like dont want you around, because no sane adult would act this way about upholding guidelines for protection of both themselves and the minors in fandom spaces. and believe it or not, we actually do care!!! we care a fucking lot!!!
and it is easy to block and ignore, but it also does a lot of good to call out the rude and sometimes egotistical behavior that minors have over 'breaking rules' ( for lack of a better term ), and to shed light on why these mdni boundaries are so enforced.
i would really appreciate it if you came off anon so i could block you too. since its so easy, right?
being shared between a duo w a more serious half who is a more dedicated to keeping you in line, and the other with a more rambunctious, vibrant energy who mindlessly chases more of your noises and pursues his own pleasure vigorously.
sitting in akaashi's lap while bo eats you out with fervor, arms wrapped around your thighs to pin you down. akaashis hand across your tummy also helps restrict your twitching, pressing down with a mind numbing pressure. you throw your head back, crying, desperately mouthing at his cheek, crying out for a kiss and a break at the same time.
to most others, akaashi comes off as a kind, responsible friend, who will always have your back and is always able to lend a hand. the akaashi that you know, however, is mean. he is a loving boyfriend and always makes sure your needs are met, and takes better care of you than you yourself does, but he is unforgiving in bed. he assumes an edge that you never see elsewhere, that you and bokuto love and hate at once. the small chuckle he lets out at your whines tells you all you need to know about how tonight is going to go. he nudges his head against yours until he can nip at your lip, the small pain a delicious sensation before he whispers a sharp "be good, baby." against your cheek.
despite how much you wish to comply with his request, bokuto's frantic movements between your legs have you nearing your third orgasm in minutes. thick fingers explore you haphazardly, searching for that spot that makes you tick, and nearly curse when he finds what he seeks.
"don't cum." the voice in your ear is stern, and you know akaashi is giving you a warning, but your body does not entirely answer to you at the moment. worse, he chooses this moment to slip his hand down to your clit, hand moving in rapid motions, the flesh already slippery and so, so tender.
"keij-" you begin to moan your lovers name, but your own gasp cuts you off. bokuto showed his immediate displeasure at you groaning out akaashi's name instead of his own by groaning into your pussy, the vibrations causing every muscle in your body to tense. "kou!" you make out, breathy and high pitched. "kou, please, stop! don't wa- mm don't wanna cum yet!"
your cries fall on deaf ears, both boys preoccupied with their own goals. akaashi is all too familiar with your body, knowing exactly the pace that makes you weakest, and he's using it against you. with his other hand, he comes up to tweak at your nipples, pulling and laying small smacks against them.
"nooo, keiji" your pleas are pitiful, your desperation thick, and yet it isn't enough. at the precipice, you try once more, "please! kei, kou, can't, can't stop- please, p-!" and then you succumb. the sensation is all too much, and you cum, white light filling your vision for a moment. when you come to, akaashi has a fistful of bokuto's two toned hair, the latter male's eyes hazy as he kisses at your thigh with a sloppy smile, clearly having reached his own high just after yours. his other hand continues rubbing small circles at your swollen clit.
when your limbs finally start listening to you again, you bring your hand against his wrist, weakly trying to swat him away, the overstimulation extending through your body with every swipe of his deft fingers.
"oh, you're back," he says, the vibrations of his chest reaching yours. his tone is nonchalant, easy even. perhaps he even forgot that he told you not to cum!
you nod, turning to him to sweetly murmur an "mmhmm" and kiss at his jaw. and then you feel a sharp smack to you clit.
your eyebrows shoot up, the breath stolen from your lungs in an instant. "welcome back, baby. i hope you're ready to take your punishment, since you can't even follow my simple request." his tone is mocking, the pout on his face not matching the glint in his eyes. “maybe you and koutarou just need a little refresher on the rules, huh? it's my fault, I have been too lenient. don't worry baby, i'll help you remember.”
I got so insanely carried away, but again, I just cannot write a short story. I also never write smut so stfu (ᵕ≀ ̠ᵕ ). There will absolutely be mistakes, this isn't entirely proofread, and I cba so I'll do it later.
Summary: Duty weighs heavy when the clan expects you to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the one you’ve spent years convincing everyone you loathe. Your father is the clan’s greatest warrior, closest friend to the Olo’eyktan, and their bond sealed your fates together long before you could draw a bow. You grew up running wild with the Sully children but the flawless eldest son always seemed to shadow your every step and you’ve perfected the scowl reserved only for him; sharpened your fangs on him. The clan believes it and they accept your envy. Everyone except the parents who watch with quiet amusement, because they see what you both still refuse to name.
Or in which; you’re the warrior’s daughter, bound by expectation to the perfect future leader you claim to hate. You insist it’s true. And everyone believes you. Except, parents always know their children best.
enemies to lovers, holy slowburn, slight soulmates (but not really?), childhood rivals, forced proximity, aged up Neteyem, so much smut!!! as always, my terrible gramma
Your composure is a facade.
He knows it. He knows it because he sees it. In the way your scowl falters just a fraction as you swirl colorful insults through velvet words and he finally bites back. In the way you push against him when he attempts to offer his help, because the basket you’re lugging is absurdly full, and yet you still let him walk you the rest of the way to the village.
You snarl at him when he even attempts to correct your bow arm, and it used to make him flush with something sharp and ugly – envy, maybe? – because you didn’t have a problem with authority, he knows because you seem to take his fathers criticism’s just fine. When anyone else rectified you, you adjusted.
It was only ever a him problem, because when he corrected you, you hissed at him like his correcting hand was tipped with arrowheads and poisonous herbs.
You had a problem with Nateyam.
As a teenager, it used to irk him to no end. As the first born son to the Olo'eyktan he was supposed to be a leader too, an authority that the clan respected and did not question because they trusted him enough to follow. But most importantly, he was supposed to get along with you.
You– the daughter to the clan's most formidable warrior, his fathers right hand man.
You– who did not listen. Who did not trust him. Who always–always–questioned him.
It may as well have been written in the stars by Eywa herself that the two of you were fated to fold neatly into the same position as your father’s. And yet you resisted at every moment possible. You rebelled, and scowled, and cursed at the mere mention of his name. You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with the Olo'eyktan's first born despite your role and that made it so exceedingly hard to get along with you. It left his skin flushing that embarrassingly dark purple colour which made his mother chuckle whenever he spoke of you.
He tried to make sense of it. Of the way you rolled your eyes at his advice, or scowled every time the two of you were paired in training. He couldn’t recall doing anything wrong. Not really. You fought as normal children had, argued and competed as two eldest children to high ranking parents would, but it was nothing sharp enough to leave a lasting wound. Nothing that should have haunted him like this.
However, he wasn’t a young boy anymore and time had an ironic way of sanding things down. He noticed what once felt like a raw hatred you wore like a book written in some foreign sky-language, suddenly became much more legible as his years grew to start with a two, almost as if he learned how to annotate his memories of you with the clarity he lacked as a teen.
He specifically remembers one time during communal dinner when you asked for the basket of fruit that sat just beyond your reach by the central fire, the one he sat closest to, and of course he picked it up and attempted to pass it, because why would he not? He also remembers the way you had slapped his hand away with a guttural scoff, almost as if he was ridiculous for even offering. The act had his brows furrowing, that familiar anger – the kind only you ever managed to draw out, boiling beneath his skin once again.
But it was only through the snickers of both your mother and his who had been watching the interaction intensely, that he noticed. You still took the basket.
“Hey!” Your fathers voice rumbled from just to the left, “Play nice.”
He’d imagine your father was probably less than impressed at his daughters rude mannerisms towards the Olo'eyktan's son – once again – but the reprimand softened almost immediately, soon chased by a low chuckle that started only after Neteyams own father attempted to hide a snicker of his own just beside your father.
They were leaning into one another, shoulders touching, Jake’s head tipped low as one hand, holding a piece of half bitten meat hung limply by his mouth, trying and failing to hide his laughs.
The nudges of your sister's elbow into your side was the last thing he remembered noticing, sharp and mocking but quickly followed by the way you finally shot her a look, warning her in that weird silent language he used to not understand, but one he was now starting to. Because you ate your fruit without ceremony, and your eyes trained forward in an attempt to not glance his way, yet the basket sat firmly within your hands, despite it.
That was when Neteyam stopped letting it irk him. When he realised why everyone else around him seemed to find that mean spirit you reserved only for him so humorous despite his distress. You were composed, yes, but he finally understood why. Your composure was a lie.
And once it stopped irking him, once it settled into something he thought he understood, all the memories of you persistently adorning the scowl that seemed to exist only for him suddenly lost their bite.
Which was why, standing across from you now, he didn’t brace for your signature, fang baring scowl. It was expected in a way that made him sigh with knowing fatigue, and yet a little bit of smugness all the same.
“Why must you always be so difficult?” The words surfaced in that defeated tone he reserved only for you and your impertinence for him.
Your body shifted back as you leaned against your heels to glance over your shoulder to where he stood behind you. You were still kneeling over the stump of braided vines you had been meticulously shredding into winding fibres with your knife just moments ago.
“I am not.” And there it was – that scowl he expected. “You just insist on hovering.”’
“We were sent out here to collect fibre together. You ‘insist’ on making it a one man job.”
You didn’t look at him again. You turned back to the vines instead, blade resuming its steady work as if his presence were nothing more than a distraction you’d already accounted for.
“I do not need a partner to cut fibre,” you said, voice flat, and then you sighed. “So ridiculous.” A harsh scoff hidden under your breath.
Neteyam raised a brow at what he thought he heard, the corner of his mouth tipping low in confusion. “What is?”
At his words, you quickly shot up with a whirl, tail whipping to the side in a way which Neteyam had to step back to avoid, but now you were facing him completely. “That our fathers insist on sending us out here together like we are still little children. I do not need a partner and I certainly don’t need any partner of mine to be you.”
The words landed harsher than the scowl ever could and for a moment, he only stared at you, really observing your twisted features and what he could only describe as an almost pouty lip. He took in the way your stance squared and the way your grip curled around the knife as if it were an extension of your arm rather than a honed tool. You looked like a child.
“Right, you are not a child,” he said at last, voice level. “Maybe our fathers wouldn’t feel the need to treat you like one if you stopped acting as if.”
“Excuse me?” The grip on your knife tightened, wood creaking under the pressure of your grasp which almost splintered the wood. The corner of your mouth twitched up in that scowl that bared the top of your right fang to his watchful eyes and your tone was so even it almost made him falter.
Neteyam held his ground, though. He replied carefully, in an attempt to diffuse just a little, “You speak against me in every task, as if we haven’t been paired together since we were old enough to hold a blade. If you wish to be met as an adult, you cannot bare your teeth at every word spoken to you, fang.”
The age old nickname rolled smooth off his tongue but approached your ears like venom. You despised when he called you that.
A humourless breath left you. “Perfect Olo'eyktan's son,” you murmured, “always so composed and responsible. Maybe I would enjoy my time with you more if Eywa hadn’t shaped you so stiff in the tail you forgot how to bend, Tawtute.”
For a heartbeat, the words hung between you. Then Neteyam’s jaw tightened, always hating when you commented on the human in him, as if they made him less Navi, less than you.
A Tawtute, as if it were an insult. He chose to ignore your bait, however. Low hanging fruit as his father would say.
“You forget how many times that stiffness kept you from getting hurt.”
You scoffed, turning back toward the vines, knife biting down harder than before. Fibres split unevenly, curling away beneath your hands. “I do not need to be helped by someone who can barely hold their bow arm high enough to knock an arrow. I do not listen to you.”
“Yeah,” He scoffed a humorless laugh, “You never do.”
He sank down into a squat then, finally turning his attention to the pile of finished fibres you’d shoved aside. His hands were quick to gather a few filaments in between his pointer and thumb, testing the strands between his fingers as he twisted two together before giving them a short, sharp tug. They held for a second, held for another as he stretched them further, then finally faltered with a snap as he pulled them taught enough.
His mouth twitched down.
“You cut angry,” he observed with a growl. “Uneven. Wasteful.”
You spun once more, this time in your squatted position to meet him at eye level, the knife still gripped between your four fingers. “You waste them with your stupidity! Of course they break when you only weave two fibres together!”
“They need to be thick enough for bowstrings, to hold knocked arrows in new bows.” He countered.
You sneered with a slight hiss, leaning further into him. “Then don’t use them.”
“Oh no, I will.” He smirked, as he began his job, looping the fibres together once again, securing them with practiced ease. “Someone has to make sure we don’t come back empty-handed.”
You shot him a glare. “I said I do not need your-”
“You do not need my help,” he finished for you, amused now. “I know. You’ve said it at least five times since we left the clearing.”
He leant closer as he spoke, not directly into your space, but just enough that you had to shift your stance to keep working without him intruding. His shadow fell over the stump, over your hands and the blade that suddenly seemed to falter under a different kind of pressure.
“And yet,” he continued, eyes never leaving the strands as he calmly coiled the fibres, “you keep cutting while I bind. Funny how that works.”
You stopped your movements, sending him a glare out the side of your eye that had your lashes feeling heavy and jaw slightly agape. “Get out of my way.” You spat, but it was as if you couldn’t convey the weight of anger you meant to land. Your tone was weak and almost a little desperate.
“You always rush when you’re angry,” he ignored your demand, if it could even be called that, and his tone almost conversational. “Your tail gives you away.”
Your eyes flashed with the realisation that he even been looking long enough to notice, and you're cheeks flared with something warm and hot that turned you a darker shade of blue. “Stop watching me, Tawtute.” This time your voice really did sound more desperate.
“I can’t." He smirked, as if it were so obvious. “You make it difficult.”
You were close enough to see the faint curve of that infuriating smile he loved to wear, and to feel the heat of him that radiated the smug confidence you knew he wore like a headpiece.
Years of successful attempts at keeping him as far away as one could be from someone they worked with on a near daily basis, you felt had suddenly dwindled into an endless array of interactions in which he always manages to dominate the conversation. Reduced to this. To the way he always stood too close now, and spoke too smugly, as if he’d decided he finally had you figured out.
“You know,” despite your lack of response, he broke the silence, voice dipping just enough to grate, “for someone who insists she doesn’t listen to me, you react an awful lot when I speak.”
“Because you are provoking me,” you snapped.
“You glare like you’re about to strike me,” he said, entirely too amused.
“Lucky I'm working because you would deserve it if I did.” You spat, suddenly all too deficient of every insult you had ever learned.
“Oh are you? Wouldn’t have guessed with you looking at me like a Yerik in firelight.”
Eywa, if you didn’t look angry before. “Neteyam!” This time, you hissed it like a venomous mantra, fangs bared and legs snapping up to your full height as you leaned into his space, close enough to let the words bite. Your ears pinned sharp against your braids, and his jaw set as he met your glare without yielding, tension pulling tight between you like a drawn bowstring–
“Oh good, you’re fighting again.”
A sudden unexpected third voice had both your heads spinning towards the break in the clearing just a few yards East, where a very unimpressed Lo’ak tread down the path with a barely-contained giggling Kiri besides him. Kiri moved with a balled fist pressed against her pursed mouth, supported by an arm crossed along her chest in an attempt to hide her amusement.
“It’s more like flirting again.” The words Kiri muttered were small and meek but Eywa, if they didn’t hit large. At this rate, Kiri could barely contain the falter in her voice as she struggled to huff the words through stifled breathy laughs.
Both you and Neteyam froze at the intrusion, then stilled at the implication, a beat passing before you each stepped back in the same beat of time. He rose to his feet far too quickly besides you, your own eyes blown wide in something too closely resembling horror, while Neteyam merely rolled his eyes, tired and resigned, straightening back into the perfect son like a it was second nature once more.
“Stop being a skxawng, Lo’ak–.”
“–We are not flirting, Kiri.”
The words collided in the air, your words to Kiri a hiss and his to Lo’ak a sigh, overlapping with a defensive tilt that had the other two chuckling harder.
Lo’ak’s mouth twitched. “Wow,” he stated. “Touched a nerve.”
Neteyam, the all mighty responsible son he is, didn’t reach for the bait Lo'ak hung so low for him, and instead crossed his arms with a sigh at his presence. “What are you doing here?”
The answer came before either of them could speak, and a sudden fifth voice came echoing from the brush of leaves, their cracking rattle taut through the thick air. A small, blurred figure came dashing out of the treeline, making a dash straight towards the centre of the clearing in a full stumbling sprint, heading directly towards where you stood in a pout next to Neteyam.
“Dad said to come get you two because you’re taking too long!”
“Tuk!” Kiri and Lo’ak barked at the same time.
Lo’ak lunged forward, catching her by the arm just before she could skid to a stop at your feet. The glare he sent her was sharp and immediate, enough to make her shrink in on herself, ears drooping as she braced for the scolding she knew was soon to come.
“Dad told us to come get them,” he corrected, gesturing between himself and Kiri. “That wasn’t an invitation to follow.”
Tuk's round eyes glint up with that innocent reasoning you just couldn't deny, her pupils glossing over as she pouted heavy in protest.
“But dad said they’ve been out here alone long enough!” She protested, wriggling free of Lo’ak’s grip to continue her dart straight to you. The moment she was within range, she grabbed your hand with both of hers, tugging urgently as she looked up with those wide, worried eyes. “He told mom that if you and Neyetam keep bickering today, you’d probably end up at the tree of souls tonight! But you can’t go on a trip tonight, you promised you’d help me braid my beads in!”
For a heartbeat, the clearing went unnervingly still. You stared still as stone down at Tuk, mortification burning hot beneath your skin at the implication that flew right over her head but knocked you right up yours instead. And besides you, Neteyam looked like the world had briefly knocked him off balance too, eyes widening just enough to betray him before he could pull himself back together.
In stark contrast just a ways away, Lo’ak let out a sharp bark of laughter, doubling over with his grip on Kiri's arm, just as Kiri finally outright lost the battle she’d been silently fighting, turning away from the set of two dazed and angered eyes with a hand clamped over her mouth. Her shoulders shook as quiet, uncontrollable cackles spilled freely between her fingers. Whatever restraint they had before was entirely fleeting, fed instead by the shared, undeniable shock written across both your faces. The two of you looked ridiculous.
And Tuk, sweet innocent Tuk, oblivious to the chaos the words had detonated in the once silent clearing, glared up at Neteyam's shell-shocked face with furrowed brows and that pouty sneer. “Stupid Neteyam. You can’t take Y/n anywhere today. Eywa heard it, she’s with me today!”
She punctuated the proclamation with a scrunched nose and a quick, defiant flick of her tongue in his direction.
For a split second, Neteyam only stared at her, still caught somewhere between the weight of what had just been said and the very real presence of his little sister. Then he blinked, jaw tightening as the annoyingly-older brother instinct finally won out over shock. With a sharp, almost automatic motion, he reached out and pinched her tongue between his fingers. An act that had Tuk squealing and flailing in protest.
“Oi!” Tuk yelped, recoiling instantly, clutching her tongue with a gasp.
Neteyam let the sound settle before he spoke. He shot you a brief, weary glance, as if checking whether you’d react at all, then turned back to his sister, composure sliding firmly back into place. His voice level and measured with a delicate care he reserved specifically for her. “That is entirely enough out of you. Someone needs to give you a lesson about eavesdropping. Time to take you home before we all get scolded.”
Tuk’s ears drooped immediately, shoulders curling inward as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, fingers still hovering protectively near her mouth. She opened her lips as if to argue, then thought better of it, gaze flicking between Neteyam and the ground with exaggerated remorse.
That was when Lo’ak scoffed, the tension finally cracking as he straightened and scoffed, still grinning as he shouted. “He's right, you’ve caused enough trouble. Come on, teylupil.”
He didn’t wait for her to comply, instead walking to grab her, planting two steady hand on each of her shoulder blades, then began steering her away with decisive finality, already turning her toward the path before she could wriggle free.
“But I didn’t do anything!” Tuk protested, craning her neck back toward you as Lo’ak dragged her away, voice pitching higher with urgency. “Y/n, don’t forget--!”
“I know,” you cut in quickly, not turning, the words tossed over your shoulder like a promise already made.
Kiri lingered a heartbeat longer. Her gaze flicked between you and Neteyam, something quiet and knowing glinting behind her eyes as her mouth twitched with barely restrained amusement. You caught it quickly, and shut it down even quicker, face smoothing into neutrality as you turned away, dropping back into a crouch before the stump as if nothing had been disturbed at all.
The knife was in your hand again before the clearing could settle.
“We will collect the threads and follow.” Your voice came out flat and ungiving, deliberately so, spoken without fault or the slightest fracture they were clearly waiting to see. Whatever reaction they’d hoped to draw from you never came, your expression smoothed into something unreadable as if nothing at all had touched you in the interaction.
When he didn't get it from you, Lo’ak shot his attention to Neteyam with a long, assessing look, like he was waiting for the reaction you refused to give. When he found nothing but the faint quirk at the corner of Neteyam’s mouth, he huffed a quiet laugh and finally grabbed Kiri by the arm, tugging her along with him toward the start of the winding path back to the village .
“Dad’s pissed,” he called over his shoulder. “Try not to be too long.”
The brush swallowed them soon after, laughter and murmured whispers dissolving into the low hum of the forest. And then the clearing fell still again.
You let out a slow breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, shoulders rolling as the tension finally bled off. Remembering yourself, you turned back to the stump, your hands moved quickly now, rough and efficient, gruffly snatching clumps full of fibre from the scattered pile and stuffing them into the woven basket Neteyam had brought, as if keeping busy might quiet everything still coiled tight beneath your skin.
For a moment, Netayem watched. It almost seemed like that armored composure of yours was taut as rigidly upright as usual, as if nothing in the last five minutes had made you falter for even a moment. To anyone else, maybe, it did appear as so, but he knew you well enough to see the way your jaw clenched so tight he’d envisioned you cracking a molar, and the harsher than necessary grip in your fingers as you haphazardly tossed the fibre around. Not to mention the stutter in your tail’s path, the tell he’d learned long ago as the one that always surfaced when you were lying.
It left him releasing a chuckle he couldn't contain, a deep, rumbling sound which made your ears twitch sideways in annoyance. You paused in your frantic movements, head snapping to the side in a motion which left your glowing amber eyes glaring daggers at his towering form.
“What?” You spat, tired, irritated and painfully obvious to him – embarrassed.
“Still upset about what Kiri said?"
Your jaw clenched, fangs peeking as you whipped fully around to face him, rising to your full height at the implication. The basket thumped forgotten at your feet as the tension tipped to a peak beyond your capacity, and you stalked towards him with an almost predatory sway.
"I am not angry about that ridiculous–” You cut yourself off, taking a moment to collected a breath of humid air, allowing it to sit in your lungs before releasing in a desperate attempt to somewhat self-regulate. “Do not flatter yourself, Tawtute. Flirting? With you? I'd sooner make Tsaheylu with a thanator."
His eyes gleamed with mischief, but it wasn’t the boyish, careless kind he usually wore. This one was the kind he wore like a blade, thin and bright and purposeful, slipping neatly beneath the cracks in your composure because he knew where to press.
The careful, responsible mask he wore all the time loosened just enough to reveal the tease underneath, a glimpse of something warmer and far more dangerous than his jabs at you ever were. He didn’t crowd you with his body so much as he crowded you with his unyielding certainty, leaning in just the smallest amount, voice dropping into something that felt like it belonged in the a dark room rather than under open light of tree canopy.
“Funny,” He murmured, and Eywa, the way he said it made your spine want to curl. “Your tail is flicking like it does when you’re lying. And you react so much when I get close, almost as if.. you enjoy it.”
Heat hit you so fast it was humiliating, up your neck, across your cheeks, down your chest, anger and something you refused to name twisting together until you couldn’t tell which was which. Your hand shoved into his chest on instinct, a firm press meant to reassert space, meant to remind him you were not something to be read and teased apart like vines beneath a knife.
But his skin under your palm was solid and warm, his breath even, his posture maddeningly steady. You hated that he didn’t move. You hated that the push didn’t become a shove, that your body betrayed you with restraint and a split-second hesitation that had nothing to do with strength. Your pulse seemed to jump when he watched you like this.
“Back off,” you snapped, aiming for venom and getting something too tight, too strained. You lifted your chin as if height alone could restore your pride. “I don’t enjoy anything about you hovering like a skxawng who thinks he’s Eywa’s gift to the clan.”
Neteyam didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, the gold in them catching the filtered light until they looked almost feral. The smirk was gone and in its place was something colder as he took one slow step forward, crowding you until the basket handle dug into your hip and the scent of him, warm skin, crushed leaves, the faint sweat from the summer heat, filled every breath.
“Gift?” he repeated, voice quiet and flat, the kind of quiet that made your spine prickle. “I am the one stuck dragging your half-finished work back to the village every time you storm off. That sound like a gift to you?”
Something in his words snapped the tension in a way that almost had a stifled laugh escaping you. The image of perfect Neteyam, future Olo’eyktan, the ever-responsible son, trudging behind you with a basket full of your messy fibers and a everpresent moping frown to match struck you as absurdly funny considering he was the one who always offered to do it anyways. That short, sharp laugh escaped before you could stop it, low and mocking, cutting through the thick air between you.
“Poor you,” you said, voice dripping with false sympathy as the anger flipped into something crueler and entirely more enjoyable. “All that dragging must be so hard on important shoulders.”
His eyes narrowed, the feral glint sharpening into irritation, but you were already moving. You snatched the basket from where it pressed against your hip and shoved it hard into his front, the woven edge leaving him doubling slightly from the sudden jab to his ribs, a smack that landed with a satisfying thud. A few loose fibers fluttered to the ground as he stumbled back a few steps and caught the basket on reflex, fingers curling tight around the rim.
“There,” you said, stepping back with a grin that showed too many teeth. “Problem solved. You can carry it all the way home like the dutiful son you are. Try not to strain yourself complaining about it later.”
Neteyam’s jaw clenched hard enough that you could see the muscle jump beneath his skin, his ears pinning back flat against his skull. The feral edge in his eyes flared hotter, and for a second you thought he might actually snap, toss the basket aside and give you the fight you both pretended you didn’t want.
Instead, he gripped the handle tighter, knuckles paling and barked, ““Fnawe’tu skxawng!”
The insult landed far too humorously for you to care, and you instead tilted your head back with an overly amused smirk that widened at his irate slurs towards you as his facade cracked. “You call me the stubborn idiot? And yet you carry the basket anyway. Funny how that works?”
He exhaled through his nose, a sound that was almost a growl, and took one deliberate step onto the path after you. “Keep walking, fang. The sooner we get back, the sooner I am rid of you for the day.”
“Perfect. Twelve whole hours before you find another excuse to follow me tomorrow.”
You barely looked back to see if he was following before you took off towards the village because you knew he already was.
The clearing was loud with voices and laughter, bodies packed close as food and weapons were passed around in uneven circles, and it felt like the whole village had decided to breathe in the same place at once. Someone had dragged a fresh kill in not long ago and the smell still hung in the air, mingling with roasted meat, crushed leaves, and the faint sting of smoke from the fire that kept getting fed as if it might swallow the night. Nets of fruit were being unknotted and handed off, cups passed between hands, blades checked and re-sheathed in the same idle rhythm people used when they were safe enough to relax but still too wound up to sit still.
You were wedged between two of your friends near the edge of one of the many circles, packed close enough that their shoulders kept bumping yours when someone laughed too hard or shifted their stance. Ki’tiri had been retelling an exaggerated recall of her day on patrol, her eyes gleaming with irate exasperation as she spoke of the moment Lo’ak started throwing stones out of boredom and nearly nailed Mo’at from the hanging.
Tuk had found you the moment you sat, something that had become so common during communal mealtimes that your friends had come to expect the young Sully girl attaching herself to your side like a tail. It was as if the decision had been made somewhere in her head and the rest of the world simply had to accept it, and now she perched happily at your side like she belonged there. Her small hand gripped your wrist with the possessive certainty only children had, and she fidgeted with the jewels on your fingers, twisting them carefully as if she were inspecting treasure. The beads you’d braided fresh not even a few weeks before clinked softly each time she moved, and every now and then she would lean her head against your arm and sigh, pleased with herself like she’d won something.
“Will you make these for me too?” she asked – more like stated – for what had to be the third time, thumb brushing the tiny knotwork with awe.
“When you stop trying to steal mine,” you murmured back, and she grinned, utterly unbothered by the threat.
You let yourself settle into it for a moment, letting the noise wash over you because it was easier than thinking after long days training, because nights like this were meant to feel simple and unwinding. You were halfway through listening to your friend complain about yet another act of stupidity Lo’ak had attempted on their patrol together when Tuk’s fingers suddenly paused on your ring, halting and tightening hard enough that the movement forced you to glance down at the girl with a concerned furrow of your brow.
“What?” you muttered, eyeing her of an answer before she spoke it.
Tuk’s eyes flicked past you toward the centre of the clearing, eyeing something in the distance that left you searching the vicinity in hopes of catching the focus of her gaze. Her mouth fell slightly, an almost angered look settling across her face before she scoffed, turning back to you in a huff that had her drawing closer.
“Neteyam is with that noisy woman again. An’aya.”
The way she spat her name was almost mocking in tone and you didn’t react at first. Not outwardly. But something in your chest tightened all the same, small and sadistic, as if it even mattered at all.
You followed Tuk’s gaze without meaning to, your eyes slipping past the firelight and moving bodies until they found him almost instinctively. Neteyam sat just beyond the centre of the clearing, leaned back against a stack of supply crates, relaxed in the way you only ever saw when he was amongst people he trusted, his shoulders were loose and his attention tilted toward the woman beside him.
An’aya was speaking animatedly, hands moving as she spoke and laughed so easily, and Neteyam had angled himself toward her without thinking, one knee bent beside his chest, head dipped slightly so he could hear her better over the noise.
It irked you. And it irked you more that it even irked you in the first place. Because you hated him. You told yourself it irked you because you hated that he was enjoying himself. Right. Of course.
But the irritation still sat heavy and ugly in your chest, coiling tighter the longer you watched, and you hated that too, hated that your attention wouldn’t let it go, and that your mood had soured so fast despite being so fine just a moment ago. There was no reason for it. None that made sense. You hated that stuck up tawtute more than anyone. You argued with him so much you made a sport out of it.
Tuk noticed the shift in your mood right away. Her nose wrinkled as her grip tightened again and she leaned in closer, glaring openly now. “I don’t like her,” she muttered, voice fierce and final. “She talks too much. And she sits too close to Neteyam. And she laughs at his jokes when they’re not funny.”
You attempted for even a minuscule moment to draw yourself back, to brush it away and forget it ever made you feel anything by resorting to your usual self regulation habits – insulting the boy. “Nothing Neteyam says is funny.” But not even that seemed to work because that irrationally confusing feeling still clawed at your chest.
“That’s not true,” Tuk called out immediately, scowling up at you. “You laugh at him all the time! Just not when he’s looking.” She leaned in closer, voice dropping into something hurt and almost bordering a whine. “He’s supposed to sit with us.”
“That is not how this works,” you snapped, too quick. Tuk’s eyes rolled at the response she should have predicted. She never understood why you acted so weird about it, when it was obvious to her that you liked her brother because that was just what people did when they liked someone, they got weird and sharp and pretended they didn’t.
Your friends had gone quiet at the sudden stir occurring just beside them. Ki’tiri tilted her head, studying you with open curiosity now. “Why are you angry?” she asked plainly. “Did he do something again?”
“No,” you said starkly, and then more sharply, “How could he? He is all the way over there.”
Ki’tiri exchanged a look with the other friend at your side, the slightest of smiles lifting the corner of her lips as she pressed. “You’re getting upset,” she stated simply and not unkindly. “You do that only where Neteyam is involved.”
“I am not upset.” you snapped, already too far gone for that to be convincing. “And he is not involved. I have been sat here this entire time.”
The lie hung there, thin and brittle, and it would have passed like all the others if your voice hadn’t carried just a little too far, cutting through the hum of the clearing at the wrong moment. A few heads turned and the rhythm of your small group faltered sharply as across the clearing, Neteyam suddenly looked up.
“What is going on?”
Neteyam hadn’t stood, he hadn’t even moved from his spot. But he had leaned forward with a watchful, almost concerned eye, braids swinging low and hand hanging off his elevated thigh as he observed. The way he intervened like he was preparing for the role of Olo'eyktan burned you, as if he thought he could snuff any simmering flame with his big, proud words because his blood said so.
And that wasn’t even the problem. The problem was that An’aya followed his gaze immediately, curiosity sparking as she turned to see what had drawn his attention.
That alone was enough to make your teeth grind. Because what was your relationship with that skxawng any of her business.
“We’re fine,” you called back, sharper than necessary, your eyes not even bothering to glance his way once. “Try having your own conversations instead of monitoring everyone else, tawtute.”
Neteyam’s mouth tightened just slightly at the insult, a breath leaving him slow and measured as if he were counting to three in his head. He didn’t rise. Not yet, only tipped his chin and let a quick “Eywa help me,” fall to the air before pushing himself to his feet at last.
He crossed the space between you in a way that had your fist tightening in anticipation for yet another argument, only fueled by the image of An’aya hot on his heels like a second tail of his own, close enough to the boy that it felt intentional whether it was or not. Tuk sat up, planting herself more firmly at your side like a guard animal half her size.
“I said we’re fine,” you warned as he stopped in front of you, too close now as your friends ogled at the scene, ready for yet another brawl between the two of you.
“I said I was just asking,” he replied, voice calm but firm, eyes searching your face like he could read something there if he looked hard enough. “You are upset.”
“Right,” you went on before he could answer, sputtering a short sudden laugh but your tone held no humour. “I forgot I’m only allowed to feel something once you’ve scented them first. I forgot I need my lenensip wolf to tail me through the village and make sure I’m behaving. Shall you go report my mood back to our fathers now?”
A few people nearby stilled outright at the sudden outburst, the weight of the scene landing harder than a simple insult. Neteyam’s jaw flexed, his calm finally straining at the edges.
“That’s not what I’m doing.” He said, lower now and tone measured like he was choosing every word with treading precision. “You know I do not–”
“You do! I sneeze too sharply and it is enough to call a meeting with our fathers. Well, you can tell them to relax, I’m not about to start a war over dinner.”
Neteyam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face like he was bracing himself. “Well, you don’t have to turn everything into a fight.”
“And you don’t have to turn everything into a problem to solve,” you replied, glancing pointedly at An’aya hovering just behind him, before landing right back on him. “The mantle still sits on your fathers head, you can have a personality until then.”
An overdramatically long groan suddenly sounded to the left of you, and both your eyes snapped over to Tuks exaggeratingly agitated from, as she sighed in that childish way she did. “Stop fighting! You argue because he’s not around,” she announced confidently. “You always argue when he wanders off like that. And then Neteyam comes back and everyone stops yelling.”
“Tuk!” Both you and Neteyam barked simultaneously, horror gleaming in both of your eyes because that was so obviously not true!
“That is what happens,” she insisted stubbornly. “You just don’t like it when I say it.”
An’aya, from the shadow of Neteyam’s shoulder, suddenly appeared forward, finally establishing her presence with a smile that was not wide nor warm, but enough to show she was not very fond of the girl her friend had been talking to. “Maybe if you were not so unpredictable and rash, Neteyam wouldn’t have to keep stepping in.”
Your head turned slowly toward her, blood finally boiling to that point only Neteyam’s presence could push it to.
“Oh,” you said, quiet and razor-edged. “Is that your professional opinion, or are you just filling in while the golden son is busy?” Your gaze snapped to Neteyam, fury bright and uncontained now that she’d felt comfortable enough to insult you in front of everyone.
“Maybe our fathers should stick her as your new training partner since she’s already so good at handling me. My guard dog has a guard dog.”
Neteyam stiffened. “Enough.”
“Is this what you tell people about me?” Your attention flickered to him then, as if you’d only just remembered he was standing there at all. Neteyam opened his mouth to speak, visibly caught off guard by the sudden accusation.
“That is not–” he started but you didn’t let him finish.
“I would think you respected me even a little,” you said coolly, voice steady now, sharpened by control rather than heat, “enough considering all my father has done for you and your family. And still, you let your women speak to me like I am beneath you.” You scoffed softly, the sound carrying just far enough to be heard.
“A leader, they say you will be.” The words were anything but soft, they were mocking and harsh. “Tell me again how this is keeping the peace. Seems your peace is built on my silence, both you and our fathers.”
You rose smoothly, without haste, the motion deliberate enough that the space around you seemed to shift with it. The ground felt steady beneath your feet, solid in a way your chest had not been for the last several breaths, and for the first time that night you welcomed the clarity that came with deciding to leave rather than be dismissed.
“Y/n, no– please don’t be mad,” Tuk whined, the plea tumbling out of her in a rush as she reached for you, fingers brushing the edge of your wrist but failing to catch hold. Her face pinched with genuine worry, like she’d broken something precious without meaning to.
But you stood and left without a word, the sudden absence of your presence cutting through the clearing sharper than any insult you had ever sent him, and for the first time Neteyam did not know whether you were angry or actually hurt by what had happened. It was confusing because you never let any interaction between the two of you get to you like this, yet now that you had chosen distance in place of where you would usually just choose name calling, he couldn’t help the feeling like he’d missed something far too important while it was happening.
The noise resumed all too quickly behind you, laughter reclaiming the air as if nothing had shifted at all, but he stayed where he was, unease settling low in his chest with the quiet, unwelcome understanding that this time, you hadn’t walked away to cool off – you had walked away because he had apparently crossed a line he didn’t even realise he was dancing.
One delicate, purposeful step after the other. Neteyam watched your sultry hips as they worked against the motion of your legs, swaying against the gracefully deliberate rhythm of your strut. Every step was intentional, not a single wasted motion and certainly no hesitation, each one drawing a slow, tightening circle around him. You eyed him like prey and circled him like a predator.
He, too, circled your figure. Less graceful in his approach, his steps heavier and more grounded, but just as analytical with his eyes all the same. He told himself he tracked your figure because he had to, that he noticed how dangerously alluring you looked in your stride because he was being tactical, certainly not because he found it mesmerising.
Partnered again. You almost rolled your eyes had it not been for the undivided attention you had on his solid figure. You had your suspicions that they were doing it on purpose now, because whenever given the opportunities, your fathers paired the two of you like it was something written into the roots of the forest itself. As if Eywa refused to separate you.
Jake’s voice cut through the air before either of you could make a move.
“Enough posturing,” he barked from the edge of the ring, arms crossed, gaze sharp and unimpressed. “This isn’t a mating dance. Someone's going to have to make a move soon enough. Engage.”
The command barely left Jake’s mouth before you moved.
You didn’t rush him all at once because that was never your style. You shifted your weight and pivoted to your right instead, just as your tail came down with a sharp snap to the left, a deliberate ploy to feint him around you with sound. Neteyam stuttered for a moment, nearly diving left and falling for the bait, but caught himself immediately, because of course he did. His jaw tightened as he corrected, blocking you by widening his stance, shoulders settling into a space much larger than you had accounted for.
You collided with his chest anyway, steadying yourself with a tight hand clamped around his forearm. It was successful, but your proximity to Neteyam left you vulnerable to an open hand palm against your shoulder, knocking you a step back. It was a warning shot, not meant to land hard, but it angered you all the same.
“Good feint, Y/n. Nice recovery, Neteyam.” Jake called out.
Your eyes never pivoted from Neteyam, but Jake's words riled you further, knowing he got praise for the first hit.
"Is that all you've got?" You taunted, circling again, your breath steady despite the fire igniting in your veins. "Afraid to hit me for real, golden boy?"
Neteyam’s ears flicked at your taunt, but his expression stayed infuriatingly calm. He rolled the shoulder you’d nearly landed on earlier, circling with you, mirroring your steps like he’d memorized every rhythm you’d ever moved to.
“Wouldn’t want to mess up that pretty face.”
You bared your teeth in a hiss ts his words, fangs bared and all, as the implication of them did not evade you. The idea that you were to feminine to fight, bullshit. It was bait, you knew it deep within, and yet you lunged for it all the same.
You dropped low, striking dirty with a sweeping leg that made contact with his ankles while your hands aimed for his torso. He leaped back, but you were faster, twisted in the air and raking your manicured claws down his ribs just to watch him hiss. You landed in a crouch behind him, tail lashing with triumph at the hit but he countered instantly, arm hooking yours, using your momentum to flip you over his hip but you held tightly, and this time you both went down. You snapped right to the ground, landing with a splat and a breathy groan, caged beneath him as his braids fell around your face like a curtain.
“Careful,” he murmured, voice rough, eyes dropping to your mouth, “keep rubbing up on me like that and people may talk.”
Damn his Sully tongue and their dirty human minds. Only they – only he, were rash enough to say such vulgar words.
Heat flared in your face, nothing else but pure rage, and you answered with a growl, driving your knee up sharp between his legs. Not hard enough to hurt, you think, but just enough to make him block instinctively and give you room to twist. You both rolled again, a tangle of limbs and snarls across the dirt, kicking up dust around you until you came out to a stop, this time you were on top, straddling his waist, thighs clamped tight, hands slamming his wrists into the dirt beside his head.
“I will kill you!”
Neteyam’s eyes blazed up at you, all traces of amusement gone. His ears pinned flat against his skull, jaw clenched so tight you saw the muscle jump. He bucked hard beneath you, trying to throw your weight, muscles straining as he fought your hold.
“Get. the hell. off me.” He snarled, voice low and dangerous through his squirms against you, wrists twisting against your grip. “Why must you always turn it into this?”
You dug your nails in deeper, refusing to budge, chest heaving with anger. “You started it with your filthy mouth. Think you can say whatever you want and I will just take it?”
He arched again, harder this time, nearly unseating you from his lap and you slid to settle on his chest. His breath came in harsh pants now, struggling under the weight of you on his lungs, but his eyes still burned up at you with pure defiance.
The shift gave him a perfect view of you, sweaty and furious as you loomed above him, your braids wild, chest heaving and skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat. A deep flush crept up his neck and face at the sight, dark purple blooming across his cheeks and he prayed to Eywa it looked like it was from a lack of air to everyone watching.
“I’m trying to win a damn spar, not deal with your tantrum. Yield!” He said through short breaths.
“Force me, tawtute,” you hissed, grinding your knees harder into his sides. “Or keep dancing for your sempul like the skxawng you are.”
His face darkened at that, a fresh wave of fury rolling off him. He surged up with a grunt, flipping you both violently, dust flying as you grappled, elbows and knees jabbing, fangs baring and hisses sounding like a tussle of five years olds. He landed a sharp elbow to your ribs and you answered with by snatching at his long swinging kuru braid and tugging at it, pinning him for a split second before you broke free with a snarl.
The spar had turned ugly so fast, no one had time to register what it was until it already had become it. There was no technique left, just primitive fighting and petty aggression mixed with ragged breaths and dirt covered bodies, every strike fueled by years of built-up resentment.
And Jake’s was done watching it.
"That's enough!" Jake barked again, rubbing a tired hand down his face before turning to you both with an outstretched arm that sliced downward in a sharp, commanding swing. "Eywa ngahu, it was funny at first, cute even, when you two were teens and it didn't matter. But by Eywa, you're adults now. You have responsibilities and the clan is going to depend on you." His voice was so demanding and final, it had you cowering in your skin.
The authority in his voice pinned you both in place. Only two men in this world could make you feel small like this, your father, and Jake Sully.
"I'm sorry, sir," Neteyam spoke with a breathy compliance, eyes trained downwards in a way that almost left you scoffing at how pathetic he looked, at how quickly he folded under the pressure of his father despite talking so big against you moments ago, and it took everything in you not to roll your eyes while being lectured by his father about acting mature.
So, you muttered through gritted teeth, "Yes, sir," forcing the words out while fighting every instinct that screamed at you to glare at Neteyam instead of Jake.
Jake’s gaze flicked between you. “You two are going to be the leaders of this clan some day.”
As he spoke the words, there was a pause as he immediately noticed the sudden way the two of you began shifting apart, blue faces crawling into flushed purple ones. It only took him another moment to realise the implication of his words, and he saw it. Of course he saw it. Eywa, the two of you couldn’t even look at each other at an implication he didn’t even mean!
Realization dawned on his face, and he let out a long, exasperated sigh. "And this – this right here – is exactly what I mean. Every little thing between you turns into a problem. You don’t know how to keep things contained when it’s the two of you.”
He jabbed a finger toward Neteyam. "You will be Olo'eyktan one day." Then the finger swung to you. "And you will be the clan's head warrior. His right hand. His most trusted." Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sooner or later, you have got to get along. The People need to see unity, not... whatever the hell this is."
He said the line so defeatedly, as if his two greatest proteges had become his two biggest failures in that moment, and it left you deflating in embarrassment at the notion that your rivalry with his son had turned into something beyond comprehensive words. Instead, reduced to “hell”, to some weird sky people word, that's what you were deduced to.
Shameful.
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. You stared at the ground, heat crawling up your neck, wishing the woven walkway would just open and swallow you whole because it was almost like your own father had just admitted that you were acting a fool.
Jake Sully, the man who appeared in nearly every childhood memory, who raised you almost as his own in the proximity of your father and their strict training regimes, was sighing down at you and his idiot son with the same weary frustration. And you knew he didn’t mean it cruelly. This was that strange sky-people thing he did when he slipped into what he described as his “military” tone, meant to correct rather than offend, but it didn’t make the cut hurt less deep.
Then you heard it, the tiniest huff of breath from Neteyam’s direction. Not quite a laugh, but close enough, and it had you glancing up at him with the scowl you reserved only for him.
Neteyam wasn’t looking at his father anymore. He was looking right at you, glaring through the corner of his limp braids, head still hung low as one side of his mouth twitched upward in that infuriating half-smirk he saved just for you too. His amber eyes glinted with something resembling a shocked amusement, almost like he couldn’t quite believe you were actually compliant. Like your mortification was the funniest thing he’d seen all day. And in that moment it was like something inside you finally snapped for the first time in a long time.
Your ears flicked back, pinned taught to your hair like an animal on its prey only moments away from pouncing. Tail lashing once almost like a whip.
“What?” you hissed, so low it was almost swallowed by the breeze, meant only for him, but almost so quiet that Neteyam nearly missed the fact that you had spoken entirely. “Something funny, Tawtute?”
He caught your words all the same, the perfect, golden son act completely slipping away, traded for a smirk that widened a fraction larger at your beyond irked facial expression. “A child, Fang.” He taunted, hitting right where he knew you hurt most. “You look like a child scolded by her elder. It’s pretty damn funny.”
That was all it took.
You stepped forward, voice rising despite yourself, despite the voice telling you that only awful consequences would come from acting out right now. The worst part of you could not have cared less that his father wasn’t even through with lecturing the two of you yet, the bigger part of you so enraged, so encompassed by Neteyam and his stupidity, his audacity, that you just-
Did. Not. Care.
Your figure snapped upright, tall and menacing, body twisting to face him fully as your large blearing eyes glossed over, unblinking and fear-provockingly wide.
“Open your mouth again, Tawtute, and I swear to Eywa and everything she deems sacred, I’ll slam you down and make you swallow every sorry sound you choke in front of the whole clan.”
Neteyam’s smirk froze, then vanished almost as quickly as it came. His ears were the ones to flick forward now, sharp at the ends and persistently alert. His golden eyes that had been mocking you a heartbeat ago had darkened into molten amber pits, pupils narrowing to slits. The perfect son was gone entirely.
His tail lashed once, hard enough to slap the air as he twisted his body entirely to tower over yours. It was the first time in all your years of knowing him where he had ever intimidated you, because it was the first time in all the years you’d known him that his size truly registered. Tall, and broad, and built like the future leader he was meant to be.
Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, tracing the sharp lines of his frame all the way down until they stopped to linger on the bold stripes that curved low around his hipbones and disappeared beneath the edge of his loincloth. They had always stood out more than anyone else’s, as darker, thicker, more prominent than the others. The Tawtute genes, you told yourself, that’s why they were like that, no other reason, certainly. A flush crawled up your neck, hot and confusing, and what would have been disguised as pure rage to any onlooker.
It pressed in on you though, close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin. Because, it didn’t feel like pure rage alone. Your mind could try to convince you, but your body would do otherwise, betraying your thoughts with that persistent betraying flicker of your tail.
And Neteyam noticed. Of course he noticed.
“Keep staring like that, Fang,” he said, leaning in until his breath stirred the loose strands of hair at your temple, “and I’ll give you something real to choke on.”
The words hit low and vicious, a promise wrapped in threat and before you even processed which arm had lifted first, your hand, with pre-curled fingers was already moving toward his chest to shove him back as hard as you possibly could. A hiss so guttural and sharp tearing from your gaping mouth, decorated by the furiously purple hue that painted your face like a white canvas.
His own shot up just as yours had, catching your wrist mid-air in a grip like the metal on the ships the sky people flew. Not painful, but almost entirely unbreakable.
For one suspended heartbeat you were locked there, with his fingers around your wrist and bodies inches apart, both of you breathing hard, tails thrashing in mirrored fury. The space between you felt suddenly too small, the air too thick.
Then Jake’s voice cracked through it like a whip.
“I said enough!”
He was on you in two strides, one massive hand clamping the back of Neteyam’s neck, the other seizing your upper arm and hauling you both apart with force that made your feet skid on the woven mat.
Jake’s eyes were wild, ears pinned flat, chest heaving.
“You two are done,” he growled, voice shaking with barely-leashed anger. “Done acting like feral animals that can’t control their emotions. Grown adults and I’m still treating you two like I did when you were twelve.”
He exhaled sharply, making the decision at that moment.
"You're going out to the eastern watchpost. Tonight. Just the two of you." He held up a hand when you both opened your mouths to protest. "No arguments, not a goddamn word. It's an hour ride so that's plenty of time to cool off and you'll spend the entire night there.”
Jake was not having it. “I want the supplies inventoried, the platforms repaired, and I want every corner of every ridge scouted for any signs of human activity, and you're going to do every moment of it together. You'll eat together, sleep in the same goddamn hammock if you have to, and you'll come back tomorrow morning acting like the future leaders you're supposed to be."
He released you with a shove toward the rookery.
“Go saddle your Ikran’s.”
When the two of you hesitated, Jake snarled “Now! And if I hear one more word out of either of you before you’re out of my sight, I swear to Eywa I’ll tie you both to the same tree instead.”
Jake's voice sounded so tired and the clearing had gone deathly quiet. Neteyam’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing and he was the first to turn without even so much as a glance in your direction, stalking toward the rookery with rigid shoulders, his braids swaying with each step, and every taut line of him vibrating with a restraint he almost lacked.
You stood frozen for half a breath longer, heart hammering against your ribs, wrist still burning where his grip had been. Then you turned too, spine straight with the kind of discipline that fooled everyone but the Sullys, because Neteyam and Jake could both see the bruise that adorned your ego, they just both knew better than to comment on it this far in.
The young warriors scattered around the training grounds let their conversations die and bows lower as you both strode past. Your ikran sensed the rage rolling off you and answered your call with shrieks and flared wings, and an agitation that mimicked your own. And you mounted without glancing at Neteyam once, attaching your queues to the end of your Ikrans with what was probably a little more force than necessary. He did the same and Jake watched it all with a tired stare as Neteyam banked east first, cutting through the darkness like a blade, before you followed silently behind him without a glance back.
Jake finally let out the breath he’d been holding, dragging a tired hand down his face. The forest answered him with the soft rustle of leaves and distant night calls of your fleeting Ikrans, nature utterly unconcerned with the problem he’d just sent walking into it. He had broken up enough sparring matches to know the difference between anger and whatever that had been.
Eywa help them, he thought. Because I am officially out of patience.
Behind him, the rustle leaves and heavy approaching footsteps had his ears perking up, expecting the presence before the sound of a low chuckle could startle him. The sound of a man who had already arrived at the same conclusion and was simply waiting to see if Jake would catch up.
Jake turned to find your father standing there, arms crossed, tail swaying lazily behind him as his eyes tracked the two figures disappearing into the trees. There was concern there, yes, but there was also something else that Jake had seen displayed on his face every time your families met and you and his son fought. Something almost… entertained.
Your father watched the treeline a moment longer before he spoke, his expression thoughtful rather than amused, though the hint of it lingered all the same.
“You finally snapped.” He said, eyes not glancing at Jake, but to the sway of trees that shielded your retreating forms in the distance. “Only took till the moment they stopped trying to fight clean.”
Jake let out a slow breath and rubbed at the back of his neck, because that had been the exact moment his stomach had dropped, when the spar had stopped looking like training and started looking like something feral. “I told myself it was just their temper getting the best of them,” he admitted. “That they’d settle once one of them landed a solid hit, but I’ve never seen them go at it like that.”
Your father hummed softly in agreement. “Even anger has rules.” He said. “What I just saw forgot them. No form. No distance. Just hands… wherever they could reach.” Your fathers eyes finally glanced over to Jake, a knowing smirk leaving him chuckling at the revelation.
Jake snorted quietly, humour slipping through despite himself and soon they were laughing low in unison. “My son knows better than that.”
“As does my daughter,” He replied, and there it was, that note of worried pride that always crept in when he spoke of her. “Which is how I know they have reached a point where the body starts answering questions the mind refuses to ask.”
“You’re worried.” Jake observed.
“I am a father,” he simply replied, and then after a beat added, “And I have eyes. I know Neteyam is fond of her.”
“He wont–,” Jake moved to start comforting his friend, shifting to place a hand on his shoulder when your father let a short snort leave him.
“I do not worry about Neteyam, I worry about her,” he said, with no effort to soften the curve of his mouth. “Neteyam has always known where the line is even when he pretends not to, and I have watched him choose restraint around her provoking comments time and time again. When it would have been easier not to.” A pause, then quieter, “That matters to me. It is her who has no restraint.” He ended with a chuckle.
Jake’s smirk lingered, but it softened at the edges, tempered by something more careful in tone. “Yeah, well, they have both been very good at lying to themselves.” He let a beat pass before he chuckled. “Well, maybe not your daughter, she can’t lie to save her life.”
“It really is her we should worry about.” Your father laughed. “If I were foolish enough to wager,” he suddenly turned, clapping a hand to Jake’s shoulder, “I would bet they return insisting the night was torture, then flinch every time their queues touch because they finally know what they’re used for.”
This time, the laugh Jake let out was almost too loud for his liking, glancing around in hopes that no one had heard the less than tasteful wording.
“I’m not taking that bet,” he said, then hesitated, the amusement fading just enough to let the doubt through. “I expected you to be angrier with me for sending them off together.”
Your father snorted. “You did the same with Neytiri,” he replied. “And you didn’t exactly handle it with grace.”
Jake grimaced. “That was different.”
“No, It was not,” he said lightly, his gaze flicking back toward the trees, “and Neteyam’s trying too hard not to cross the same line. My daughter has never been good at pretending there isn’t one.”
Jake exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, rubbing yet another exhaustedly stressed hand down his face at the implication of his words. “I’m not gonna sleep tonight.”
“Good,” Your father said quietly. “Someone should keep watch. In case they burn the forest down. Let us just hope we do not share the name Grandfather and time soon either.”
Your feet hit the platform before his did, heavy with a careless thump that transitioned quickly into long strides against the creaking wood, riddled with the intention of getting as far away from Neteyam as possible, who was landing close behind you. There wasn’t anywhere far to run off too, especially in the dark of night on a foreign base you had visited not even twice before, so you settled towards the end of the platform on a pile of large crates that rattled against your weight.
Neteyam dismounted much slower than you had, gently detaching his queue, before petting his Ikran three times, signalling its dismissal to perch elsewhere. It left with a shriek, chasing your own which had scattered the moment you landed.
Moonlight filtered through the canopy above, adorning everything in a bleary silver and deep shadows illuminated by bioluminescent blues. The base was rickety and barely large enough to accommodate a few people with all the supplies stolen and housed from the sky-people around. The wooden branches sagged and the leather tarp frayed, neglected and unkept for what seemed to be decades. But it was going to have to work considering you were banished here for the night.
Neteyam didn’t look at you right away. He took the first few moments to busy himself checking over the boxes, silently counting the stock in the typical Neteyam way that forced him to be a stickler for the rules, to listen to every authoritative voice, to be the most stuck up Na’vi to ever grace Pandora's blue planet.
It took him a second of a forced and uncomfortable silence before he finally broke the tension, his voice low and failing to hide the tinge of irritation behind it despite his attempts to at least try and get something done. “We should start with inventory. Get it over with.”
You didn’t move from your position on the crate farthest south. And you almost laughed at how pathetically authoritative he attempted to sound, because you knew his blood still seared hot with boiling anger at being scolded not even an hour ago. Instead, you tugged at the string of the bow you had picked up from beside you, slowly swaying the one foot you left dangling as you fidgeted with the fraying thread.
“Do it yourself.”
Your voice – so dismissive and blunt in tone – had Neteyam’s pointy ears pinning back and deep amber eyes snapping at you in a quick, sharp warning.
“Do not start.”
You took the first moment since he entered to direct your attention away from the flimsy bow, finally looking up at him with an all too unimpressed glare. “Too late.” You sneered, your typical fang glaring snare on full display. “You started it the second you opened your skxawng mouth back at the training camp. Even children know to be silent when Toruk Makto speaks, yet somehow you can not manage to get that through your thick skull?”
“My thick skull?” Neteyam’s big eyes bore straight through your own, blown wide and non-blinking almost as if trying to read you for an answer he wasn’t going to find. He looked absolutely exasperated and a breathy laugh that held no humor escaped his lips as he shook his head. “Thats rich coming from the one who is sat on a crate of knives, doing absolutely nothing.”
“We are only here because perfect son could not bite his golden tongue long enough to remember his father was still speaking. You listen to him when we're here but not when it counts back home. I thought you were supposed to be the smart and disciplined one.”
“Kind of difficult to concentrate on a lecture when the woman threatening to make me choke is attempting to swing her claws into my chest.”
“I only reacted because you–!”
The words stuttered in your throat, dying in your mouth as heat flooded your face in a violent wave, remembering what led to your outburst in the first place. Remembering the explicit words he let slip from soft yet smug lips like he had any right saying it in the first place.
–Because you speak lewd words that should only be muttered between the most established of mates.
“–Because I what?” Neteyam’s voice was softer now, but the smirk that followed was anything but gentle. It spread slow and lethally arrogant across his face, eyes glinting with a new light that felt almost predatory, as if he’d just found the one loose thread that would unravel you completely.
“Because–” Your face was so flushed, you could hardly bring the words to the surface. “–Because you- you have a vulgar mouth! Y-You speak filth just to provoke me.”
“Vulgar?” Neteyam's eyes glinted with something completely different from the irate exasperation from earlier, it was like his entire demeanor had calmed, replaced completely by that arrogant smirk, like he was the only one able to translate the book the two of you had been trying to read your whole lives. “Me? I think I recall you mentioning something about slamming me down on my back.”
A sharp gasp tore from your throat. The words hit like a physical blow, twisting your earlier threat into something raw and unmistakable. Your face burned hotter, if that was even possible, violet spreading across your cheeks as you instinctively looked him up and down.
“That is not what I speak!” you snapped, the words tumbling out too fast and breathless to be convincing. You almost kicked yourself for the delivery. “Why must you keep bringing up those words?”
“Because you are the one who said them,” he replied evenly as he began stepping closer. His strides were so deliberate, as if planned in advance, and unhurried, as if you were not another moment away from clawing out his eyes. “You just don’t like what they mean.”
“They meant nothing,” you shot back, chin lifting in defiance. “You twist everything.”
The sound of Neteyam’s footsteps drew your eyes to lock on his figure, tall and looming as he strutted one slow step at a time closer, and you found your eyes doing that traitorous thing they did a lot now, wander. Wander down. And down.
It started with his face, as you watched the sway of his braids while he strode with that infuriating arrogance, brushing the sharp lines of his jaw with a clatter of his beads. Then it was his impossibly round eyes fixed right on you – which they always seemed to be when you were around – unblinking and heated through a downwards gaze. They were eyes that masked what you knew to be such a conceited personality as so deceivingly innocent.
Soon your gaze fell to the wide frame of his shoulders and the firmness of his chest, and it dawned on you that you’d only just noticed how much broader they had become over the years spent together, carved from tireless hours of drawing bowstrings and traversing the harsh landscape of Omatikiya forest, lean with muscle that shifted under blue skin with every stride he took closer.
Your eyes wandered again until they finally fell right to where they seemed to stop at a lot now; his lower body, narrow hips marked by the most vibrant stripe pattern you’d ever seen on any man – on any Na’vi you’d laid eyes on. They were darker and thicker, more pronounced and unlike any others, they trailed off and disappeared so low into his loin cloth it almost felt purposeful in the way they pulled your eyes. Like they were specifically made to draw your eyes and your eyes only, and hold them there by design.
Those lines were unnatural in their perfection and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that they made your face so hot and your heartbeat feel as if it could move to places it should not be, and it especially wasn’t fair that it wasn’t a you thing, it was a him thing. You only liked it on him.
You told yourself for the hundredth time – that it was the Tawtute genes making everything about him just a little too defined, a little larger. Not that you were staring, of course, just studying. Because he was different and you were always curious, you told yourself. But your tail flicked once, another betrayal that told you that was a lie, and you prayed the shadows hid it..
The shadows did not hide it. And of course he noticed.
Neteyam slowed, stopping just close enough that the space between you felt inconsequential. He wasn’t touching you, at least not yet and somehow it still felt as if he had pressed his entire body against yours. As if you were suffocating beneath him.
His gaze dipped and it wasn’t hurried, but it wasn’t subtle either, following the same path yours had just taken; down the line of his chest, over the sharp cut of his hips, to the stripes adorning his body next to the band of his loincloth before lifting again, eyes glinting with the most unbearably smug sense of amusement you’d imagine possible from a single man at the realisation he had just made.
It was silent for a beat, air heavy with tension before Neteyam spoke.
“You must really like my loincloth.”
Your ears shot straight up and outwards, standing tall and perky as if alerted by a lingering predator, eyes blowing wide as you shot your head up to meet his gaze head on.
“Shut up–!”
“–You know, my mother makes them–”
“ –I don’t care–!”
“ –Shall I ask her to make another? She does adore you–”
“–You do not know anything–!”
“–I know exactly when you lie.”
The words were being sputtered so fast, they crashed into each other in an overlapping, frantic mess. To any onlooker, it would have almost sounded as if you were talking in unison.
Your tone was desperately sharp, doused in mortification and hidden in anger. And his was flooded with pure, unadulterated tease, knowing very well how every word he spoke rolled down your ears and crawled beneath your skin. You blushed so often around him he could almost mistake you as a purple Na’vi now.
The overlap fell apart as abruptly as it had started. You glared at him, chest tight, ears still rigid with embarrassment and fury, daring him to say one more thing. He didn’t…
At least, not right away.
His gaze dipped instead, unashamed and bashfully amused, tracking back down to where yours had been just moments ago. His mouth curved like he’d found something amusing he was excited to explain. But you knew he was only rubbing the fact that he caught you staring in.
“My mother uses five beads on each knot,” he said smugly, and you followed his fingers as they brushed against the small carved beads on the loincloth’s cords. “She says it is the number of balance. Five for the senses and all.”
Then he suddenly looked up at you, those overly round, innocent eyes portraying that innocence all too well. “Seems it isn’t working, you don’t look very balanced right now.”
If you were in half a mind with any common sense, you would have scolded him once again and shoved him as far back as your arms would allow in hopes for a little space and clarity. Unfortunately for you, however, that sense was ripped directly out of your already fumbling grasp the moment your eyes followed his hands to where he gripped that damned loincloth you really couldn’t escape.
They were larger and longer than others, scarred from weaponry and cliff climbing, and calloused in places where the overuse was notable. His fingers grasped the thread of the cloth, and as his grip tightened, the purple veins littering the surface of his skin protruded along with it.
Watching the way his fingers curled, and the way his veins pulsed, it sent heat crawling up your throat and pooling behind your ears. Every flex of a tendon, every faint flicker of those tiny freckled lights, felt like a private taunt aimed straight at whatever composure you had left.
You swallowed hard, forcing your voice steady even as it came out breathier than you wanted. “Five is a greedy number anyway.” You muttered, eyes still traitorously fixed on his hands.
His gaze followed yours until it landed on his hands – on the way your eyes lingered there too long, and the way your breath had betrayed you before your mouth ever could. A slow smile curved across his lips, smug and knowing.
“Greedy?” He echoed softly. Without haste, he lifted those hands, the ones you couldn’t stop staring at, toward your face. “Is that what you think this is?”
His long fingers spread deliberately to parade all five fingers to your wide, helpless eyes, and began wriggling them in slow, teasing beats as if he, too, were suddenly fascinated by the anatomy you’d just mocked.
“Tawtute.” He uttered, his voice dipped low with smug delight. “That is what you call me.”
He let his hands hover close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his palms, close enough that if you stuck your tongue out just slightly, you’d be able to taste the skin. Close enough, that the fact you had even entertained that thought made you sick to your stomach with dizzying confusion.
“Txampay tawtute.” He purred, eyes half-lidded and glinting as he drank in the flush climbing your neck.
Then, unhurried and impossibly sure of himself, he leaned in. His body now crowding every inch of air yours occupied, chest nearly brushing yours, until he reached past your shoulder and caught your wrist in one smooth motion. He brought your hand up between you to display the four fingers you always had, and his golden eyes gleamed as if it was the first time he had seen it. Slowly, he lifted his own hand to mirror yours, five fingers spread to contrast the four of your own just across from his, hovering directly opposite it.
“Demon blood.” He muttered, though he wasn’t offended. It was more a statement, or amused even, awaiting a reaction.
You watched, breath caught, as he hesitated for a single heartbeat, watched in your peripheral as his eyes bore into your face, searching for any flicker of protest or resistance. A sign that never came.
And once he realized that, he dipped one long finger down between the gaps of yours. Then another, and another until he slid each one of his fingers between your own, interlocking your hands like he was claiming every unoccupied space he could find.
“Do you call me tawtute so often because you think about how my hands would feel on you?”
Then he guided your joined hands, fully intertwined, up and back, lifting them slowly until your knuckles brushed the rough-woven wall behind you. He pressed them there and the motion brought him so much closer, it was as if he had taken up all the air, because why were you suddenly finding it so much more difficult to draw a breath?
“Neteyam.” The name came out like an unsure whine, nothing like the sharp hiss you’d wielded against him a thousand times before. Because the last place you had ever imagined yourself being was here, pinned beneath the steady weight of his gaze, his body, his five greedy fingers laced so perfectly through your four and it confused you that no fiber of your being was begging to reject it.
You watched with greedy eyes as his face twisted from out of your view, head shifting down towards the crook of your neck and the frantic rate of your breath betrayed every last pretense of calm. His mouth stopped just on the cusp of your left ear, and you felt the warm, velvet skin of his lips brushing the sensitive shell of it, tied with the cherry on top by the soft sway of his braid against your cheek and the smell of him. That intoxicating scent which smelt of eclipse leaves and sweet hearth vines.
They had been your favourite scents for as long as you could remember, and it was only just dawning why that is now.
He took a beat, his breath warm on your skin before he spoke. “I know you hate me.”
You did. You hated him, the Olo'eyktan perfect first born. The boy that followed you like a shadow through the winding roots of Hometree. The child you had been measured against since the first time a blade had been pressed into your palms.
“Neteyam learns quicker,”
“Neteyam already wields a bow,”
“Neteyam never loses his temper.”
You had heard it from your father your entire life and you hated him for being the excellence you couldn’t be. You hated that he wore it so smug. And more than anything, you hated that he actually tried to soften it and make space for you beside him instead of behind. He was so good to you, and you hated that he never got mad when it counted.
And now – now – you couldn’t reconcile that boy with the man standing close enough to steal your breath, hands steady where your resolve should have been. You couldn’t fathom how you were letting him do this. How the same Neteyam you’d spent years resisting, spitting at, and training like Eywa herself had told you to do so in order to best him, had slipped past your defenses without even raising his voice. All it took was him invading your space closer than he ever tried before and your resolve dwindled.
“I know you think you hate me.” He repeated, but this time you could hear the smirk that crept up his irritatingly gorgeous face. “But you never look at me like this when you say it. And this–” his free hand drifted down, fingertips ghosting along the tense line of your hip until they found the base of your tail, “--this is the most still your tail has been all night.”
The gentle, knowing stroke along the sensitive underside made your spine arch involuntarily before you could stop it, so far into him you could feel the press of everything below his loincloth against your lower belly and it made you whine. A guttural, involuntary sound you didn’t mean to make, nor had you realised escaped you until Neteyam’s glowing amber eyes widened alongside his smile.
You struggled to find your voice, with the overwhelming feeling of Neteyam all around you, touching every inch of your skin, all consuming and intoxicating but when you did, it was breathy and weak.
“Do not–” you stuttered, pausing your words to find breath.
Then your voice came again, interrupting his thoughts in a moment where his grip faltered slightly around your fingers and tail. You sounded so primitive and defeated, it was like the entire forest in a ten-mile radius had stilled.
“–stop.”
Neteyam stilled, mind reeling and eyes searching every inch of your face in desperate search of an answer to an unspoken question you sparked within him. Do not? Stop?
Do not stop?
He gawked at you, ogling at every inch of your face in hopes of an answer. Your eyes, droopy and half-shut, turned sideways as if too ashamed to look him in the eyes. Mouth just a touch open, drawing long and heavy breaths, and your beautiful blue skin, flushed that purple colour he was becoming so fond of seeing, gleaming with a layer of warm, sleek sweat.
You looked absolutely ruined. And he absolutely detested the idea that you might have been telling him to stop – truly stop – his advances because now that he had a glimpse of such a sight, he cursed the idea that he may never see it again knowing exactly what you looked like underneath him. So he waited with baited breaths, a wait you did not make him stand long for, and then you delivered.
“Do.. not.. stop.” You spoke between heavy breaths. “Neteyam, please.”
And then he saw it. The way you had been pressing up against his right thigh, locked between both your own thighs and rubbing against your core, just close enough to create friction. The sight and the plea shattered whatever thin thread of control he’d been clinging to as he finally realised what you meant.
A low, guttural sound rumbled from deep in his chest, a half growl, half reverent thanks to Eywa herself, as he surged forward, releasing your tail momentarily, only for the hand to sweep through the air, landing right on the back of your neck as he pulled you towards him with a roughness he rarely displayed.
And that's when it finally happened. His mouth crashed against yours, hungry and possessive, swallowing the next broken gasp that spilled from your lips. His fingers curled into the sensitive skin just below your hairline in a way that made your knees weaken, and had you not still been sitting on this crate, you were sure you would have faltered and folded to the ground.
His tongue pushed at the seam of your lips, coaxing them apart with a devastating hunger, as if he had been waiting far too long to claim this moment, only clarified with the roll his body made to press into your own. The muscles of his abdomen elongated and protruded against the skin, screaming at you to touch them, to feel them, as he pushed your intertwined hands further back into the wall.
That was when his hand around your neck finally began its descent downwards. It started at your shoulders, brushing against your collarbone and lingering just a moment around your breasts. He swirled against the curve underneath the soft fat and the trail left hot tingles in its wake, sending blood rushing to every nerve the pinpoint of his fingertips lined.
It continued on, searing down the arc of your waist, against the curve of your hips and drew a curl to stop just a few paces below your belly button, and yet not even a breath above from the band of your loincloth.
Your breath hitched as those fingers paused there, so achingly close, tracing lazy, maddening patterns just above the thin strip of woven fabric – the only thing left between you and completely surrendering to the man who haunted your every waking moment. Neteyam pulled back from the kiss, only far enough to watch your contorting face, the molten amber of his eyes now nearly non-existent, replaced almost entirely by his pupils, blown wide with lust and a restraint that was seconds from snapping.
He could feel the heat radiating from you, and could tell you were trying to resist whatever thoughts were happening in your head, unsuccessfully so. He could see it in the way your thighs tremored ever so subtly, and in the way your hips shifted restlessly against him, as if seeking friction but hating who the friction you seeked came from. A low, approving, yet humoured growl rumbled in his throat as he pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged.
“You're always so responsive.” He murmured, voice gravelly, lips brushing yours as he spoke and fingers still working their patterns at the lowest part of your belly. “Every touch… you light up for me.”
“You always think you know what I feel.” The words spat harsh but breathless, trying desperately to deny him the satisfaction of winning.
But Neteyam just laughed, stating flatly. “Your freckles glow, fang.”
And your flush deepened knowing your body was betraying your mind.
“Stop talking. I still despise you.”
Neteyam took the opportunity to lean back, making enough room to have a full view of your body without disconnecting your lower bodies. Finally his hand strayed from your belly, sliding to the left of it before stopping right at the rope that knotted your loincloth into place. He glanced down at it expectantly, then up to meet your eyes, his own glinting with mischief.
“Funny way of showing it.” He commented.
Then his fingers pulled at the string, and all you did was let your head fall back against the wall in response.
The knot gave with a soft tug, the woven cord loosening until the loincloth sagged against your hips, and you felt the cool air kissing at your newly exposed skin. It left your sighing, and Neteyam actually laughed at the sight of you.
His next move was to grab at your right leg, lifting it high until it settled on top of his right shoulder. The motion had you shifting forward slightly, nearly hanging off the edge of the crate now. Once it was placed, he leaned down, meeting the slant of your body against the crate until his face met just above yours.
“No fangs now, huh?” He taunted, voice dripping with smug triumph, his breath hot against your lips as his free hand slid up the thigh draped over him with the most reverently possessive grip.
Your eyes narrowed, a spark of fury cutting through the haze of pleasure. “I’ll silence you.”
Before he could fire back another cocky word, you flexed the leg hooked over his shoulder and shoved hard. Your heel dug into the muscle of his back as you pushed, using every bit of leverage to force him downward and surprise flashed across his face for a split second before he dropped to his knees in front of you, left hand disconnecting from yours and instinctively reaching to grip your hips as a means to steady himself.
There he was – all mighty Neteyam, son of Toruk Makto, future Olo’eyktan – kneeling between your thighs, directly in front of your exposed core, with amber eyes flicking a mix of shock, defeat and drooling hunger.
You let your head rest back against the wall again, eyeing him through the brush of your lower lashes and fingers threading roughly into his braids to hold him exactly where you wanted him.
“I told you I’d make you swallow your sorry sounds.” And with a sharp tug forward, the control had been shifted to your hands. “Now swallow.”
The low, involuntary groan that vibrated through his chest and into your core was the only answer he managed before his mouth obeyed. His head moved first then his tongue dragged slow and deliberate, tasting you like he’d been starving for years and refused to rush the meal. But the grip you kept in his braids, tight and unforgiving, told him exactly who set the pace.
Heat slammed through you, ugly and mixed with the pure rage of having him under you. You hated him for making your body clench like this, hated the way your thighs shook because his tongue felt so damn good, but hated it more that you questioned if the reason he felt so good was because he had done this before. Hated that the idea made you jealous.
You were a mix of pleasure and shame – that Neteyam was on his knees, eating you out like he had no choice and that he was disgustingly good at it. And when you rolled your hips forward, demanding more, he gave it without hesitation, lips sealing around you, tongue curling deep and relentless, then it dawned on you that he was worshipping your clit like he was singing a prayer.
Your thighs trembled around his shoulders, the leg still hooked there locked tighter, heel pressing between his shoulder blades to keep him exactly where you wanted him – on his knees, serving the woman who’d sworn to hate him forever. And he did it so well you had been reduced to a moaning, whining and squirming mess beneath his hands that were holding you down.
“Eywa, shit– Y/n– ” The name slipped out raw and whiny, and the vibration of his voice had you absolutely feral, snapping in an instant. But not to your end. No.
Because the only thing you could think about was why he felt so good. Why he was so talented at everything. The idea of him having experience with this, of him doing this to someone else, made something vicious twist in your chest.
So your hand in his hair tugged hard, snapping his head back and away from your core to glance up at you with daze in his eyes and your slick dripping down his chin.
He blinked up at you, lips swollen and shining, breath coming in rough pants. For once, the smugness was gone, replaced by raw, hazy want and a flicker of confusion at the sudden stop.
You stared down at him, chest heaving, jealousy burning hotter than the aftershocks still pulsing between your legs, and the words came sharp, cutting through the air like an arrow.
“Who else?” You spat, voice accusatory and ugly with envy, fingers tightening in his braids in a visceral way you couldn’t help.
“What?” He sounded so breathless, and so confused, eyes still foggy from being buried between your thighs.
“You move like this isn’t new for you.” You snapped, the words spilling out jagged. “People don’t learn that by accident.”
“Fang, what are you–”
Then your mouth spat the words like the answer was so obvious, like you had been just waiting for the name to be mentioned. “ –It is An’aya, isn’t it?”
“An’aya!?” He said it like the name didn’t belong here at all. Because it didn’t. Because twenty seconds ago he was face-deep drowning in what he deemed to be his new favourite flavour, and now he’s thinking of a girl he’s barely spent more than 10 minutes alone with.
“You lie with her too!” The accusation came out sharp enough to feel final, as if it wasn’t something to be debated and you had already made up the answer.
Neteyam stared up at you for a beat, eyes wide, mouth still wet and open like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or groan. Then the laugh won, short and completely disbelieving as the weight of your words settled into him. He searched your eyes, stern and glazed, angry with something he knew you barely understood and it dawned on him. Holy shit.
“You are jealous.” He said it so incredulously, like it was the best revelation he made all week. A rough laugh tore out of him, head tipping back in your grip, the sound raw and disbelieving. And it was like you couldn’t even deny it, all you could do was sneer your usual fang baring scowl and snap your head away with a tsk of your tongue.
“An’aya?” he rasped, grin sharp and crooked, chin still dripping with you. “Eywa fang, you think I’ve ever touched her? Ever wanted to?”
He shifted forward on his knees, hands sliding up your thighs as he finally raised to his feet off his knees to meet you at eye level. His face was inches from yours, grip firm but not pushing and you watched as that aggravating amusement melted into the softest look you think he had ever sent you. His smugness fell, the cocky edge dulling into something so honest.
“I don’t lie with An’aya. Just you, fang.” he spoke so slowly, voice low and steady, and almost gentle despite the filth of the moment. “I only ever think about you.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Heat flooded your face, your chest, mixing between the jealousy and the flattery until you couldn’t tell which burned more. You didn’t know if you believed him – or more so didn’t know if you wanted to believe him. So you picked your arm up to pinch the side of his ear, using it to drag his face impossibly closer. Your gaze flickered between both his eyes, searching for something, an answer to a question you weren’t even sure you knew what.
For a split second, something in your grip faltered. The idea that he might be telling the truth was somehow worse than the lie. So you tightened your fingers on his ear for a beat before yanking his head back with a force meant to hurt.
“Prove it,” you snarled.
Neteyam’s breath hissed through his teeth at the sting, but the look he gave you was pure lust, not a single trace of softness left. In one brutal motion he tucked one hand under your ass, and the other around the curve of your waist, before spinning you around so fast the world tilted for a fraction of a second. Your chest slammed against the crate, palms scraping metal as he kicked your legs wider and pressed his full weight into your back.
You heard him before you felt him, the quick tug and rustle as he worked the knot of his loincloth free behind you. Something involuntary dragged your head back, forcing you to peek over your shoulder. The fabric fell, and it was like every silent inkling you’d ever felt bite at you, every reflexive moment that told you to study his stripes despite never knowing why, finally dawned on you why it had always been so urging.
Those large, vibrant stripes were only a preview into what the loincloth hid. They tapered lower and thicker up the base of his cock, before finally crawling into a thinning stretch that ended just beyond the tip of his head, which was slick with precum and the most angry, swollen shade of red. Red. Like a Tawtute.
And it was in that moment you realised that all those little characteristics that made him slightly different – the broader shoulders, the extra finger, the sheer size of him below the cloth and the way his tip skin flushed pinker than any Na’vi you’d ever seen – weren’t the flaws or accidents you convinced yourself was the reason you fixated on them. They were proof that he had Toruk Makto’s blood running through him, the son of a leader, born to be a leader. And right now that blood had him hard and leaking for you, the girl who’d spent years calling him sky-demon scum.
The realisation twisted hot and ugly in your gut, hate and want braided so tight you couldn’t pull them apart but that was so swiftly disrupted by the feeling of him pushing forward, the tip of his achingly large cock making contact with your swelteringly wet entrance, and it had you absolutely unraveling at the mere contact of it.
You couldn’t help the moan that slipped out of you at both the stretch he gave with just the top of him, barely even a quarter full, and at the sight of him ogling down at the space between you, at the way the tip of his cock looked barely swallowed inside of your warm hole, his fist gripping at the base.
Neteyam caught the sound, eyes snapping up just in time to see you bury your face in your arm and he laughed that irritatingly smug laugh that vibrated through his chest and into your back.
“Already moaning for me, Fang?” He murmured, voice thick with satisfaction and lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. “You can’t even pretend to hate me anymore.”
“Do not…,” you hissed with a breathy sigh, the words cracking despite your best effort to sound venomous, “…dare assume you know what I feel.”
He hummed, amused, like your denial was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard.
“I do not think I'll have too.”
Goosebumps rose in its wake, your hips stuttering back despite yourself before you could correct it. His hand tightened on your hip, holding you steady, while the other slid up your spine in a slow, deliberate path until his fingers closed gently but firmly around the thick base of your kuru, the long, sacred braid that cascaded down your back.
The feeling of his hand around your kuru had your entire body jolting, a sharp, electrifying shock racing through every nerve in its wake. You spun in his grip with a surprise he’d never seen on you before, eyes blown wide, breath caught, and all that sharp defiance from before suddenly fractured by something he had never seen painted so vulnerably on you.
You looked so unsure, so confused, so conflicted, staring at his hand like it was both a threat and a gateway to something new.
At your face, Neteyam’s expression softened too, the smugness fading completely as he brought the end of your braid up between the two of you, turning it so the the wispy ends of your braid went limp to expose the pink tendrils beneath. They snaked in the air, searching the air as if awaiting what was yet to come.
His own kuru hung over his shoulder, and he used his other hand to grab at it, settling it so close to yours that the tendrils already began reaching for each other, drawn like magnets, but far enough that they did not touch.
“I will not force this, and I will not continue with this if you say no. I honestly don’t think I can.” he said, voice low, rough with restraint but steady. “Tsaheylu with me… or we stop right here. Your choice, Fang. Always your choice.”
The words hung heavy. You hated him for giving you the out. Hated him for making it feel safe to say yes even though you really thought you would have said no. Hated how much you wanted him, and wanted to know what it felt like to be bound to the one person you’d spent your whole life trying to push away.
Your chest rose and fell fast. The tendrils of your kuru twitched, brushing the air toward his and you didn’t speak as you watched them try to connect. Slowly, deliberately, you reached your hand up to wrap around his forearm, watched as the hand that held his kuru faltered at the intrusion and met his eyes as he searched yours for answer.
It didn’t come as a verbal one, but your mind had been made the moment you tugged his arm forward to allow his kuru to connect to yours. And in an instant the tendrils met, wrapping and fusing, snapping the bond into place.
A gasp tore from both of you at once, backs arching, eyes fluttering as raw sensation flooded through. The pleasure was intense and overwhelming, but more than that: every buried feeling, every unspoken want, every flash of anger and longing and need crashed together in a single, shared current that left you both moaning messes.
He groaned your name like it hurt and you whined his so helplessly, fingers digging into his shoulders and the world narrowed to just the two of you.
Neteyam moved first, hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he spun you both around and sank to his knees. He laid you gently on the cool floor beneath him, settling between your legs, face-to-face now with his forehead pressed to yours, kuru still joined, the bond pulsing with every heartbeat.
He slid back into you slowly, eyes never leaving yours, letting you feel everything – his awe, his hunger, the years of wanting you he’d hidden behind every smirk and fight. And you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and for the first time with there being no crate, no wall, no anger between you, nothing but the bond, neither of you could deny the truth that lingered between you for years anymore.
The bond made it unbearable in the best way because you could feel everything.
You could feel every slow drag of him inside you echoed back through the link. You felt his pleasure at how tight and wet you were, your helpless clench around him, and the ache that flared harder with every inch he gave. You felt the way your body gripped him like it never wanted to let go, and he felt it too, a low, broken groan rumbling from his chest as his hips finally seated flush against yours.
“Fuck–” he breathed, voice ragged, forehead still pressed to yours. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, the golden amber almost gone. “You feel… I can feel you everywhere.”
You couldn’t answer with words. The bond carried it for you: the rush of heat, the ache, the impossible fullness of him stretching you open while his emotions poured into you
He started to move, slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that dragged the thick length of him along every sensitive spot inside you. Each thrust sent a wave through the bond, pleasure looping between you until it built on itself, amplifying, stealing your breath. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red lines over his stripes; he hissed and answered by snapping his hips harder, driving a sharp cry from your throat.
Through the link you felt how much he loved that sound, how it made him throb inside you, how close he already was to losing control and you responded by sticking your mouth to his neck, and sucking hard in an attempt to quiet yourself.
“Tell me,” he rasped, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, keeping your faces close, noses brushing, “tell me you feel it too.”
You did. Eywa, you did. The anger was still there, flickering at the edges, but it only made the pleasure sharper, almost as if the bond was burning it clean and turning years of hate into something so much more overwhelming.
“I feel you,” you finally gasped as your mouth left his neck with a slimy pop, and you noticed the angry purple mark that sat in its wake. Your voice cracked, legs tightening around his waist to pull him impossibly deeper. “All of you. Don’t stop–!”
The next thrust ended with another broken sound from you, a half-moan, half-word that slurred through your tongue almost incomprehensibly.
“Mmm– ’tayem–”
Neteyam’s rhythm faltered for a heartbeat, then picked up again, faster now with a cocky triumph you felt flooding the bond like heat. A low, smug chuckle vibrated against your neck as he nipped the skin, sucking and pinching at it with pride.
“I got you that good, huh?” He murmured, voice rough but dripping with satisfaction, hips rolling deep and deliberate. “Got the stubborn Fang stuttering my name?”
You tried again, desperate, the pleasure coiling so tight you could barely think.
“Ma– tayem–”
He laughed again, breathlessly arrogant and loving every moment of this – loving that you, always so sharp-tongued and composed, always throwing insults at him and trying to embarrass him in front of your families, was reduced to this, such a moaning, whiny mess you couldn’t even get his name correct.
“Can’t even get your words right,” he teased, smirking against your lips, eyes gleaming down at you with such amusement. “If only everyone could see you now.”
“Ma ‘teyam.” You managed it this time, much clearer and insistent of every syllable that trembled out of you on the next thrust. And he froze.
Not completely, his hips still rocked shallow and instinctively, but the rhythm stuttered hard, like someone had yanked his hips backwards and held them still. His eyes widened, searching yours through the haze, the cocky smirk smacked off his face in an instant as the meaning finally slammed into him.
Ma ‘teyam.
Your Neteyam
The bond flared hot with it, your claim, raw and unfiltered, pouring straight into him. A ragged groan tore out of his chest, half between shock and something much, much deeper, like a stirring pot of pleasure and disbelief and possession all tangled together into two bodies merged as one. His forehead dropped to yours again, losing every trace of that smug control because the words were echoing through the link like a vow, and it broke him.
A low, guttural groan ripped from his throat, deep and wrecked and his whole body shuddered as the realization hit him harder than any phrase ever uttered to him. His hips jerked forward once, hard and uncontrolled, completely unlike his usual poise, as he buried himself to the hilt inside you, and that was it. He came with a broken cry of your name, voice cracking on the syllables as he spilled hot and deep, pulse after thick pulse flooding you.
The bond amplified everything and you felt every throb of his release as if it were your own and that made yours follow soon after, the overwhelming rush of his pleasure crashing into yours, the way his heart slammed against his ribs, the dizzying mix of disbelief and euphoria that Neteyam was now claimed by you in the most intimate way possible, solidified by the way your attached kuru still hung besides you, your deep purple marks decorated his neck, and your bodies lay against each other, sleek and fucked out.
His forehead pressed hard to yours, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in harsh, uneven pants against your lips. His arms trembled as he held himself above you, hips still twitching with aftershocks, grinding slow and shallow as if he couldn’t bear to pull out.
“Fuck… fuck–” he gasped, voice hoarse and trembling, nothing left of the smug warrior who’d been teasing you since you got to this forsaken watchpost. “You… you said…”
“That I despise you?” You murmured, eyes fluttering closed as you breathed him in, beyond exhausted, tail finally curling loose and lazy behind you. “I do.”
A broken laugh tore out of him, warm and disbelieving, his nose brushing yours as his breathing slowly began to steady. “I don’t even need to see your tail to know you lie.”
And as if to prove his point, he brought his hand around to the place where your kurus joined, stroking the exposed, sensitive nerves gently with his thumb. The bond hummed softly at the touch, sending a lazy ripple of warmth through you both and your tail flicked once, then curled deliberately around his thigh, holding him close.
He felt it, of course and a quiet, satisfied hum left his chest.
“See?” He whispered, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “Even your tail is done fighting me.”
You opened one eye, glaring weakly up at him. “Don not get used to it, skxawng. The second we are back with the clan, I’m telling everyone you cried after your father yelled at you.”
Neteyam snorted, shifting his weight so he could prop himself on an elbow and look down at you properly. His braids fell forward, framing his face, and the bond carried the soft glow of affection he was trying, and miserably failing to hide behind his usual smirk.
“Then I’d have to tell them how the almighty daughter of our clan head warrior begged for me to–”
You slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes narrowing. “Finish that sentence and I’ll bite you again.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, laughter muffled against your palm and you narrowed your eyes as you spoke once more. “I could still push you off this ledge. No one would find the body till morning.”
“Maybe so.” He conceded easily. His hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, thumb brushing the base of your kuru in a way that made your spine shiver despite your best effort to stay at least a little defiant. “But then who would keep you company on patrol anymore? You’d miss arguing with me.”
You huffed, shoving at his chest. “I would finally earn peace.”
“Peace is boring.” He countered, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to the inside of it, soft and infuriatingly gentle. “And you’d miss my family interrupting us every five minutes, thinking they’ll catch you slipping in the act. My dad likes messing with us too much to let you go.”
You snorted, but the sound lacked real venom. “Your father likes me because I’m not afraid to yell at you when you are being an arrogant teylupil. That is not the same as liking me.”
Neteyam’s grin turned softer, eyes crinkling at the corners. “He likes you because you are strong. And because you force me to be better. Even when you are threatening to skin me alive.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, but your tail betrayed you again, curling tighter around his leg like it had decided it wasn’t letting go anytime soon.
“Flattery will not save you,” you muttered, dropping your head back to his chest so you didn’t have to look at that stupid, fond expression on his face. “When we get back at dawn, we say nothing. We walked the perimeter. Inventoried the stock. End of story.”
Neteyam arched a brow, amusement flickering through the bond. “You think they’ll believe that? Nothing has been done here. And you look…” He brushed a thumb over your neck, tracing where his mouth had been earlier. “…thoroughly ruined.”
You swatted his hand away, but there was no real heat in it, not like before. “You look worse. Like you lost a fight with an Ikran.”
He laughed, full and unguarded this time “Then let them think what they want, I already won.” he whispered when you parted.
You rolled your eyes, but your tail tightened around his leg again, betraying you.
“I still despise you,” you muttered into his neck.
⟡♡ all's fair (somewhere between love and war) | i. midoriya ♡⟡
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ you, the new, young teacher at ua high, have the opportunity to work with the worlds greatest hero. however, it doesn't go quite like you thought it would.
-or-
being around izuku makes you feel crazy and you can't help but lash out. lucky for you, his favorite thing is a brat. softdom!teacher!izuku x bratty!teacher!reader⋆｡˚✴︎⋆
11.3k wc
٠࣪⭑ cw: 18+, piv sex, dubcon, softdom!izuku, bratty!fem!reader, vaginal fingering, slight exhibitionism, slight dumbification, SLIGHT subspace but barely, drop of dacryphilia, spitting, spit swallowing, orgasm denial, sex with feelings, izuku is a little mean but not for too long, unprotected sex (wrap it up guys), creampie, no mention of y/n, reader has some anxiety stuff/imposter syndrome
٠࣪⭑ author's note: my baby is finally here! i love teacher izuku with all of my heart, hopefully this does him justice. guys if reader is giving 1% oblivious in this it's because she's slightly crashing out ok? sorry it took so long, i'm addicted to procrastinating! kind of proofread but please excuse any mistakes, and let me know if i missed any tags. i hope you enjoy!
ever since you were little, you’ve liked to play games.
you’ve always been pretty good, too; hard working like that. you win games because you apply yourself, because you commit to your goal and won’t let anything stand between you, and whatever it means to win.
winning a lot makes playing addictive, gives you kind of a high. makes you start to expect to win.
this is how it’s been throughout your life, until you start at your new job. suddenly, you’ve become entangled in a game you never expected.
which gives first, an unstoppable force or an immovable object?
the gates of ua are much taller than you remember.
you stand frozen, gaping at the sprawling campus before you with heart hammering in your chest. your throat feels dry.
you nervously smooth your outfit one last time, lip tucked between your teeth.
the first day is always the hardest. you will be fine; it marches through your mind like a mantra, pushing your feet forward as you take a deep breath, venturing further inside.
there aren’t any students here yet, it being a faculty work day. today is of the last before school officially starts.
and it’s your first official day, besides the very brief walkthrough last week.
when you’d asked about lesson plans, principal yagi had laughed and waved his hand.
“come and meet everyone first, then you can worry about smaller details. besides, we prefer to have the teachers discuss lessons together at the beginning of the year. it’s good to be united and work together!” it’s an exciting thought, collaborating with so many amazing educators. still, daunting.
your fingers tap against the handle of your bag as you awkwardly navigate the vaguely familiar hallways, mentally preparing yourself for the day to come. it’s impossible to ignore the way your heart jumps in your chest, and you heave a small sigh.
it does little to ease the tension you feel.
before throwing you to the fray, principal yagi wanted to give you a personal tour of the grounds. something about an opportunity to ask any final questions and gain some more familiarity with the campus.
“plus, it doesn’t hurt to be seen with the former symbol of peace,” he’d joked over the phone when he’d asked if you would come early today.
you smile at the thought; working under the former no. 1 is one of the main reasons you chose to accept this job, and he seems like he’ll be a wonderful boss and mentor.
it’ll be good to start your first day with just him; despite his fame and stature, all might is a pretty easy guy to be around.
when you find yourself turning the corner to his office, however, his is not the face you see.
there’s no way to explain it. no logic, really, behind the way your body seems to react before your brain has time to catch up. when you take in a breath it almost feels like slow motion.
he’s tall. it’s hard to tell if it’s objectively true or just the way he carries himself, but still, tall is your first thought.
then, good looking. you blink, eyes flitting over him briefly. they register the suit he’s wearing, the scarred hand gripping the strap of a yellow backpack, green tie snug around his neck, cheeky freckles, mussed green hair...
wait, what?
very few people fit such a specific description. the fluttery beat of your heart leers forward into a thundering stomp.
your gaze trails higher, over his neutral, if not for slightly parted lips, expression; over the identifying facial scar; up to—yes, verdant eyes, staring back at you.
you recognize him. of course you recognize him. anxiety and anticipation and admiration all twist into one confusing jumble of emotions.
the other reason you chose to teach at ua when you were considering your options. even if you don’t want to admit it to yourself, you can feel your high school crush on the greatest hero simmering beneath the surface of your skin. a blush creeps onto your cheeks; he’s even cuter in person than he is on a screen.
and he’s real and in person now, standing bashful before you. your brain feels a bit foggy and it takes you a second to notice those pouty lips of his are forming words.
“—is your name, right?”
the realization that he’s asking you shakes you out of your stupor.
“yes!” you squeak, then clear your throat. “yes, it’s my first day. i’m looking for—“
“—probably looking for all might. oh, sor—“
“—sorry! i didn’t mean—“
“—for interrupting!”
both of your words tumble out in rapid succession, overlapping. he pauses, cracks a tiny smile, which breaks into a grin when your blush from before spreads to your whole face.
“you’re deku,” the name slips out without meaning to, and you mentally kick yourself for looking like a fan and not a serious coworker. “i mean—m-midoriya, right? i’ve, uhm, heard of you.” stupid.
you feel so awkward, and you’re already rewriting this conversation in your head when he laughs. it might be the nicest sound you’ve ever heard.
“yes,” he breathes, jovial. “i’ve heard of you, too.”
that really catches your attention.
confusion must cross your face because he’s rushing to clarify, “just, y’know, that we had another young teacher joining us in the hero course!”
you say nothing and he seems to take it as an invitation to keep going. “i might’ve read some of your recommendation letters… everyone speaks really highly of you. i really admire the volunteer work you do, and your quirk counseling out reach program, and all might thinks you’re going to be a good fit here and i can’t help but agree—"
the words pour out like he can’t stop them, until he does, clamping his gnarled hand over his mouth.
it’s kind of… endearing. cute.
you’ve spent so long fretting about your introduction and overthinking every little thing, but it’s actually nice.
he’s so nice.
quite an easy guy to be around, too; must get it from all might. maybe they just rub off on each other.
izuku’s words are like a drive by compliment; disappearing around the corner as soon as they arrive, leaving you reeling.
the way he praises you so readily is nice, too.
the way it twinges something in your chest makes you think you like it a little too much.
“well… thanks.” well don’t sound so excited about it!
“er—thank you, that’s really really nice of you to say!” okay, pull it back now.
“i’m just… really looking forward to working with you,” those vibrant eyes widen slightly and you hastily add, “and… everyone at ua! it’s really exciting to be here!”
he looks slightly lost for words as he drinks you in, drinks up your voice and your mannerisms and your scent. it’s like he’s trying to memorize you.
the intensity of his stare makes you nervous, and you shift slightly, peeking behind him into yagi’s office.
“so is princip—er—is all might back there? he asked me to meet him.”
izuku is still staring. he narrows his eyes slightly, before glancing back at the office.
“no, that’s kind of why i’m here. he had to check on something with the entrance exams and caught me on my way in.” he beams at you and scratches the back of his neck. “i guess i’m your guide today. i’m excited to show you around!”
٠࣪⭑
after that first day, friendship with izuku midoriya feels easy.
he’s just been… around. he holds open the door when you arrive in the morning, brings you coffee at lunch when you mention you’re feeling tired during the morning meeting. he listens when you talk, notices when you’re gone. he’s always so kind, so encouraging; it’s like having your own personal cheerleader.
sometimes, you feel a little crowded. being observed so acutely means being constantly perceived, and he makes it impossible to blend into the background.
٠࣪⭑
it’s been a few months. they passed in a blur; sometimes it feels like no time has passed at all.
you still gnaw at your lip instead of speaking up in meetings, still practice deference to the others.
except for izuku, and maybe yagi, you feel alone here, a little out of your depth.
feeling belonging comes rarely; you’ve hardly felt… seen, not since that first day.
often, you catch yourself searching for him in the halls. every moment of connection, every time he looks at you, sends electricity arcing over your skin.
right now, you’re paired with izuku for a joint lesson. your goal is to pair each student up with one from the other class, aiming to teach the students about collaboration with unknown colleagues and adapting to new situations.
watching him teach is… well, it’s complicated.
it’s inspiring, for one; to watch someone so passionate and thoughtful. he’s so focused, so engaged, it makes you want to do your best too. it’s also intimidating.
he seems to have special way of connecting to the students, anticipating questions before they’re even asked.
it eats you alive, the feeling of inferiority. has you chewing the inside of your cheeks until you taste copper.
you’re both stood before the two classes. izuku is finishing his lecture, addressing his notes occasionally to catch any missed points.
he turns to you, head tilted, and you flush, turning to address the kids.
“don’t forget the goal of this exercise is communication. you need to learn how to adapt to new teammates quickly; you never know who you’ll be working with in the field!”
“that’s right!” he emphasizes, nodding along, “alright guys, let’s split up. make your plans, first teams start in ten minutes.”
as the students break off to work on the assignment, he glances at you.
“so... uh, how have the first few months here treated you?”
it’s an innocent enough question, but the answer feels heavy on your tongue.
“honestly…” the way he’s gazing at you so gently makes it easier to admit. “honestly, it’s been a hard adjustment. i feel like i’m out of my league.”
he smiles, perplexed.
“that’s surprising. you’re such a natural.”
izuku sure is liberal with compliments.
you slap his shoulder playfully. “stop it, i’m barely managing.”
“noooo—“ he shakes his head vigorously in disagreement. “i promise—you make teaching look so easy!”
he makes you feel shy. “yeah, alright,” you mumble, avoiding eye contact.
the praise is almost gratuitous.
eraserhead never fails to point out ways you’ve failed; all might is always pointing out ways you could improve; you can’t help but wonder if deku is laying it on a little thick, like he doesn’t think you can handle the truth.
٠࣪⭑
another month passes, and your imposter syndrome reaches a fever pitch.
there’s one student in your class who is struggling.
she’s really struggling. her quirk development progress is significantly behind the other students, and it seems like everything you try only makes it worse. every encouragement falls on deaf ears; every bit of feedback lands as criticism.
it’s early afternoon, and you’re in your classroom at your desk, pinching your brow as you look over your notes from the day’s training.
there’s a soft knock at the door, and you glance up.
izuku stands in the frame, looking like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible while doing quite the opposite. two steaming paper cups are clutched in his hands. he looks… nervous.
“hey, uhh… need a pick me up? i accidentally made two.”
“midoriya,” you groan. “you’re a lifesaver.”
the blush on his face is unmistakable.
he walks inside the room and sets a coffee down on your desk, then slumps into the chair across from you.
“oh my god, thank you,” you breathe as you glance up and curl your fingers around the cup. the steam wafts towards your face.
“you’re welcome,” he manages sheepishly. “so... what’s going on? you look kinda tense.”
why does he always seem to be aware of how you’re feeling? the tension in your shoulders doesn’t even fully register to you until he addresses it.
you take a gulp of coffee, wince at the bitter taste.
leaning forward in his chair, he reaches like he means to take the cup from you before letting his arm fall, pretending to fiddle with a pen on your desk. “sorry, is it bad?”
it kind of is, but that doesn’t matter; you never told him how you like your coffee, with at least a little cream and maybe some sugar, too.
“i like cream,” you say, but take another sip anyway. it burns your throat, but it also tastes like kindness, so you keep drinking.
“anyway,” you add, “yeah, i’m having some trouble with a student.”
as you fill him in he takes out a little notebook from his pocket and jots a few things down.
“you always take notes like that?” you finally ask after the third time he makes another note.
“yeah, i guess so,” he says, slightly embarrassed. “i just wanted to make sure i got everything down so i can think about it and get back to you.”
you wave him off. “no, no, its okay. don’t worry about it. really, i was just curious if you’ve dealt with something similar.”
“i haven’t,” he admits. of course he hasn’t. “but… let me think about it, okay?”
you nod, and he nods too, satisfied, before standing and walking to the door.
“thanks again for the coffee!” you blurt, but he’s already down the hall.
you take a sip and snort.
who accidentally makes two?
٠࣪⭑
later that week, you experience a truly wretched day.
rain is pouring down thick and steady. without an umbrella, by the time you reach school you’re soaked to the bone.
maybe if he was the first to point it out, you would have laughed, like you do when the front desk admin jokes about your soggy state as you hurry down the hallway towards your class.
“i didn’t know you swam to work!” she calls after you, and you laugh and shake your head.
“yeah, it’s faster!” you toss back, trying not to wince as your shoes make loud squelch sounds as you half walk, half run.
class starts in 10, barely enough time to make yourself presentable.
maybe even if he was the second to say it, like yamada, who spots you as you speed walk past the teachers lounge.
“wooahhhhhh!” he shouts after you, “somebody call the custodian, we’ve got a cleanup on aisle 6! the storm found a way inside and it’s spreading water all over the place!”
you bite the inside of your cheek and turn back to grin sheepishly, stuttering “i-i was running late, okay?”
when you turn again to flee, you run smack into something... broad. blinking, you feel two hands come up to steady you by gripping your arms, hear their owner ask, “sorry! you okay?”
there’s just enough time register a green tie and feel your face erupt into an embarrassed flush; you really don’t want midoriya to see you in such a disheveled state. his eyes flit over you with a look of concern, which turns into a cheeky smile once they settle on your face.
so when he says, “y’know, when the weather’s like this, it’s perfectly okay to hold class inside,” you don’t have it in you to joke anymore.
feeling embarrassed, cold and dripping with rainwater, agitated by your own tardiness, you snap, “yeah, well, i forgot my umbrella,” shrugging out of his grip.
“wait, i was just kidding—"
“‘scuse me, i’m late,” you mutter, brushing by him and sprinting to your classroom.
he stands there, watching you go with a scrupulous expression.
the rest of the morning goes pretty much the same; aizawa drops by to chastise you for your late and unprofessional entrance, yagi sends you an email letting you know that there’s a problem with the last three progress reports you’ve submitted and they need to be redone, and your students seem hell bent on derailing class in any and every way possible.
by the time lunch rolls around, you want to crawl into a hole and disappear.
you manage slip into the teacher’s lounge relatively unnoticed, making a beeline to the fridge and retrieving your food before slinking back towards the door.
unfortunately, you don’t notice the stray cord in your path, tunnel vision focused on the doorway, on freedom. you don’t notice until it’s too late, and the cord has wrapped its way around your ankle and rooted you in place. you don’t notice, because your still moving forward, until suddenly you aren’t, instead careening towards the ground.
it feels like slow motion, the bento falling from your grip and colliding with the ground in a truly spectacular display; the lid pops off, and food splatters everywhere. you stay there on the ground for a second, blinking slowly like you’re in a trance, before scrambling to your feet and clutching the now empty box to your chest. shit. shitshitshit.
your face is on fire as your eyes dart around the room rapidly; with luck, everyone seems to be wrapped up in something else, whether that be work or food or, in aizawa’s case, a sleeping bag.
none seem to notice your predicament, and you think you’ve just gotten away with it, when you look down.
izuku is somehow already on his knees, rag in hand, sweeping up the spoiled food with careful motions. he must have just walked in.
you frantically grab a handful of napkins from the counter and drop beside him, an apology already on the tip of your tongue.
“i’m so sorry, did any get on you? you don’t have to help me with this—" his hand brushes against yours and he smiles at you.
“i’m completely fine, i just saw you go down! looked like you needed a little help there.”
you know, deep down, that he has to mean it just how he says it; ever the observant hero, he saw a problem to fix and acted without thinking. he wanted to help.
the thing is, it’s exactly what you don’t want to hear right now. all the little frustrations, all the little upsets from your day weigh down on your shoulders and now the person you admire most at this stupid school saw you eat shit in the middle of the teacher’s lounge and he has the audacity to help you, to draw attention to your misstep.
you can feel the eyes around you shift over now, hearing your conversation. somewhere behind you, someone snickers.
stupid, childish embarrassment floods you; your ears are steaming and you can’t hear what izuku is saying until the words “—could buy you something else?”
“no!” your retort is quick and it comes out a little harsher than you mean it to. he shrinks slightly, taken aback. “i mean, sorry, no, thank you. i couldn’t ask you to do that.”
the only thought on your mind is retreat; you need to get out of this situation as fast as possible, get away to lick your wounds and wallow in your shame.
again, you know somewhere in your subconscious that he’s just being sweet and earnest deku when he says, “no, it’s nothing! i really don’t mind, it’s important for you to get enough nutrients, especially on a work day, and i know this great little place, i can just pop right there and back—"
“i have to go,” you choke out, standing quickly to throw the pile of napkins and food away.
“no, wait—!” he says, but you’ve already spun on your heel and darted from the lounge back to your classroom, cheeks burning.
why did he have to keep pushing like that? couldn’t he tell that the most helpful thing to do in that moment would be to pretend he didn’t see anything? why did he have to make everyone look with his dumb loud voice, offering to buy you lunch?
god, does he think you can’t afford another lunch?
who does this guy think he is?
it’s impossible to stop your thoughts from spiraling. maybe this whole times he’s just been humoring you, playing the part of good hero and extending a hand to the floundering newbie.
maybe all those lingering glances he throws your way indicate something sinister; maybe he’s just waiting for you to mess up badly enough that he can swoop in and save the day.
you’ve seen how the hero types can be; arrogant, self serving, unconcerned. maybe he’s really like that, too.
the thing is, you never really ask for help — always been independent, figuring things out for yourself. you know how to self start, don’t need someone to help you.
so why is he always… just… there, waiting to give it to you?
offering his services up on a silver platter when you wish he would just give you a second, to catch up and breathe.
he seems to have a knack for seeing you in your worst moments, the dutiful witness to your failures. you bet if you sneeze on yourself he’ll be waiting to dab it right up with a tissue and a lolly for your bravery.
it’s not just his looming reputation and happy-go-lucky attitude; it’s him. his… his presence.
it doesn’t help that he looks like that, all freckles and curls and charming smiles, tall and strong (from what you can tell… you’re not blind to the muscles straining against his sleeves when he rolls them up).
you just do your best not to think about it — the hot, sticky feeling that floods your core whenever he lingers in your mind for too long.
if he could just be less attractive to you, you’d write off your feelings of inadequacy and put him out of your mind!
unfortunately, your heart seems committed to striking up a fierce rhythm when he’s around. it makes it hard to think straight, makes you hyper aware of everything you say and do.
no matter what, you can’t shake the feeling of those piercing eyes when they’re on you; seeing you.
seeing through you.
izuku is really starting to irk you, to get under your skin. he makes you feel dissected and vulnerable.
you can’t help it, when it makes you a little crazy. a little unsettled. even as you push it down, the thought makes enough of an impression.
٠࣪⭑
that friday is the first day of the infamous ua sport’s festival.
it’s been a whirlwind, preparing for the event. you haven’t had many more opportunities to embarrass yourself, instead drowning yourself in work.
you don’t see izuku much either.
it’s a good day for the fesitval, the air clear and clean, sun shining instead of beating. you’re in the stands that survey the vast arena, stood beside your class as they squirm excitedly in their seats. it’s not their turn, so you all have an hour or two to watch the other students battle it out for first place.
a few rows below you, you spot him. it’s impossible to miss the mop of green curls, standing out above the crowds of kids watching in the student section.
turning to your class, you try and adopt a stern expression. “seriously, please don’t run off or do anything crazy. save your manic energy for the field, alright? i’ll be right back.”
they all offer you vague assurances, which somehow aren’t very comforting to you. still, you walk to the stairs, taking them two at a time to catch up.
deku and all might are walking briskly, seemingly buried in conversation.
for just a second, izuku glances up like he senses something, then sees you on the stairs above and waves, offering a quick smile before turning back to yagi.
you hesitate, not wanting to disrupt them. you just want to thank izuku for his kindness earlier in the week, after working through your embarrassment on your own time; you’ve half a mind to offer to buy him lunch in gratitude, although the courage required for that might be too much to muster right now.
as they turn to walk up some stairs a section away, you gasp when you see the little notebook clutched in izuku’s hand. it’s the same one as earlier in the week, the one he used to document your conversation, and he’s gesturing to that very page, shaking his head with an incredulous expression on his face. yagi says something and izuku laughs, rubbing his forehead.
are…. are they talking about you? based on body language, it seems like they’re joking about something, and when izuku gestures over in your general direction, your heart sinks through the floor.
are they making fun of you?
it’s hard to believe, but the evidence is right there. yagi points to something in the notebook and rolls his eyes, and izuku shrugs his shoulders and spreads his hands like, who knows?
they’re definitely making fun of you, probably laughing at the way you have no idea what you’re doing and need to ask for help from someone who’s only been teaching slightly longer than you. hot embarrassment blooms in your chest, before souring, turning to anger.
that stupid deku. how can he have the audacity to be so nice and understanding to your face, then turn around and mock you behind your back?
the rest of the day you’re stewing in resentment, raging war against deku in your mind. apparently he wasn’t really your friend at all, and all those compliments and encouragements were actually underhanded, probably meant to undermine you.
so, maybe you deflect. a little! so what? it’s hard to sit with your disappointment, and you want him to feel just as bad as you do right now.
if he wants to play a stupid little game with you, you’re more than happy to oblige. in fact, it will probably feel great to watch perfect deku get slipped up and reveal his true feelings of disdain. if you can get him to admit he’s been making fun of you the whole time, you’ll have him right where you want him.
you know that deep down, he has to be a real person, like you. not some white knight perched on a pedestal, reaching out a hand when you’re perfectly capable of getting up by yourself.
you just need to break him down, until you see it— the real him. the izuku that he hides away inside.
no one is that friendly all the time. no one is that earnest. there has to be something there, under the surface. you just want to see the mask slip, just once.
this desire drives you to, admittedly, rash action; but there’s no other choice.
٠࣪⭑
you start small, just to see how he reacts.
the following monday morning is bright and chipper.
you’re strolling down the hallway towards the conference room where the staff meeting takes place when you see him at the end, standing right by the door. perfect.
as you suspect, he sees you right away; brightens and smiles at you. you bitterly swallow the wave of annoyance that washes over you, sure, now we’re all buddy-buddy, and steel yourself.
as you grow closer, he raises a hand in greeting.
“good morning—“
you cut him off by breezing right past him, neglecting to spare him even a glance as you drop into an empty seat. it’s out of necessity; you worry if he looks in your eyes he’ll be able to read your thoughts.
his address dies in his throat, strangled, and you can feel his eyes on you, analyzing.
trying to figure out, why.
the next morning, he still tries to open the door for you, a hopeful yet nervous smile adorning his face.
and the second morning, you ignore him again. but he doesn’t say anything.
that week, you ignore him through every single meeting.
the next week, he stops trying to greet you on your way in. clearly that’s not going to work. instead, he plays it differently; waits inside, holding the last available chair.
for you, presumably.
that's when you opt to stand instead, giving a pointed look of disgust at the empty seat before shifting focus back to all might, who's standing at the front of the room to address the staff
because you’re so stubborn, still refusing to acknowledge him, you miss the way his expression crumples. he looks crestfallen.
٠࣪⭑
as days tick by, you decide it’s time to up the ante.
start poking fun at him, jeering his choice of breakfast or making fun of his backpack.
“i’ve always used a backpack,” he grumbles one day, after a barrage of comments about how stupid and juvenile it makes him look. “it’s an efficient way to carry my stuff.”
you’ve been playing your little game almost a month now.
“‘efficient way to carry my stuff’,” you mock, rolling your eyes. “do you always have to talk like such a nerd? it’s kinda grating.”
his eye twitches, and he slowly and carefully shuts the notebook he’s writing in.
it’s just the two of you in the teacher’s lounge. the school day ended an hour ago, but you’re both still grading yet another joint assignment. yagi seems hell bent on forcing you two to work together, and it’s starting to piss you off.
why the former symbol of peace thinks it’s so important to have your classes work together is a mystery.
it’s been non stop lately, at least one or two days out of the week set aside for collaborative training. he keeps insisting that as the two newbies, you can help eachother out! you’re his dream team!
it makes your blood boil. at this point he has to be doing it on purpose, forcing you to work with midoriya, but to what end, you have no idea.
izuku sets the notebook aside and folds his hands in front of him, fidgeting with his fingers, before he looks up at you.
“did i do something to upset you?” he asks, voice measured to disguise his hurt feelings.
your stomach sinks; maybe you haven’t been as subtle as you were hoping for. you wanted him to break, not bring it up to you.
somehow, his mature response to your childish jabs only pushes you further down your path, and you try not to squirm in your seat.
now he wants to take the high road? typical.
your attempt at an airy and unconcerned tone is mid at best when you snap, “no. you’re fine.” you pause, think for a second, then add, “honestly, i guess you upset me a little. just, in general.”
his eyes widen and he grips his hands harder, knuckles turning white. “what is that supposed to mean?”
there’s something in his tone that stops you, and you study his face carefully.
he seems hurt, a little frustrated… actually, he seems very frustrated. his expression is suspiciously hard to read, like he’s trying to remain guarded.
“just that sometimes i get a really sketchy vibe from you,” you spit, unsure where you’re pulling this vitriol from. “like… i don’t get you. you don’t make sense to me. and i feel like you’re putting on this nice guy act but i don’t buy it. and like..."
the longer he sits there, just letting you ramble, the more uncomfortable you get, faltering when you realize you’re not quite sure what to say next. “i don’t know,” you finish weakly. “you’re just annoying, sorry.”
far from goading him, now your words seem to be… almost too harmless, like he’s barely even listening anymore. the way his expression has shifted is unnerving; it’s like a lightbulb clicked on in his head, and he’s fighting a smirk as he nods along to your insults.
“well, i’m sorry you feel that way,” he says graciously, grabbing his notebook again and flipping it open to a new page. you try not to peer at what he writes, but he seems to sense your curiosity and causally moves an arm to block your view.
“i guess i’ll just have to work harder to win you over!” he exclaims, cheerfully snapping the book shut with finality and moving to gather his things to go.
you scoff, redirect your attention back to your work in front of you like continuing this conversation is beneath you.
however, you feel his eyes on you as he leaves the room; once his back is turned, yours bore holes into the back of his head.
٠࣪⭑
the two of you strike a strange, tense balancing act; you taunt, he pretends to be completely oblivious.
out of everything, you think this is the worst. it’s like he’s playing with you, like he knows something you don’t and loves to hold it over your head.
any normal person would have a stronger reaction to your bullying. actually, any normal person would have any reaction.
it’s like the more buttons you push, the more izuku doubles down, refusing to give in to you.
٠࣪⭑
today, you’re sat in front of the huge screen that displays the ground gamma camera feeds, groaning as your problem student has her ass handed to her by midoriya’s top student.
she’s made some progress since you spoke to him about the situation (which he never ended up getting back to you about), but still; her confidence is shaky, and she’s too afraid to make the tough calls that would ultimately lead to her victory. she keeps getting backed into corners with no way to run, and her quirk isn’t well suited to escaping in a pinch.
a cup of coffee is set down next to your arm and you glance at it, see the cream swirled in.
he’s gone and remembered how you prefer it, and it stirs something within you. you wrap your hand around the cup and take a sip; it’s comforting, and you sigh with satisfaction.
“thanks,” you murmur, attention turning back to the screen. he hums in response and sits next to you.
“hey,” he ventures, tentative. “about this student,” he gestures to the screen, “i thought about what we talked about a little while ago. i really wanted to give you good feedback, so i had to sit on it—anyway, i wrote down some thoughts that might be helpful.” izuku’s cheeks are tinted pink when he slides a crisp notebook across the control panel towards you.
flustered, you take the notebook and flip through it, secretly admiring the neat, careful print and color coordination.
it’s way overboard, completely unnecessary; it’s almost like he’s made you a little guidebook for potential issues a first year teacher might run into.
completely unnecessary and yet, it truly touches you. it’s an incredibly unnecessary, thoughtful, endearing gesture.
he's awkward when he says, “i really... related to something you said, about… feeling out of your depth, when starting here, and—i guess, i wish i’d had something like this, to reference when i felt overwhelmed.”
your heartbeat feels deafening in your ears. it’s so stupid, the way you suddenly feel like crying. blinking rapidly a few times, you close the book and set it down gingerly.
“that’s—that’s really nice. really, that’s… i appreciate it.” you look up at him, offering a small smile. “thank you. seriously.”
the grin izuku returns to you is warm, radiant. the feeling in your chest right now is so confusing, so overwhelming, but something about it feels… so, so, good. warm, spreading throughout your limbs.
the screen beside you both flashes several times as the exercise ends, breaking the private bubble you're in.
you blink, shaking your head to clear it, and look at the results: predictable, the outcome of this battle was determined from the very beginning.
in the corner, you catch your student glaring harshly into a camera, like she’s trying to make direct eye contact with you. “when the hell,” she spits, “am i gonna learn anything useful in this place?” before stalking off the field.
it feels like a slap in the face. she's clearly reeling from her defeat, but it feels like a defeat of your own.
you rise, tucking the notebook under your arm. “i’m going to talk to her,” you say, avoiding izuku's eyes. it’s too hard to look at him right now, and you don’t know how to feel about him anymore.
all you know is you want run away.
and somehow, you still long to see him break, more for the commitment to the game than anything else now.
almost on a whim, you snatch the cup of coffee before you turn and walk away, pausing in the doorway. there’s a trash can stationed there, and grip the cup in your hand before dumping it, throwing the cup in after and leaving the room without a second glance.
٠࣪⭑
another couple of weeks pass and at this point, you’re getting a little desperate, having been baiting him for months now.
if you’re honest, you’ve lost the plot a little bit. all you want is to shove him off his course, make him stumble. you want him to give in.
you’re tired, but that’s no reason to quit yourself.
this afternoon, you’re feeling bold, or maybe you’re just itching for a sense of satisfaction, when you traipse into his classroom towards the end of the lunch period.
he’s hunched over his desk, tapping out a little rhythm with his fingers as he pores over a stack of assignments. it’s because of this that he doesn’t fully register you entering the room, not until you slink across his desk and slam your palm on the papers in front of him.
he doesn’t even flinch. doesn’t look at you either; just clicks his tongue, gives a little shake of his head.
“what can i do for you today?”
izuku sounds tired, more than usual, more than just a result of your ongoing antics. maybe he didn’t sleep well last night, or he’s behind on his grading.
your chest swells at the opportunity and you seize it without hesitation. an opening.
“yeah, i was just hoping you could… help enlighten me. about a theory of mine.”
you can see it, how just for a moment his shoulders relax. there’s a chance this is just a work related query, maybe a question about quirks or lesson plans or teaching styles or even all might.
“alright, what’s your theory?”
he reaches for his steaming mug on the desk, next to your hip.
at this point, you’re willing to say whatever it takes to get a rise out of him. “i just have this hypothesis that you’re some kind of… depraved freak. a real pervert.”
izuku chokes on the coffee he’s sipping and it splashes down his front. he mutters a curse while scrambling for the stack of napkins he keeps stashed in his desk drawer.
aha! it seems this one is a winner! you grin and lean closer, invading his space.
“e-excuse me?!” rosy cheeked, he can’t quite meet your hawkish stare.
“you just seem like you’re secretly a weirdo or something. i think… you’re too nice—” your voice is low, enough that no one could possibly hear what you’re saying from outside the room. “—and no one can possibly be that sweet and innocent.”
no one can hear you except for him.
he’s still wiping at his shirt when he glares at you.
“y’know, that’s really not appropriate for you to say to me.” that… mean edge to his voice…. you’ve never heard it before…
“besides… who said I was innocent?”
now it’s your turn to double take.
could he finally be really, truly provoked? the thought goes straight between your thighs and you clench them together.
there’s only one way to find out.
“yeah, but it’s not like you’re going to do anything about it,” you quip. “i can say whatever i want to you and it doesn’t matter. like how i bet you write creepy gooner hero smut in your free time. what else could those stupid notebooks be for?” it’s a low blow but you don’t care anymore.
“come on,” he scoffs, voice steely, “that’s enough.”
the bell signaling the change in the schedule sounds and you push yourself off his desk and towards the door. you can hear the clatter of footsteps clambering towards you down the hallway.
pausing in the doorway, you smirk at him over your shoulder.
“you’re probably a stalker or something. maybe… are you a panty thief, is that it? or do you have a shrine to your waifu that you have to jerk off to every night before you can fall asleep?”
his face is set in anger when bursts to his feet, takes a step towards you like he means to grab you—
alas, saved by the bell; it’s at this moment that the first of his students begin to trickle into the classroom.
you plaster on an innocent smile and nod to them as the greet you, waving at izuku with sickening sweetness.
if looks could kill.
“thank you so much, mr. midoriya! i gained a lot of helpful insights from our discussion today!” you gush, hands clasped in front of you.
his jaw ticks. you can see his fingers are gripped tightly at his side, but just as fast as he clenched the fist, he relaxes it. quickly smoothes his features into a cheery grin to match yours.
“me too! we’ll have to finish up another time.”
it’s not missed on you, the thinly veiled threat: i am not done with you. this is not over.
you teeter back to your classroom with wobbly knees and slicked panties.
٠࣪⭑
early that evening, yagi stops you on your way out the door.
he jogs up when you stop and turn, grinning. “i just wanted to tell you how amazing it’s been to have you on the staff!”
you blush and wave your hands, smile creeping onto your face. “thank you, that’s very kind.”
“it seems like everyone has really warmed up to you, especially young midoriya—" you feel your eye twitch as he keeps talking, the smile on your face turning forced, “—think it would be a great idea for you to join some of the other teachers for dinner tonight!”
huh??? how did we get here?
“oh… er—i don’t know if i can…” you start, but he stops you.
“i see, you have other plans?”
you sigh and shake your head. “no, but—“
he laughs, “then i insist! it will be great for team building!” and steers you down the street, in the direction of a restaurant you know is frequented by ua staff, although you yourself have never been.
this is how you find yourself squeezed into a too-small booth, yagi on your right and izuku on your left, sandwiched between you and the wall. aizawa, yamada, and a couple of teachers you don’t know very well sit across the table.
the left side of your leg is searing where it’s pressed to his. he’s been avoiding interactions with you as much as possible tonight, although every time he reaches in front of you, you feel him tense.
this close proximity is almost too much to handle. the smell of his shampoo wafts towards you every time he turns his head and you feel like a something from a cartoon, drifting away on the scent wave.
yamada is telling a long-winded story, while a disgruntled looking aizawa chimes in occasionally. izuku seems enraptured, laughing and asking questions right on cue. if he wasn’t so genuine, you’d think he’s sucking up.
all his focus is directed on yamada and it strikes you that this is a golden opportunity.
you bite your lip to stop from smirking with glee, and glance down to see that the hem of the tablecloth falls… perfectly, right where you want it. izuku is leaning forward, the length of his waist concealed beneath the table, and the way your hands are clasped in your lap right now, they are too.
no one notices when you creep your hand forward along the edge of the booth seat, sliding it over his leg and squeezing.
no one except izuku, of course.
his eyes dart to your face immediately, but his expression gives nothing away, and he looks away just as fast.
alright, you’ll bite.
you crawl your fingers higher up his thigh, slipping them momentarily into his pocket and yanking at it. his leg twitches then, like he’s trying to shake you off, but you persist.
when you finally grope at his dick, it’s already more than halfway hard, and you can’t help your smirk now.
suddenly, izuku grips your wrist and coughs loudly. he turns to you and his expression is still guarded but his eyes are blazing.
“do you want to go smoke?” he asks abruptly.
“i don’t—" you start, but it doesn’t matter because he’s standing and shuffling you out past yagi, following closely at your back.
he’s practically shoving you, turning over his shoulder to say, “we’ll be right back, just going to have a quick smoke.”
yagi watches you leave with a knowing stare, but yamada looks confused, asking, “when did you start smo—" before he’s swiftly kicked under the table and shuts his mouth with a clack of his teeth.
outside, izuku is dragging you down the street, hand gripping your wrist.
you stumble to keep up with his frustrated stomp, calling, “h-hey, where are we going?”
he doesn’t look back, gritting his teeth when he says, “i live close by.”
the rest of the short, silent walk is laced with discomfort. when you reach his apartment, you wait awkwardly as he fumbles for his key and then finally shoves the door open and you inside.
it’s cute, if not small. hero merch is intermixed with regular decor, which is unsurprising. he has a turntable and a stack of records beside it; there’s quite a few plants in pots on the windowsill. he has a small futon, a table to eat at, and a counter that connects to the kitchen. papers litter both surfaces, some in neat little piles and some strewn haphazardly. there's a hallway and you assume it leads to a bathroom and his bedroom.
it’s very sweet, very him. smells like him, too, and you take a deep breath.
when you turn away from the apartment, you see izuku standing by his closed front door, arms crossed, looking furious.
right; you’d almost forgotten why you’re here.
“what the hell was that?” his tone is so angry it shocks you, but you shrug, feigning innocence.
“i was just messing around.”
he grips at his hair in frustration and starts pacing, muttering, “that is not messing around, i can’t believe you would do that in front of my mentors, in public. what if someone had seen you?”
you shrug again, and he sucks at his teeth. “i don’t know, but they didn’t, so does it really matter?”
“yes! it matters, you’ve been absolutely out of control lately and i knew there was something up with you, but this—it’s crossing a line, do you seriously want my attention that badly?” his words sting a little bit. did you want his attention that badly?
no, it was more like you needed it, craved it, couldn’t get enough of his attention.
“please,” you snort. “i don’t need the attention of someone who’s beneath me.”
“you don’t seriously feel that way,” he states, but it almost sounds like a question.
“why on earth,” you exclaim, “would i want attention from someone like you?”
his pacing ceases now, and he comes to you where you stand, taking your wrists in his hands and looking hard at your face.
“i don’t think you mean that,” he says, and you squirm in his grip, trying to tug your wrists back. he holds you firmly but gently, gaze imploring.
“fuck off!” you bark, still squirming, and he groans in frustration.
“you’re such a liar! jesus, your so full of shit i doubt even you know what’s true and what’s not! anything going on up here?” he lets go of your wrist to flick at your forehead and the action makes you—embarrassingly—gasp, pupils widening and cheeks flushing.
swallowing thickly, you see some sort of recognition dawning on his face.
“this whole time," he starts slowly, intentionally, "i’ve been trying to be nice to you. even when you act like such a brat,” his eyes trail down your body and back up to yours, sending a shiver down your spine.
“especially then... but you like it more when i’m mean, don’t you?”
your mouth falls open in surprise and you can’t help the way your thighs clench slightly.
always watchful, always noticing, he actually laughs out loud at the effect his words have. it’s a short, barked laugh, bursting forth like he wasn’t expecting it.
he’s studying you now, like you’re a specimen to be uncovered, finger tapping against his lips as he purses them.
“that’s definitely it,” he muses. a mischievous twinkle appears in his eye now, and you’re not sure what to make of it.
“i thought girls liked it when the boys they’re into are nice to them? you must be some kind of freak, then,” he ponders, crowding your space and lowering his face to yours, so he can look at you squarely.
“stupid deku, m’not into you. don’t be ridiculous.”
“izuku,” he demands.
“i-what?”
“that’s what i want you to call me.”
“i—uhhm.. okay…”
the prospect of using his first name feels so intimate.
you turn the name around and around in your head, weighing out how it would feel to say, tasting it.
izuku.
“izuku,” you whisper it, testing it out; admittedly, it feels… right.
in front of you, his pupils blow wide at the sound. his throat bobs, and he murmurs, “yeah,” like he’s been waiting to hear it.
at once, you feel overwhelmed.
“okay, well, izuku, i don’t even know where you got that idea.” the delicate moment breaks, and he scowls. “i don’t like you, so don’t get confused.”
you’re a liar.
you know it, he knows it.
there’s very little leg for you to stand on, and it’s reduced to nothing when he abruptly cups your sex, thumb and index teasing at your soaked panties, pulling and twisting the fabric. you shiver at the contact.
they’re dripping, clearly disproving your claim. he sucks in a breath and gives you an exasperated look, like he’s disappointed.
you look away, moving to step back, but he follows you, backing you up until you hit the countertop, nowhere else to run to.
his face morphs into mock concern when he looks down at his fingers, then back at your face; voice is low and laced with condescension when he leans close to your ear and says, “did someone tell her that?”
you balk. “w-what? what?”
he’s shaking his head, like he’s talking to no one in particular. “hmmm. yeah, it’s like i thought, i don’t think she knows that you don’t like me. and clearly—" he nudges the slick undies to the side and teases the fingers through your folds, pinching your clit. a wide smirk curls his lip when you gasp. “—she’s the one who’s making all your decisions right now.”
he’s making it harder to keep up with the game that you yourself set into motion; it’s just that right now, he’s so much better at playing than you.
“d-don’t—“ you splutter, losing your train of thought for just a second as he continues to toy with you, “don’t be-ahhh—" slipping two fingers inside, curving against that one soft spot that makes your toes clench, “—gross!”
“when are you going to give up?” he sneers, “this is just embarrassing for you. you keep trying to act tough but i can feel you twitching around my fingers.”
you are twitching, your pussy constricting and contracting as he pumps in and out, prodding at the soft walls of flesh to see how they react.
it’s not long before you’re gasping for air as you cling to his arm. your orgasm strikes through your body with a jolt, sudden and completely unexpected.
he slides his digits out of your cunt, studying them before holding them up for you to see.
“just look how much she likes me, huh?”
taps your mouth with a murmured here, have a taste; your tongue darts out to trace his fingertips. they’re sweet.
he slides them in his own mouth, then, relishing the flavor.
“sweet,” he mutters, “tastes good.”
he’s ushering you into his bedroom after that, steering you through his apartment as you lean back into him in slight resistance. soon, though, you’re seated at the edge of the bed; attempting to unbutton his shirt with rushed, sloppy movements, hands shaking.
“are you… nervous?” his voice is velvet in your ear. “see, i thought this was nothing, so why are you nervous if i’m so beneath you?”
“shut up!” you squeak. “i’m not.” he tuts, but doesn’t say more.
still, he takes a little pity on you, quickly ridding you of the rest of your clothes before slipping out of his own.
the sight is… well, all your theories about his physique are proven true; a smattering of scars and freckles splash across his well worked body, strong and solid with training. you train your eyes lower and your eyebrows shoot to your hairline; he’s thick, long, veiny, and so hard it must be painful.
he catches your staring, but still says nothing; just lets you drink in the view.
when he hoists himself over you, nudging your legs apart with his knees, there’s something intense in the way his eyes devour your form. everywhere he looks, your skin feels like it’s burning.
it makes you feel shy, vulnerable.
makes you wanna lash out, the only way you know how to deal with overwhelming emotions like this.
“you’ll probably cum in like thirty seconds,” you taunt quietly, trying to conceal the knocking in your knees.
“oh, like you can talk?” he scoffs, lining himself up with your entrance, fisting his cock with a soft groan. “just shut up, okay? i’ve heard enough of your shit today.”
it’s without warning when he bullies his way into your cunt, splitting you open wide with a grunt. no patience as he buries himself deep, balls slapping against you with a loud clap.
it lights a delicious fire, starting in your core and spreading through your bloodstream like molten lava.
when you gasp, it’s raw, too honest, too revealing.
you clamp your mouth shut tight, practically gritting your teeth to keep the moan bubbling in your chest from leaking out.
he can’t help it when his dick twitches, murmuring a quiet, “i-fuck—“ as he tentatively thrusts, and the sound rings in your ears like the gates of heaven have opened just for you.
he’s not deep enough, and moving so slow.
it’s on purpose, to drag it out, to tease you.
if you didn’t know him, hadn’t come to rely on his annoyingly dependable goodness and kindness and whatever, you’d say he looked pretty scary. there’s a wicked kind of glint in his eye as he licks his upper lip, driving into you into again and again and again.
“stop pretending,” you feel him deeper each thrust, whine and grip at the sheets in what can only be anticipation and frustration, “you don’t want me to fuck you like a whore.”
the words practically sizzle against your skin. he presses a hand against your lower belly and you groan—
that’s when he pulls out all the way, fast, and you can’t help the little gasp that tumbles out of you at the loss of sensation, at the sudden emptiness.
the sting is surprising; your heart sinks at the separation and you try to scoot forward, closer, but he stops you, hands on your thighs.
leaning back on his heels, he surveys you beneath him, all splayed out and panting; sucks in a breath as your eyes dart over his body and linger on his dick, resting heavy between his abdomen and your belly. pre is pearling down his tip, which is bulbous, red, angry looking. the sight makes your legs twitch involuntarily.
“awww,” he coos, mocking you with a pout. “are you missing my cock already?” he feigns checking a watch that isn’t there. “seems like i lasted longer than your… prediction, which makes you wrong. that’s a shame.”
you drag your eyes away, trying to look anywhere but him and failing miserably as he catches them anyway. embarrassment burns your face, only made more apparent by the way your body is practically vibrating with wanton desire.
you let out a breathy sound that’s meant to be a huff of frustration and he can’t help but laugh, savoring the way your gaze flits nervously over his features.
“already keening like a needy little bitch in heat, hm?”
the words are mean… since when does izuku talk like this?
so…. so condescending, so degrading.
your cunt flutters around nothing, slick arousal trailing down your ass and making the sheets all sticky.
he leans forward, until his face is right above yours and he’s peering straight down at you.
the look he gives is withering.
it sends your heart pounding in your chest, makes you feel all nervous and shy, makes you squirm in discomfort, wishing he would train those intense eyes somewhere other than your face.
“you’re always picking stupid fights expecting me to just sit there and take it.” he mutters, almost to himself, “never thinking about how i feel.” he’s held up by his elbows now as he shifts his weight and presses down, pinning you in place with his hips. you feel his tip graze at your clit and whimper.
“izuku, i—“
he interrupts you by mercifully slipping back into you, planting a placating and somehow condescending peck on your lips.
it says, you be quiet now, it’s my turn to talk.
“now,” he huffs, emphasizing each word with a snap of his hips,
“-who’s-” snap!
“-gonna-” snap!
“-take-” snap!
“-it.” snap!
the pace is steady now, and brutal, as he leans forward and angles himself to reach even deeper.
one hand tugs your hair and forces your head back, exposing your neck. his tongue lashes out and sweeps at the trail of drool that slips past your lips and dribbles onto your chin, before he drags the same hand to your face and squeezes the hollows of your cheeks; it forces your mouth open and he spits, your saliva mixing with his and slipping down the back of your tongue.
a moan resonates deep in your chest.
“now swallow it.”
izuku watches you hungrily as you comply, licks and bites at your throat like he just can’t help himself.
“maybe i’ll put that in my next gooner porno, you think?” he chuckles, albeit breathily.
you say nothing. there’s a floaty feeling in your head and it’s starting to spread down your body, making every sensation feel heightened to the point that saying words feels like it would be a real challenge.
“finish writing it after this, before i jerk off to my waifu? that’s what you said, isn’t it?” you stay silent still as the tips of your fingers start to go numb.
but there’s no slacking off for you, as he pats your cheek to get your attention. you know he can be gentler, when he grips at your face, making you look at him; but you can’t say you mind the roughness.
“that is what you said?” he snarls, and through the fog you realize he’s really asking you, likely expects some sort of response. blinking up at him, you try to will your brain to catch up; to say something, do something other than grip and paw at his arms like they’re a lifeline as he fucks you dumb.
he clicks his teeth, disappointed.
“it’s simple, honey. it’s yes —” he nods your head, still gripping your cheeks, “or no—” now he shakes it side to side.
your eyes are a little watery when you manage to nod on your own, and he lets you go, waits for your answer.
“yes,” you admit, trying hard to focus.
“yes what?”
“yes,” you whimper, “that’s what i said.”
izuku speaks with a voice dipped in sugar when he says, “wasn’t so hard to admit, was it?”
“y-yeah, i-i mean, wait, no—?"
“too fucked out to think straight, huh?” he coos, pinching your cheek.
he’s driving his cock into you at a punishing pace and you’re all hiccoughing gasps and moans, “please don’t stop, i’m so close m’gonna cum—" when he falters.
“what was that?”
izuku, thank goodness, doesn’t pull out of you again like he did before, but his hips slow to a grind, then one slow, deep thrust in and he stills. the weight of him is suffocating. you’re so close that tears well in your eyes again, but he keeps you teetering on the edge.
there’s an incredulous look on his face.
“you think you deserve to cum again? you haven’t even apologized, or anything.”
“i—p-please, i—"
he shakes his head.
“you really don’t get it, do you? why i put up with it? i—don’t... don’t you feel it?”
your heart is racing, and from the way your bodies are pressed together you can feel izuku’s thrum in his chest too, keeping time.
your noses are inches apart, and he looks at you with desperation, like he needs you to understand. you want to, but you don’t, can’t quite make sense of what he’s getting at.
“f-feel what?”
“feel how much i like you. how much i want you.”
he presses a hand to your abdomen and forces you to be aware: you can feel it, feel him. right where he belongs.
“i’ve wanted this— wanted you, ever since the first time i saw you. talked to you,” he swallows thickly, “heard your voice, smelled your skin.”
this revelation, of izuku’s feelings for you, make your head spin and pussy clamp down hard. he gasps, ruts into you involuntarily.
it’s with shaky control that he takes a deep, grounding breath, like he’s reminding himself how.
“before i keep going—" you whine and try and buck your hips to get a little friction, but he holds you fast. “—before i keep going, you have to admit that you like me too.”
he’s not talking down to you now, he’s asking. asking you to let down your guard, just for a second.
it all seems so obvious, then. maybe the games you and izuku have been playing are more similar than you thought.
your words all drenched in venom, his in honey, both begging: please, just surrender to me so i can surrender to you, too.
each desperately wanting the other to stop the game and get real; each dancing around it anyway, too scared to be the first.
the final hand has been played now, with this. his cards are all laid out for you to see, and now it’s your turn.
it proves what you’ve known deep down, that he’s always gonna take care with you. that he really is better, kinder, sweeter than you, going first like this.
he won’t hold it against you, though. not when your pussy is squeezing him like a vice, not when he can practically hear colors and taste sounds, high on the heady feeling of you squirming and boneless beneath him.
green eyes are soft as he leans down and noses at your temple.
“go on, tell the truth.”
his hair tickles as it brushes against your face. he smells so damn good. you can’t help but nip at his jaw in frustration. he tastes good, too.
“yeah,” you choke, finally giving in. “yes, i do. like you.”
being honest feels so good, you can’t stop the words from flowing now, “i really like you. i-i want you so badly it—it hurts. i can’t help… it makes me…. i feel crazy, and like… i can’t breathe, and—”
and then he finally kisses you, all teeth gnashing and tongues dancing. a hand comes up to cup your face, almost gingerly.
when he starts to move again, it’s slow and sticky.
rich sounds of sex fill the room: the squelching of him drawing in and out, the smack of skin against skin, the slight creak of the bed beneath you as he fucks you into it.
both of your heaving breaths, coating the air, making it feel heavier somehow.
the little sounds of pleasure being torn from your mouths.
“j-just—hah—one more thing,” he murmurs, voice wavering.
“okay,” you purr, expecting some other pointed question, maybe even another heartfelt confession.
“i think we can both agree that sexually harassing your coworker because you like him—“
“izuku!“
“—makes you more of a perverted freak than i am,” he muses, ignoring your protest completely.
he’s teasing again, but it isn’t quite the same as before; you can hear the smile in his tone.
“i’m… sor-sorry—ahhh—" your senses are being kicked into overdrive and you feel the brain fog starting to return, making everything feel saccharine and slow.
“now say it.”
huh? what did he mean?
“i-izuku, i said m’sorry—“
“i want you to say it.”
it takes a second to realize what he’s demanding, and you huff. he’s so mean, he doesn’t let you get away with anything.
despite feeling raw and exposed, pinned sniffling beneath him with a wobbly lip, you admit, “fine. i’m the freak, a-and pervert, and the other stuff. okay?”
he pretends to think about your words, as if he’s mulling them over, deciding if they’re enough for you to get what you want.
cocky bastard.
“yeah, okay,” he agrees, and lavishes you with another kiss, a tasty reward for your compliance.
a familiar sensation starts to build, feelings of pleasure coiling tight in your gut.
“wanna cum, izuku, please.”
“okay,” he pants again, and increases his pace, hand finding your clit and circling it with his thumb. you feel so good, so full. he’s fucking you with intention, grinding into your hips with each thrust.
it’s clear by the breathy moans and cries of your name that tumble from his lips that he’s close, too, and you lift your head to attach your mouth to his neck, whimpering into the sweaty skin like a prayer,
izukuizukuizuku.
"i-inside?" he gasps, and you nod into him. the same floaty feeling from before surrounds you now, and the wave that’s been building finally crests, then breaks, your orgasm rippling through your body and taking izuku’s with it.
a flash of his hips and you can feel the hot ropes of cum he fucks into you as you tangle your fingers in his hair and tug, before he finally stutters to a stop, heaving.
sheathed inside, his lips find yours with urgency, like he needs to kiss you the way he way he needs oxygen. you kiss like that for a moment, before you pull away to suck in a much needed breath.
he gently slides out of you and collapses by your side, mouthing at your neck softly as his hand cups your cheek, yours reaching up to curl around it.
for a moment, you both just breathe in the silence, before he smiles and pokes your cheek. “i knew i was right, i had a hunch after you said i was annoying—"
“oh, shut it,” you laugh, swatting at his finger. “you sure waited a while to put me out of my misery.” he smiles, pulling you closer and planting a kiss on your head.
“yeah, it’s just so fun to watch you squirm.”
you huff in fabricated annoyance and mumble, “yeah, yeah.”
you ponder for a moment, then laugh and say “‘do you want to go smoke?’ that’s really the best you had?”
izuku reddens, defending himself, “hey! it’s all i could think of, okay?”
you turn to face him and tug on a curl. he nuzzles your cheek affectionately.
“they know we’re not coming back, right?” you ask, and he rolls his eyes, snorting.
“yeahhh, i'm pretty sure they know.”
٠࣪⭑ a/n: if you made it to the end, thank you!! let me know if you would be interested in a part 2, i have a couple of ideas in the works. as always, reblogs and comments are appreciated!
taglist :3 @shotorizawa @bweasleyy
(let me know if you would like to be added!)
It was nearly midnight when Tenya Iida’s door creaked open.
He blinked in disbelief, hand still on the knob, gaze flickering rapidly between the digital clock on his nightstand—11:58 p.m.—and the sight standing right in front of him.
You. Wearing nothing but fuzzy slippers, a pair of cotton shorts that barely clung to the tops of your thighs, and an oversized t-shirt that slipped off one shoulder. You looked sleepy, cozy, soft—utterly dangerous.
“Hi” you whispered, smiling up at him with that innocent tilt of your head.
Tenya’s eyes widened. His mouth opened, then closed. He glanced down the hallway—left, right, even toward the security camera near the ceiling—like you’d brought a bomb to his front door instead of yourself.
“D-Do you have any idea what time it is?” he stammered. “This is entirely inappropriate. If someone were to see—if a teacher or even a classmate—”
“No one’s around,” you interrupted calmly, stepping closer. “And we don’t have class tomorrow.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that this is a direct violation of—of the student handbook! Visitors aren’t allowed after curfew and—” You placed a gentle hand on his chest. “Tenya,” you said, quietly, “it’s just one night.”
His mouth trembled around a protest, but your hand curled around his wrist and you stepped inside his room before he could finish. He backed up, heartbeat hammering in his chest like he’d just broken the law. You shut the door softly behind you.
Walking toward his bed. “I just wanna sleep next to my boyfriend.” He stood frozen in the middle of the room, face flushed, glasses fogged. His striped pajamas clung to his long frame—the shirt buttoned all the way up to his collarbone. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides as you climbed into his bed like it was yours.
He joined you after a long pause, his movements stiff and unsure. He laid flat on his back, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to recite the U.A. rulebook in his head to stop thinking about the warmth of your thigh brushing his.
You turned on your side, propping yourself up on one elbow as your eyes wandered to the way the soft cotton of his pajama shirt pulled over his broad chest. Slowly, you swung a leg over his waist and straddled him.
He went still.
“W-What are you doing?” His voice cracked. “Th-this is not proper. This—”
“It’s just so hot in here,” you said softly, tracing your fingers along the edge of his shirt. “Aren’t you hot, Iida baby?”
His hips jerked slightly—barely noticeable, but it was enough.
Your fingers dipped down, slowly undoing the first button of his shirt. He swallowed hard.
“sorta—please, you shouldn’t…”
Another button undone. His chest began to show—hard lines of muscle, smooth skin, warmth rising under your touch.
“Please…” he whispered again, but it was weak now, breathy.
You unbuttoned another. Then another. The shirt parted, revealing the full expanse of his toned torso—taut abs, the curve of his obliques, that perfect divot leading down beneath the waistband of his pajama pants.
You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone, then down the center of his chest. His hands clutched the sheets at his sides, his head tipping back into the pillow.
“Y-You have to stop,” he whispered.
But his hips bucked up into you. His cock was already hard beneath you—thick, twitching beneath the fabric, pressing against your core through your shorts.
“it doesn’t feel like you want me to stop tenya”
You rolled your hips down gently, letting the friction spark between your bodies. He gasped.
“You’re already so hard,” you murmured. “I thought this was inappropriate”
He groaned, face flushed red to the tips of his ears. “I-I can’t… I can’t think straight when you—”
“Then stop thinking,” you whispered against his neck. “Just feel.”
His hands finally rose—slow, trembling—and landed on your hips. His grip was firm. Desperate.
His hands stayed on your hips, trembling slightly as you rocked against him. You could feel him now—really feel him. Hard, hot, twitching beneath you, straining against the thin fabric of his pajama pants.
His chest heaved with every shallow breath. His eyes met yours—wide, pleading, conflicted.
“I-I should stop you.” he whispered.
“You don’t want to.”
He exhaled, shaky and soft. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t.”
You kissed him.
He gasped into your mouth like he’d never been kissed like that before—like he hadn’t let himself want it until now. Your lips moved slowly over his, guiding him, coaxing his control apart with every brush and tug. And when you ground your hips down again, he groaned into your mouth—loudly, head tipping back into the pillow, breath completely stolen.
You pulled back just enough to murmur, “Can I take this off you?” He nodded—quick, breathless.
You pushed the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, finally exposing all of him. He was beautiful—broad chest, sculpted abs, and strong arms you’d only imagined holding you like this. Your fingers slid over the planes of his torso, and you felt the way his muscles tensed under your touch, like he was barely holding himself back.
Then your hands moved lower. Over his waistband. Beneath the hem. slipped your hand into his pants and wrapped your fingers around him.
He was big—thick and flushed and so painfully hard it made him whimper when you stroked him for the first time. His hips bucked up again, completely unintentional, and his head fell back against the pillow with a deep groan.
“Oh my god—” His voice cracked. “I-It feels… I don’t even have words—”
“Good?” you teased softly, brushing your thumb over the leaking tip. He nodded furiously, mouth falling open.
You leaned down and kissed down his chest again as you stroked him—slow, steady, watching how quickly he unraveled beneath you. His hips had a mind of their own now, chasing your hand, desperate for more friction. His hands gripped your thighs like a lifeline.
“Iida,” you whispered against his neck, “you’re so sensitive. You’re gonna come like this, aren’t you?”
You could still feel him twitching against your palm, his breath shaky and uneven beneath you. His face was flushed, chest rising and falling in soft, stunned waves. You started to lean down to kiss him again—but then Tenya surprised you.
He grabbed your hips suddenly, strong and sure, and flipped you onto your stomach in one smooth motion. You let out a surprised gasp as you landed on your elbows, your shorts riding up to expose the curve of your ass.
“Tenya—?”
He didn’t answer.
His hands slid over your hips like he was memorizing them. His breath was ragged behind you as he pushed your oversized shirt up your back, exposing the soft skin beneath. You looked over your shoulder at him—he’d taken his glasses off, hair slightly messy now, the pajama shirt tossed to the floor.
His eyes were dark now. Heavy-lidded. Starving. “W-We shouldn’t,” he whispered, voice breaking. “We’ve never…”
“But you want to,” you said softly.
His hands gripped tighter. His thumbs dug into the flesh of your hips as he groaned, so low it barely escaped his throat. “I want to,” he admitted, his voice strained, “so badly, I can’t wait anymore.”
He tugged your shorts down slowly—pausing when they reached your thighs, like he was giving you one last chance to stop him.
You didn’t.
So he pushed them down fully, his palm sliding over your bare ass. He let out a shuddering breath. “You’re… perfect.”
You smiled into the pillow. “Then do something about it, Tenya—show me how perfect I am to you.”
That broke something in him.
You heard the rustle of fabric behind you—his pants being shoved down just a little more. The thick, hard press of him against your entrance, rubbing along your folds. He wasn’t inside yet, just teasing. Coating himself in your slick.
You whimpered and pushed your hips back. “Please, baby…” Tenya exhaled hard through his nose, leaning over your back and whispering near your ear, “You have to be quiet.”
“I will,” you promised, already trembling with need. “Please, fuck me I need you.”
And then he pushed in. You bit into the pillow as he filled you—slow, careful, but so deep. He gasped behind you, like your body had knocked the air right out of his lungs.
“F-Fuck,” he whispered, and the curse in his mouth sounded forbidden. “You feel… oh god, you feel amazing…”
He stayed still for a moment, trembling, holding your hips like if he let go he might fall apart completely.
Then he started to move. Slow at first—controlled, deep thrusts that made you moan against the sheets. His grip was bruising, his breath hot against your back. He groaned every time he pushed in, fighting the urge to get rougher.
But your hips kept meeting him. Rolling back. Begging for more.
“Stop doing that,” he rasped.
“Doing what?” you asked innocently.
“Pushing back like that. I can’t— I can’t keep it quiet if—”
You did it again. And that was it.
His hand slid up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades to arch your spine for him. His hips snapped forward faster, harder—deep and filthy. The sound of skin against skin filled the room in soft, rhythmic slaps, and even though you were trying to stay quiet, little gasps and whimpers kept slipping out of your mouth.
Tenya leaned forward, chest against your back, lips brushing your ear. “Be quiet,” he whispered. “You’re going to get us caught.”
But the way he fucked you said something else entirely.
“I-i can’t when your dick is literally h-hitting my fuc-fucking organs”
His hand reached down and rubbed slow circles over your clit, and your whole body tensed. “Tenya—!” He groaned, biting down softly on your shoulder to muffle his own moan as you clenched around him.
“Come for me,” he begged. “Please—please let me feel you—”
You came with a soft, broken cry, your body shaking beneath him. Your thighs trembled, your back arched, and Tenya’s pace turned sloppy, frantic. His hands gripped your hips like he was anchoring himself, and with one last, deep thrust, he came inside you—his whole body shuddering with the force of it.
He collapsed gently over your back, breathing hard, lips brushing your skin as he whispered your name like a prayer.
For a long moment, the room was nothing but silence and the hum of your heartbeats, tangled together in a mess of sweat and soft gasps.
“…This was so against the rules,” he whispered.
You smiled into the pillow. “And you loved every second.”
He let out a shaky laugh. “I think I might love you.”
your fics are soo good 😩 i’d like to request pro hero deku and dynamite pining after you and competing for you! in the end they need to learn how to share 😏
YESSSSS you guys give the best ideaaasss🙈 Thank you anony for this amazing request!!
——
Sharing Is Caring
Pro Hero Deku x Reader x Pro Hero Dynamight
₊⊹𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹
Your wrists are raw from struggling.
The villain—some nobody trying to make a name for himself—has had you tied up in this grimy warehouse for over an hour. Every creak of the floorboards, every shifting shadow, makes your pulse spike. But all you can do is sit there, chest heaving, legs shaking, hoping someone shows up before it’s too late.
You’re not a pro, not even close. Just someone who got caught in the crossfire of a war that never seems to stop. And now you’re bait.
BOOM
The first explosion is so loud you scream. Dust rains from the ceiling. The villain turns, eyes wide, just in time to see a flash of green lightning tear through the wall. And then, he’s flying—slammed into a support beam by a roaring shockwave of One For All.
Deku doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are locked on you.
You’re panting, dazed, eyes wide and tear-filled. Your shirt is torn at the shoulder, a bruise forming on your thigh from where you were thrown earlier.
Deku’s expression shatters. “Oh my god,” he whispers. Bakugou crashes through the other side, feral and wild-eyed. “Deku what the fuck are you—” He sees you. Really sees you. His breath catches.
Everything stops.
The villain groans on the ground. Neither of them moves.
You feel suddenly, intimately exposed—panting, hair a mess, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. And they both just stare, like they’ve been sucker-punched by the sight of you.
It’s Deku who finally rushes forward, falling to his knees beside you. “You’re okay. You’re okay now,” he murmurs, hands trembling as he unties you.
Bakugou crouches next to him, jaw tight. “You let that bastard touch her?” he spits, glaring at Midoriya like it’s his fault.
“She’s safe now,” Deku growls. “That’s what matters.”
You watch them silently. And something shifts. That moment—that heat in their eyes, that breathless tension. You feel it like static in the air.
⸻
After the scene. Numbers were exchanged.
The next month that follows is chaos.
Both of them are constantly checking on you. Midoriya texts you every morning with “Good morning, sunshine” and every night with “Sweet dreams.”
Bakugou drops by randomly to bring food and tell you, “Lock your damn windows,” like it’s your fault anyone could ever hurt you.
But you see it now.
The way their eyes linger. The accidental brushes of their hands. The protective possessiveness that borders on feral.
You like it.
You like it a LOT.
⸻
And now… tonight.
It starts as idle conversation.
They were just getting off a quiet patrol, the streets were unusually calm for a Friday night. Deku walks with his hands in his pockets, boots crunching softly on pavement. Bakugou’s a few steps ahead, tension rolling off him in waves.
Then Midoriya breaks the silence.
“You been by her place lately?” he asks, not looking over.
Bakugou snorts. “Dropped off food two nights ago. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Right.” Midoriya’s jaw tightens. “She texted me the night after. Said she liked the soba I brought.”
Deku stops, too. Turns to face him. “I’m just saying… maybe we should stop dancing around it.”
Bakugou’s eyes narrow. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“She’s not a prize to be won,” Deku says carefully. “But we’ve been tiptoeing for weeks, and honestly? I don’t think it’s fair to keep dragging her into this.”
There’s a long pause.
Bakugou looks away, teeth clenched. “So what. We just ask her? See who she picks?”
Deku nods slowly. “Yeah. We let her decide. No more games.”
Another beat of silence. Their eyes lock. Then both of them, at the exact same time—bolt.
Bakugou explodes forward with a roar, palms crackling with blasts. “NOT LETTING YOU GET THERE FIRST!”
Green lightning arcs down Deku’s legs as he surges ahead. “Then you better keep up, Kacchan!”
They tear through the city—two top heroes, absolutely unhinged, practically neck-and-neck as they race toward the same apartment. Pedestrians dive out of the way. Streetlights flicker. Somewhere, a bystander screams, “ARE THEY FIGHTING?!”
And in your apartment?
You’re curled up in that same oversized tee, debating if you should go to bed early.
BOOM. BOOM.
Two frantic knocks. You open the door—Midoriya, out of breath, flushed, clearly having just sprinted across half the city.
“I—” He wheezes, hand braced on your doorframe. “Wanted to talk.”
Before you can even react, Bakugou stalks down the hallway. “Tch. Always gotta be first, huh, Deku?” Bakugou shoves past him. “We need to talk.”
They step inside. The tension is thick.
You blink at them. “Did… you guys run here?”
Neither of them answers. They start arguing. Louder. Closer.
“She doesn’t need your fake-ass charm—”
“Better than your damn temper!”
“You’re all talk”
“AT LEAST I TALK TO HER!”
“You lay a finger on her without knowing what she really wants, I’ll break your fuckin’ fingers.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to watch her beg for me with one hand.”
You groan and throw your hands up.
And that’s when you say it. “CAN YOU BOTH JUST FUCK ME ALREADY?!”
Silence.
Their mouths hang open. They look at you like you just sprouted wings and slapped them both across the face.
You step back toward the bedroom, eyes dark, voice low. “Either come prove who’s better—or figure out how to share.”
You disappear down the hallway.
They both slowly turn to each other—still processing what you said before running down the hall to follow you.
⸻
The bedroom door slams shut behind them.
Midoriya’s on you first, hands cupping your face as he kisses you hard—desperate, almost panicked. His lips are soft, his tongue gentle at first, but growing hungrier by the second.
Then Bakugou grabs you by the waist and pulls you into him from behind.
“Fucking hell,” he growls against your neck. “You’ve been playing us.”
You whimper. “You’ve been teasing me.”
Midoriya’s hand slips beneath your shirt, calloused fingers sliding over your stomach, your ribs. “You don’t know what you do to us,” he whispers, voice rough.
Bakugou’s hands are already under your shorts, gripping your thighs, kneading your ass. “We should ruin you for anyone else.”
You gasp as your shirt is pulled over your head, and your bra is unclasped by two sets of hands—rushed, greedy.
“Let her lie down,” Deku breathes. “I wanna see her.”
They practically carry you to the bed.
Bakugou strips fast and shameless, cock already hard, flushed, thick. Deku’s not far behind—his boxers tented, the outline of him making your mouth water.
You lie back, eyes wide, heart pounding as they look down at you.
Deku kneels between your legs, spreading them slowly. “So wet already,” he murmurs, biting his lip. “Were you hoping we’d fight over you?”
You nod breathlessly. “Wanted both of you.”
Bakugou kneels beside you, one hand gripping your jaw. “Then you’re gonna get both of us. But don’t think we’re gonna go easy on you.”
You’re laid out like something divine—bare and spread open on the sheets, legs trembling already, and they haven’t even touched you properly yet.
Deku’s mouth is between your thighs first. You barely register the way his fingers dig into your hips because his tongue is doing something wicked—slow, careful circles around your clit, every flick laced with purpose.
“You taste so sweet,” he groans into you, voice already shaky. “I could do this all night.”
“You won’t,” Bakugou snaps, grabbing your chin and making you look up at him. “She’s not just yours to tease.”
He leans in and kisses you—hard. His tongue licks into your mouth with possessive heat, his hand sliding up your chest, fingers tweaking your nipple until you whimper against him.
You arch up, caught in between them, drowning in the contrast.
Midoriya’s still focused between your legs, eyes fluttering as he eats you out like it’s his personal mission, one hand moving to tease at your entrance.
“You’re clenching already,” he whispers, sliding one thick finger in. “She’s so tight—fuck, Kacchan.”
“Move,” Bakugou growls. “Let me in.”
Deku gives a final kiss to your thigh, then pulls back, eyes dark and hungry. Bakugou immediately takes his place, crawling between your legs and grabbing your hips like he’s starving.
“I’m not being gentle,” he warns.
You bite your lip. “Good.” That’s all he needs.
He presses the thick head of his cock to your soaked entrance, and in one slow, brutal thrust, he sinks in. You scream—back arching off the bed as the stretch steals your breath.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he snarls. “You’re tight enough to crush me.”
He starts slamming into you—deep, punishing strokes that hit something devastating inside you. He pins your thighs back, leaning forward, lips brushing your ear.
“You like being split open like this? While Deku watches?”
You moan, eyes rolling back.
Deku’s kneeling beside you now, cock in his hand, slowly stroking as he watches Bakugou ruin you.
“She looks so pretty like this,” he breathes, leaning down to kiss you again—so soft it makes your heart ache. “Think she can handle both?”
Bakugou lets out a broken laugh. “She’s gonna have to.” He pulls out suddenly, leaving you aching, empty—but only for a moment.
Midoriya takes his place, whispering “I’ll be gentle” as he presses inside. He’s big—thicker at the base, stretching you differently. But instead of pounding into you, he starts slow, rocking his hips with teasing precision.
“You feel so good,” he groans. “Like you were made for us.”
You’re crying out now—shaking, overwhelmed.
Bakugou moves behind you, lifting you slightly. “You can take more.”
Then you feel it—his cock pressing to your other hole. Your breath catches. “W-Wait—”
“We’ll go slow,” Midoriya soothes, kissing your throat. “Promise.”
They move together—slow, stretching you open, holding you in place, kissing your tears and gripping your thighs until you’re full in every way.
Two cocks, two sets of hands, two voices—one gentle, one rough, both obsessed.
You’ve never felt so worshipped and destroyed at the same time. They’re moaning now, losing rhythm, each trying to make you fall apart first.
“Come on, baby,” Midoriya pants, thrusts growing frantic. “Wanna feel you cum all over us.”
“Fuckin’ cum,” Bakugou snarls, hand wrapping around your throat. “Show us who owns you.”
You do. Loudly.
Your orgasm hits like a truck—shaking, twitching, screaming their names as they fuck you through it. You swear your vision blacks out for a second.
You feel them follow—Deku’s moan is breathless and broken, burying himself deep with a shudder. Bakugou curses through his teeth, slamming in one final time before he lets go inside you with a growl.
⸻
You’re wrecked.
Limp, trembling, stuffed full of their cum and barely able to breathe. They collapse beside you, sweat-drenched and dazed, one on each side.
Silence.
Then Bakugou grumbles, “…You’re lucky she wanted both of us.”
Deku chuckles softly, brushing your hair off your cheek. “Yeah. Lucky.”
You just smile, eyes fluttering shut as they both pull you into their arms—Bakugou’s hand on your thigh, Deku’s lips on your forehead.
-> I will NEVER stop writing menace Izuku because there is absolutely NO WAY someone that nice, that polite, that sweet is not secretly a freak. You don’t save the world with a smile and then go home and knit. No—you choke your girl out while she wears your merch and thank her for letting you. —Anyway, enjoy🥳
You didn’t expect much when you walked up to the table—just your hero crush smiling at you for five seconds before you moved on like everyone else.
But when his eyes lifted and locked onto yours, time stretched. You offered him the homemade fanart you’d printed on glossy paper. “It’s silly, but… I wanted you to sign it.”
His freckled cheeks went pink, and he gave you that smile. “It’s not silly at all. It’s cute.”
His fingers brushed yours when he took it. “Hey… mind if I ask something kinda bold?”
You blinked. “Yeah? What’s up?”
He scribbled something in the corner of the poster and slid it back. A phone number.
“Text me. If you want to talk more. Or… I don’t know. Grab a coffee?”
Your heart practically launched out of your chest.
Of course you texted him.
Coffee turned into dinner. Dinner turned into your back hitting his apartment mattress—staring up at him, wide-eyed, wondering how the sweet, bashful hero who wore a cardigan on your little date now had your legs pinned wide open… your wrists bound above your head with his utility belt.
At first, he kissed you like you were fragile. Hands shaky. Voice soft. Whispers of “you sure?” between every breath.
But the second you moaned his name and rocked your hips into his?
A switch flipped.
And suddenly the man above you wasn’t the one who smiled for cameras. He fucked you like he’d been starving. Like he’d been good for too long and now he needed to ruin something sweet.
He rutted into you slow and deep—possessive, gritting through every thrust like he hated how much he needed it.
“You thought I’d be gentle, didn’t you?” he muttered, slamming into you hard enough to make the headboard crack.
“Thought I’d blush and stutter while I fucked you?” He leaned down, lips dragging along your jaw. “No, baby. I earn my rewards.”
Your legs shook. He was everywhere—biting your neck, sucking marks onto your chest like he wanted the world to see, you were a moaning mess while he’s choking you just enough to make you dizzy.
“You moan like you want the whole city to hear you,” he growled. “You like this? Being fucked by your favorite hero like a filthy little fan girl?”
You gasped, nails digging into your palm.
He chuckled low, voice dark. “You’re soaked. Can feel it drip down my cock every time I pull out.”
“Please—” you barely got the word out before he was on you again, teeth gritted like he was holding back something brutal.
He paused, just to thrust harder. “I’ve saved lives, baby,” he snarled into your neck, “but I’d let the city burn if it meant I got to come back to this cunt.”
Your body snapped tight, your orgasm crashing into you with no warning—and he felt it.
He growled, rough and wrecked. “Good girl. Fuck—milk it. Soak me. Show me how much this pussy loves me.”
And when you finally went limp, body shaking, eyes glassy? He leaned down and kissed you like he hadn’t just destroyed you.
Then he pulled out, slowly, watching his cum leak from your pussy onto the sheets.
He groaned. “Next time I fuck you, wear my merch.”
You blinked up at him, fucked-out and blinking.
He grinned, all teeth. “The one that says Property of Pro Hero Deku. I wanna see it when I make you cum on your knees.”
Comments piling up, notifications buzzing like a hornet’s nest.
——
“Where tf are you QUEEN?!”
“don’t play w us like this”
“no bc i’ve reread it five times already. give us a BONE”
“you ruined my life now come back and do it again”
——
You’d be lying if you said the silence wasn’t intentional. It was. Completely.
But it wasn’t just strategy—it was survival.
Because ever since Bakugou read your last fic—the one where he quite literally fucked you in his hero suit— You’ve been distracted.
You two have been… talking. Texting. Flirting in that hot, volatile way that feels like standing too close to something explosive. Nothing overtly explicit, but every word between you dripped with the kind of tension that makes your thighs press together under the table.
He’s been buried in hero work—long nights, busted ribs, always tired. You’ve been pretending to stay calm. Composed.
But truthfully?
You’ve been writing. Touching yourself under the covers, laptop screen glowing in the dark as your free hand slid beneath your panties.
Drafting filth between gasps, imagining his hand around your throat, his voice in your ear, his body flush against yours as he makes you watch yourself fall apart.
You were supposed to be staying low-key.
You were supposed to be patient. But you were hungry.
And tonight? You feed the fire.
——
After editing, rereading, and working yourself up until your thighs were slick and sore—you finally hit Post.
And this time, there’s no warning. No tags. Just the excerpt, raw and dirty:
⸻
@/blastyourbackout :
“Pro Hero Dynamight would so love to make you watch yourself get slutted out in front of a mirror.”He’d drag your pretty body in front of it, make you stare at your own ruined reflection as he split you open from behind. One hand in your hair, the other around your throat, all while he whispers, ‘Look at you. That’s what I fuckin’ do to you.’
⸻
That’s all you post.
No context. No explanation. Just the filth.
You slam your laptop shut and walk away like you didn’t just set your entire blog—and possibly even Bakugou’s sanity—on fire.
You don’t expect him to read it that night and you definitely don’t expect him to text you 45 minutes later.
Four messages. Rapid fire.
——
Katsuki :
You wrote that shit while I was out bustin’ my ass?
You fuckin’ serious?
You knew I’d read it.
On my way.
——
You freeze, toothbrush still in your mouth, pulse suddenly in your throat.
He’s bluffing.
He has to be bluffing.
Buzz. A location ping.
Your toothbrush clatters into the sink.
⸻
He’s at your door in under ten minutes. When you open it, you think briefly—he might actually arrest me.
He’s still in his hero suit—this feels familiar—Boots tracking in dirt, gloves tucked under one arm, shirt stretched across his chest like it’s barely containing him. His face is flushed. Wind-tangled hair, a fresh cut across his jaw. And his eyes—Furious.
He doesn’t speak. Just steps inside, kicks the door shut with his heel, and locks it behind him.
Then finally—finally—he speaks.
“You really thought you could post that shit and not answer for it?”
Your heart skips. “It was just—fiction.” He laughs, but it’s humorless. “You didn’t even fucking tag it right.” He stalks forward. “Didn’t even label it as based on real events this time. Why?”
You open your mouth struggling to find the right words, “Because it didn’t happen?”
he gives you a sly smirk, “Well, it’s about to”
Before you can answer, he catches your wrist and tugs you forward—down the hall—into your bedroom. You know exactly where he’s going.
Straight to your closet mirror.
He doesn’t stop until your chest is nearly pressed to the closet door. His palm slides up your spine, warm and commanding, until it’s cupping the back of your neck.
“Look,” he growls. “You wrote that I made you watch. So fuckin’ watch.”
You meet your own wide eyes in the reflection. Your mouth is parted. Your skin flushed. You look like a girl seconds from being ruined.
He leans in behind you, voice low at your ear.
“You wrote I pulled your hair,” he says, fisting a handful gently.
His hand trails down between your thighs—cupping the heat of you through your thin pajama shorts.
“I’m gonna do so much more to you.”
The cool air hits your bare skin when he pulls your shorts down, panties dragged with them. Your palms brace against the mirror, forehead bumping the glass.
Bakugou shoves your legs farther apart with his knee, one big hand gripping your inner thigh, the other steadying your hips as he sinks to the floor behind you. You’re standing—barely—your palms pressed to the mirror for balance, forehead bumping the glass, but your knees already feel weak.
“You didn’t even write this part,” he mutters, low and dangerous, right before he spits on your pussy. The slick sound echoes in the room. Then his thumb spreads it in lazy, taunting circles over your clit. “That was a fuckin’ oversight.”
You gasp as his mouth is on you—ravenous. Tongue plunging deep, nose pressed against you, his groans vibrating straight through your core. It’s filthy. Wet. He’s eating you out like he’s starving, and all you can do is hold onto the mirror and try not to collapse.
“Look at yourself,” he growls, dragging his mouth just low enough to suck your clit between his lips, then back again. You catch his reflection behind you—eyes locked on yours, lips glistening. “Already fuckin’ trembling.”
You choke on a moan, head dropping forward against the mirror.
He keeps going, devouring you with slow, obscene licks, until your legs are shaking—slick and spit trailing warm down your inner thighs. He pulls away only when he knows you’re right on the edge, panting, ruined.
You feel the shift in his breath behind you. He stands slowly.
“Didn’t write this part either,” he mutters darkly.
Clink.
The sound of his belt unbuckling is slow and deliberate, followed by the sharp zip of his pants. Fabric rustles. Then— You hear it.
And when he leans down, lips brushing your ear, he finishes, “Guess I’ll just have to make it up.”
Wet, heavy strokes. The slick sound of him palming himself, dragging his fist down the length of his cock.
He groans low in his throat.
“You hear that?” he rasps, stepping close enough for you to feel the heat of him behind you. “That’s what your shitty little story did to me.”
You can’t move. Can’t breathe.
You try to glance over your shoulder, desperate to see him behind you—broad, flushed, jaw clenched in concentration. But you don’t get far.
Without warning, a rough hand clamps around your jaw and yanks your gaze forward, slamming your attention back to the mirror.
“God fuckin’ dammit,” he growls, voice gravel grinding against your ear. “If you don’t keep your eyes on that fuckin’ mirror, I’ll leave you here—cunt empty and all.”
He drags his tip through your folds—teasing, and cruel.
Then, he slams into you.
“Fuck—Katsuki—” You cry out—one palm smacks the mirror as the other braces your thigh. The stretch is overwhelming. Deep. Perfect.
His hand tangles in your hair again, yanking your head up until you’re staring at your reflection.
You watch the way your mouth falls open, the way your body jolts with every thrust. You watch your own tears start to well. The way his hand wraps around your throat from behind, the way his hips keep slamming forward.
“Suki— I can’t take it an-anymore” you whimper again, voice barely there—thin and cracking, tears threatening to spill as the pleasure tips into something unbearable. Your body’s trembling, your throat closing around the moans you can’t hold in anymore.
It’s too much. He’s too much. The mirror, the pace, his words—him. Your chest stutters with a ragged breath and your lip quivers, trying so hard not to sob.
And for a second—just one—he softens.
His mouth finds your shoulder. Just a gentle press of lips, almost tender. His hands, so rough moments ago, ghost over your hips, up your sides, like he’s holding you together while he tears you apart.
He leans in, breath hot on your cheek as your tears finally fall.
“Shhh,” he coos, so quiet it almost sounds sweet. “You’re fine. Takin’ it so well.”
And just like THAT —his grip tightens again, possessive and punishing. He growls it right into your ear, voice dropping to something feral, almost loving in how cruel it sounds.
He rocks his hips up again, dragging his cock slow and deep, making you sob out a sound so raw it barely sounds human.“You made me sound like a fuckin’ animal.” he snarls.
Because he was.
Because he is.
“Were you writing that filthy shit with your hand down your panties?” he snarls, voice dark with disbelief and want.
Your breath stutters. Eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, mouth trembling as another thrust rocks you forward.
You’d feel guilty if you said no.
“…Yes,” you whisper brokenly.
“Say it louder baby”
The sound of his balls slapping against your clit makes you whimper—each thrust, each roll of his hips, makes the pleasure surge higher.
“Yes—fuck—” you gasp, voice cracking as your head falls back to his shoulder. “I was writing it while I touched myself. I—” you choke on a moan, “I came thinking about you watching me in the mirror. I couldn’t stop.”
He groans—low and wrecked, hips jolting hard enough to slap skin. You cry out, fingers clawing at the mirror for leverage.
He’s fucking you harder now—meaner, like your confession unlocked something vicious in him. “Such a needy little thing.”
You whimper. Your knees are buckling.
“God baby where you want me to put it, huh? inside you? want me to fuckin’ bust a load in this tight pussy?” You can’t speak. You just nod, gasping.—He’s pounding into you now, brutal and relentless, your whole body rocking against the mirror.
He pulls you back against his chest, one hand on your stomach, the other cradling your jaw so you can still see yourself fall apart in his arms.
And when you come—messy, shattering—he groans like it takes him with you, it knocks the breath clean out of your lungs. You cry out—loud and broken—and feel him pulse inside you seconds later, growling into your shoulder as he follows you over the edge. He empties inside you, still grinding his hips through the aftershocks.
⸻
The room goes quiet but for your shuddering breath. He holds you there—pressed to the mirror, skin flushed and sticky, heartbeat stuttering in your chest.
He doesn’t let you go right away. Just holds you there. Like you were meant to be ruined by him, and only him.
You watch the mirror fog slowly from your breath. Then, after a long beat, he leans in—mouth brushing your temple.
“Wanna go on a date?”
You blink. “You’re seriously asking me that right now?”
He chuckles, still catching his breath. “Felt right.” He nudges your thighs together, gently helps you upright, even as his cum drips out of you and slides down your leg.
“I don’t want you with anyone else,” he adds softly.“Don’t want anyone else to have you like this.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Yes, Katsuki. I’ll go on a date with you.”
⸻
Hours later—after he’s cleaned you up, made you eat something, kissed your thighs like he was worshipping them—you’re alone again.
You sit at your laptop, skin still warm, fingertips trembling.
You open a new post.
Title: Correction: Watch Yourself
And you write. Every filthy detail. Just for him.
You posted the new—updated—fic five days later.
Tagline?
#based on real events
#yes he read it first this time
#yes the suit was on again
#no he didn’t let me tone it down
#i still can’t look in my closet mirror without shaking
It’s late, and you’re curled up in bed with your fanfic draft open and half a Twix in your mouth. Your followers are going wild in the replies, and you’re riding the high of being the “unofficial Dynamight smut queen” of the timeline. You’ve been known for your over-the-top thirst tweets, but this one? This one’s feral.
—
@/blastyourbackout
“Dynamight wouldn’t even take the suit off. He’d fuck you with the gauntlets still on, breathing heavy through gritted teeth, all ‘Shut up and take it—this is what you wanted, right?’”
—
You toss your phone. That’s enough unhinged behavior for the night. Until the morning comes—and you wake up to hell.
Your tweet is trending. His name is trending. People are tagging him.
—
“this is NASTY and i love it.”
“@Dynamightofficial please read this and confirm or deny.”
“If Dynamight didn’t do this, I’d be shocked.”
“SOMEONE CHECK ON HIM”
“@Dynamightofficial thoughts??”
Then it happens.
—
@Dynamightofficial :
“Who tf is behind this account.”
“If you’re gonna talk like that, be brave enough to show your face.”
You nearly throw up. Your DMs? Melted. And sitting right at the top.
[Private Message – @Dynamightofficial]
“You write a lotta shit for someone who hides behind a screen.”
“You really think I’d leave the fuckin’ suit on?”
“Show me your face if you’re gonna say it like you know me.”
Your heart is pounding. And you shouldn’t. But you do. You send a selfie. Just a soft one. T-shirt, messy hair, bare face. You look like someone who absolutely shouldn’t be writing the filth he just read.
There’s a long pause.
He starts to finally type:
“…fuck.”
“You’re cute.”
“like super fuckin’ cute”
“You don’t look like someone who says I’d blow your back out against a fuckin’ window.”
You:
“I mean… would you?”
Him:
“You really wanna know?”
“You clearly think you know it all, writing the way you do.”
“So what—wanna let me show you what it’s really like?”
You pause. Breathless. Fingers trembling.
“Yes.”
⸻
A few days later, the meet-up actually happened.
You gave him your address—half-joking, half-panicking when he immediately replied with a thumbs up and a “Bet.”
You spent the next two days spiraling.
Cleaned every inch of your apartment. Shaved, exfoliated, moisturized places you didn’t even know needed it. Practiced how you’d open the door without looking like you were seconds from passing out. Told yourself it was just casual, just fun, just… whatever. you totally weren’t about to get fucked dumb by your fav pro that you write smut about.
Except it wasn’t. Because now. He’s at your door.
And he’s in the fucking suit.
Mask off. Jaw set. Gloves still on. That big, broad chest rising and falling.
Black and orange, thick with tension and sweat and that sharp smoky scent that clings to him after a patrol. His hair’s a mess. One gauntlet is attached, the other dangling from his hip. And he’s just standing there—broad, massive, silent—like he owns the whole building.
You freeze. Your heart slams.
“…Hi,” you manage to say.
His eyes drag over you—down your legs, over the shorts you probably could’ve made smaller and the tank top that wasn’t technically meant to be seductive, but absolutely became that under stress.
“Damn,” he mutters. “You look even better when you’re nervous.”
You try to laugh but it comes out breathless. “You really wore the suit?”
“uuuh yeah? did you think I was gonna show up here in a hoodie after all the shit you wrote about this thing?” He steps closer. “Thought I’d let you see it up close before I ruined your sheets.”
Your knees go weak.
You try to respond—something witty, something smug—but your words get caught somewhere between your throat and the fact that he’s already inside. Pushing the door shut behind him. Glancing around like he’s checking for cameras, or exits, or maybe just where he’s gonna lay you out first.
“You ready?” he asks, voice low. Rough. Already undoing the gauntlet from his wrist with one hand, tossing it aside.
You nod, dazed. “Yeah.”
He smirks—steps in closer until you’re backed up against the nearest wall, breath catching.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’ve been losing sleep over the way you said I’d fuck you in this suit.”
You stare up at him, completely wrecked just by his presence, and whisper, “Was I right about some of this stuff I wrote?”
He dips his head down, lips brushing yours—barely.
“I’m here to fact check it.” he growls.
You shudder.
He pulls back just enough to smirk, eyes dragging down your body like he’s mentally ripping off every layer.
He hasn’t even touched you properly yet—but your back’s against your door, your legs are trembling, and Bakugou’s towering over you like he’s already won.
“That tweet got me thinkin’ about you all fuckin’ day, baby. Let’s see if you write better when you’re sore.”
His hero suit creaks with every breath. Heavy-duty gauntlets still locked around his wrists. His undersuit clings to him, black and orange and unforgiving across his chest, his thighs—everything.
“You scared?” he asks, voice low. His hand comes up—gloved fingers trailing under your jaw, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “Or just nervous I’m actually gonna live up to that filthy little imagination of yours?”
Your breath catches.
“…both.”
He smirks. Then his mouth is on yours.
It’s not sweet. It’s not careful. It’s everything you wrote about—demanding, rough, obsessed. He kisses like a man starved. Like he’s been reading your tweets on loop.
And god, when his hand slides down your waist—those big gloved fingers gripping your ass, hoisting you up—your back hits the wall and you let out a soft, stunned whimper.
“That the sound you make when you’re not behind a screen?” he growls, lips dragging along your neck. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re even better in person.”
You try to answer, but he’s already slipping one hand between your thighs, dragging his knuckles over your heat—still covered by your shorts.
“Wrote that I’d be mean with it,” he murmurs. “That I’d tease you. Make you beg.”
His gloved finger presses just right over the damp spot in your underwear.
“So beg.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders. You feel insane.
“P-Please.”
He groans. “That all I get after all those filthy paragraphs?”
“Dynamight—”
His eyes flash. “Katsuki.”
You pant, skin burning.
“Please, Katsuki.”
“Atta fuckin’ girl.”
He carries you to your room practically kicking the damn door down. Your back hits the mattress, but he doesn’t follow right away. He stands at the edge of the bed, breathing heavy, gaze dark and hungry.
His suit’s half-unzipped now—exposing his chest, glistening with sweat and tension—but everything else stays on. That thick black material clings to his arms and thighs like sin. The gauntlets drop to the floor with a heavy thud, but the gloves? Still on. And he flexes his fingers slow—just to watch you squirm.
“You’re fuckin’ dangerous,” he mutters, eyes dragging over your body like he’s trying to memorize it. “Sittin’ there on your little blog, makin’ people think you’ve got me figured out.”
Your thighs squeeze together. He notices. Smirks. “Lemme show you how right you were.”
He crawls over you like a storm. Muscles shifting under his suit, voice dipping low, filthy, as he shoves your shirt up, lips ghosting over your stomach.
You arch when his teeth graze your hip. “Katsuki—”
“That’s right, baby,” he mutters, pulling your shorts off slow. “Say my name when you write about this later too.”
He pushes your thighs open, and he goes down. Tongue eager. Desperate. He eats you out like he’s proving a point—like he’s got something to prove to every single tweet you’ve ever posted. Groaning into you, gripping your thighs tight like he wants to leave handprints. You’re moaning, shaking, gripping the sheets, and he’s just eating it up—literally.
He comes up with his mouth slick and eyes wild. “Not even close to done with you.” And he isn’t.
He flips you. Presses you into the mattress. One hand on your hip, the other grabbing your wrist and dragging it up the bed.
“Hold that headboard, princess.” You feel him line up—still in the damn suit—and your breath catches as he sinks in.
Slow. Deep. Bruising.
“Fuck,” he hisses, jaw clenched. “You feel like I imagined. So fuckin’ tight, so wet—shit.”
You cry out. He starts moving. Harder. Deeper.
Every stroke is a claim. His hand slides down your back, then back up to wrap around your throat—not choking, just holding. Just letting you feel it.
“Write about this next time” he growls into your ear. “Write about about me makin’ you cum multiple fuckin’ times.”
You whimper—high, breathy, wrecked.
“That’s right. Take it. You wanted this.”
“I did,” you gasp. “I wanted you—”
“You fuckin’ got me now.”
When you fall apart—completely, wildly, back-arching and moaning his name like a prayer—he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow.
Because he’s obsessed now. Addicted.
Your thighs are trembling. Your voice is hoarse. Your sheets are a mess—twisted, damp, clinging to your skin like the heat of him isn’t already enough.
He’s still going.
“One more,” he grits out, thrusts snapping into you slow and deep. “C’mon, baby—just one more for me.”
You’re barely hanging on—nails dragging helplessly down his back, vision blurry with overstimulation, body trembling under him as he rocks into you, all tight grunts and low, broken groans.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, sweat dripping down his temples. “Takin’ me so good—fuck—you feel like you were made for me.”
You moan, shattered.
He growls, fucks you harder, chasing his release like a wildfire. And when he finally gets there—when you clench around him, gasping out his name in a breathless sob— He snaps.
“Knew it,” he groans, hips stuttering. “Knew I’d fill this pussy the second I saw you.” oh, and he does. Deep. Warm. Heavy. Flooding you.
He keeps moving—shallow, deep rolls—just to push it in. Just to feel it drip. Just to make it last. His head drops to your shoulder, lips brushing your skin.
You barely register him pulling out until you feel it—messy, hot, dripping down your thighs.
“fuuuck you’re beautiful” he murmurs smirking down at you. Wrecked, ruined, glowing. He lays down beside you, just looking at you like you were a fucking trophy.
He then reaches for his phone.
—
[New Tweet – @Dynamightofficial]
“Just fact-checked one of your little fantasy tweets. 11/10 accuracy. Would reread. Would re-enact.”
—
You see what’s he doing and it snaps you out your daze, your eyes go wide. “You didn’t—!”
“Too late,” he shrugs. “Let ‘em guess which one it was.”
You grabbed your phone just as quick to quote it.
—
[New Tweet – @blastyourbackout]
“Just know the gloves stayed on.”
—
The internet breaks.
You can barely feel your legs.
And Katsuki Bakugou? THE pro hero Dynamight?
He’s already rolling over, tugging you to his chest, muttering in your ear, “Hope you’re not tired, princess. I’ve got a lot more tweets to prove right.”
