𝐊𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐘

𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐈 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒?

[kirsty-bytes]

𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐲'𝐬 𝐊𝐨𝐯𝐞

𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 ༄ 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐦 & 𝐥𝐢𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐝 ༄ 𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐧'𝐬 𝟏𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 ༄ 𝐛𝐥𝐤 🇿🇦 ༄ 𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫 ༄ 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐛𝐯 ༄ 𝐬𝐟𝐰 & 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰

𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 ༄ "𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬"

𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐬:

𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧: mha 𒊹 aot 𒊹 jjk 𒊹 knb 𒊹

and others!

𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬:

gaming, activism, anime, literature, culinary, art

𒊹masterlist. 𒊹 mpov. 𒊹activism. (to be updated)

please don’t use ai or plagiarise my work! (reblogs are cool)

kirstybytes2025

[kirsty-bytes]

so i practically ghosted yall😞

sorry sorry hell of a 2 months but IM BACKK

[kirsty-bytes]

mark grayson x med!student reader (been wanting to write for mark)

You were going to fail anatomy.

At least, that’s how it felt with your textbook sprawled open across your desk, a dozen sticky notes fluttering hopelessly. The muscular system stared back at you in sterile grayscale, and your brain refused to absorb any of it. Every deltoid looked like a boulder, every abdominal group like an abstract puzzle, and no energy drinks could save you.

Which is when Mark Grayson knocked.

“Hey, uh—” Mark’s voice filtered through your door, hesitant but warm. “You said you needed help studying?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Yeah, I seriously don’t know why I asked, I don’t think you’re going to be much help.”

The door cracked open, revealing his sheepish grin. “No, but… you do have me standing right here and I’ve got a body.”

You barely held back a scoff, “Mark, I’ve barely seen you work out at all —I highly doubt your physique would be helpful.”

“That’s the thing, you’ve never seen it.”

You blinked at him silently and Mark scratched the back of his neck, cheeks warming. “Okay, yeah, it sounded way less weird in my head. I just figured—uh—you know, sometimes seeing things in person helps, right? I’m basically a walking, talking anatomy chart.”

You raised a brow. “So your big plan is to let me poke at you until I learn the difference between a bicep and a brachialis?”

“Exactly,” he said, far too proud of himself.

You sighed, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you with a twitch of a smile. “Fine. But if I fail this exam, I’m blaming you. Not my lack of study skills, you.”

“Deal,” he said, stepping fully inside and shutting the door. “So where do we start?”

At first, it was clinical. There definitely wasn’t anything weird about touching your friend this way, just science.

“Flex your arm,” you instructed, eyes flicking from the chart in your textbook to Mark’s sleeve as it tightened over his bicep. “That—yeah, that’s the biceps brachii. Short head and long head… attaching at the scapula…”

Mark glanced down at his arm like he’d never really considered it before. “So basically, you’re saying my arms are smart?”

“God, no,” you shot back, deadpan. “If anything, they’re carrying your underdeveloped brain.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You’ve got jokes today.”

“Med school makes you a bitch,” you quipped, but a smile betrays your words.

You traced your finger just above his elbow, careful not to linger too long. “That’s the brachialis underneath. Works with the biceps to flex the elbow. It’s what gives your arm shape.”

Mark smirked. “So you’re saying I’ve got good shape? After saying ‘Mark you barely work out,” he rebutted in a highly exaggerated imitation of you.

“Don’t fish for compliments, Mark,” you mumble but the truth was, you were noticing. He wasn’t just lean—he was built in a way that anatomy charts could never capture, all real strength and living muscle. You told yourself it was purely educational, but your thrumming pulse said otherwise.

“Okay,” Mark said after a while, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “Do you… uh, want me to take this off? For, like, science?”

Your eyebrow shot up, “Wow.”

He flushed. “No! I didn’t mean it like that, I just—uh—you can’t really study the torso with this thing in the way.”

You stared at him for a moment too long, enjoying how he squirmed, before sighing and waving your hand. “Fine…but I know you’re secretly showing off, I just can’t prove it.” Earning a laugh from him.

Mark peeled the hoodie over his head, revealing his shirtless chest, (who the hell wears only a hoodie) but besides that, you were left stunned. You clearly haven’t seen Mark’s body enough because he is absolutely shredded—in a way that makes you drift your gaze everywhere.

“Woah,” you said, voice soft.

Mark’s face was more flustered but with a hint of pride as he playfully flexed an arm, a bare arm, “Amazing right?” You immediately rolled your eyes and focused on the lesson again, trying to calm your racing heart.

You pointed to his chest, “Pectoralis major. Two heads—clavicular and sternocostal. Works with the deltoid to flex the humerus.”

Mark flexed slightly, more out of curiosity than vanity. “So… basically, if I throw a punch, that’s what makes it painful?”

“Yes,” you said, lips quirking. “Though I’m sure you barely encounter any fights. One look at this and I’m gone,”

He laughed, and that made your stomach twist in a way no textbook ever could.

It went on like that—your finger tracing along the curve of his shoulder as you labeled the deltoid, his back muscles tensing as you outlined the trapezius. Every time your touch lingered, you reminded yourself it was academic. Every time he shifted nervously under your gaze, you reminded yourself he was just trying to help.

But the air between you kept warming.

“Okay, last one,” you murmured, flipping to the abdominal section of your notes. “Move closer.”

Mark blinked. “What?”

“I need to feel on your abs, genius.”

“Oh. Right.” He nervously nodded and shuffled a bit closer and without much thought, you crouched to set your eye level at his stomach, pressing lightly while squinting your eyes as if you can visualise all those muscles, briefly ignoring the way he tensed.

Then you froze, realizing just how close you were—close enough that when you looked up, your breath lingered on his skin and your eyes caught his in a way that made your chest stumble over itself.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you exhaled, heat rushing to your cheeks, and stood abruptly, shoving your hair out of your face. “Right—um. Rectus abdominis. Core stabilizer. Classic six-pack.” Your voice was clipped, too fast, as though naming muscles could cover the fact that you’d just practically breathed against him.

Mark reached for his hoodie quickly, his own heated face betraying him. “…So… am I passing the test?” he asked, trying for levity, though his voice was rougher than before.

You cleared your throat, refusing to look directly at him as you scribbled something on your notes. “Barely…probably,”

‘Definitely,’ you thought in your head.

“Thanks,” you said, closing your textbook. “That was actually… way more helpful than staring at diagrams.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Anytime. I mean—if you ever need more… uh, anatomy lessons, I’m around.”

You smirked, leaning back in your chair. “Careful, Mark. Keep offering yourself up as a study aid and I might just make it a regular thing.”

His eyes flicked to yours, uncertain but hopeful. “…Would that be so bad?”

For a moment, you let the silence linger, enjoying the way his face went red all over again. Then you looked away, pretending to focus on your notes.

“Don’t push your luck,” But deep down, you already knew you’d call him back the next time you opened your textbook.

part 2 later but more smutty🫦

[kirsty-bytes]

i’m back( for like a week, writing again soon🥀🥀🥀) but thank you so much for 100 followers 🥹🫶🏾 really appreciate how people like my writing and concepts!

[kirsty-bytes]

Jean Kirstein is a little inexperienced—you can tell from the way he stalls after every ‘casual’ lie about girls he’s been with, or the way his voice grows too loud when the topic of kinks comes up. He wants to sound certain, but the hesitation always gives him away.

Not that you mind. You like them when they’re inexperienced.

Which is how you’ve ended up here, in Jean’s bedroom. Shoes by the corner, fuzzy socks kicking idly off the side of his bed while he hovers nearby, unsure what to do with himself.

You don’t waste time on his posters or the mess on his desk. Just a tilt of your head, a finger crooked in invitation, tugging him closer by the collar of his shirt until he’s right there in front of you.

You smile, almost teasing. “So… what do you wanna do?”

The question hits him like a wave. His face flushes instantly, gaze skittering to the side before pulling back to you. A weak shrug, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

“Whatever you wanna do.”

His words hang between you, awkward and sweet, and for a moment you think he’ll keep standing there, red-faced and frozen. But then he shifts—hesitant at first, then with a sudden burst, his knees pressing into the mattress as he climbs over you.

The movement makes you raise your brows, amused, and before you can tease him for it he leans forward, caging you in with one hand planted by your shoulder. The other fumbles at the hem of your shirt, trailing touches lightly on your waist, as though testing what he’s allowed.

“Cute,” you murmur, eyes glinting.

He grins, still a little uneven but steadier than before, and dares to trail even higher, by the seam of your bra, “You think so?”

You let him observe how you slouch back into the pillows, your socks sliding against the sheets as you tilt your chin up in invitation. “Mm. For someone who’s all talk, you’re actually doing pretty well.”

That makes him laugh under his breath, nerves breaking into something warmer. His fingers toy with the lace at your chest, not quite brave enough to move underneath, not quite willing to let go either. You notice the way his shoulders ease the longer you don’t stop him, how the flush on his cheeks looks less like embarrassment and more like excitement now.

You lift a hand, brushing his cheek with your fingertips, leaning into the game instead of calling it out. “Keep this up and I might start thinking you’ve done this before.”

His smirk is quick and unpracticed, but real. “Maybe I’m just a fast learner.”

Instead, you hook your fingers into his collar again and tug him down, closing the space in one sharp pull. The kiss lands hard, all teeth and warmth, cutting off whatever shaky joke he was about to make.

He gasps against your mouth, startled, and that’s all the opening you need to press deeper, until he’s bracing himself over you with both hands and trying desperately to keep up. His nerves vanish in the rush of it, his inexperience folding into the heat like it was meant to be there.

And then, just as he starts to find his footing, you flip the game, literally, rolling smoothly and pushing him back until he’s the one against the mattress. You swing your leg over, settling onto his lap with practiced ease, your arms sliding around his neck to pull him closer into you.

For a moment, he’s dizzy under you, caught somewhere between awe and panic, his hands hovering at your waist like he doesn’t trust himself to touch too much. You kiss him slower this time, letting him feel the weight of you above him, your tongue and hands running through his strands, letting him understand exactly who’s steering this.

When you finally pull back, your lips just barely brushing his, you take in the sight—his face flushed, hair a mess, chest rising unevenly under you.

You smile, a spark in your eyes as you whisper, low and deliberate—

“Careful, Jean. Another look like that and I’ll really make you beg.” You tease, rolling your hips over his.

Yes, Jean was totally fucked.

releasing frustrations through writing>>>

[kirsty-bytes]

most of yall aint gonna even see this but going on a long—very long hiatus because im writing exams and all ( im in grade 12) ill probably only reappear in october or sumth but i will come back with drafts and drafts hopefully!

tata👋🏾

[jeanwrlds]

raw edges ᯓ jean k. x fem!reader

.ᐟ details: smut (18+ MDNI), unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), riding, creampie (?), uuuhhh

.ᐟ brief: after eren's raid on liberio leaves you gravely injured, a certain ash-brown haired man makes it his mission to care for you – despite the heartbreak you left him with four years ago, back in the walls. with old wounds still aching – on your back and in his chest – what begins as reluctant aid slowly turns into something more; a boiling pot of heat and unspoken feelings, dangerously close to spilling over.

.ᐟ wc: 3.7k+

.ᐟ log: uuhhhmhmh first post hi :3 *wipes sweaty hands on pants*

It’s become a routine by now. Jean comes to your room after everyone goes to bed, tends the wounds on your back with – what feels like – fewer words exchanged each time, and then leaves with a muttered good night.

That’s all it is. And that’s all it has been for the past week and a half.

You barely remember how you ended up on that airship – only that your body was screaming. The hook snagged on the frame of the airship mid-lift, dragging you mercilessly over a field of rubble remains of war before Jean spotted you. The damn gear was busted – stolen from a dead scout and barely functional. You weren't even fully conscious when he grabbed you mid-air, cursing under his breath as he hauled your bloodied mess into the airship.

Your back was flayed open raw by then.

Now, days later, you’re recovering slowly inside what remained of an old Scout HQ back inside the Walls. You haven’t been to Paradis since Reiner had decided to unveil his and Bertholdt’s purpose for being sent there in the first place, four years ago.

Born in Marley and raised to serve your part in the military, you knew exactly why and for what purpose you were sent to Paradis Island alongside Reiner, Bertholdt, and Annie. You weren’t special. The blood in your veins didn’t carry the power of the Titans like theirs did. You were simply sent to protect them if needed. To sacrifice yourself, if it came down to it.

A proud Marleyan at heart, you couldn’t say no to the opportunity of joining your closest friends on that mission – even if it meant dying in the process.

What you didn’t plan for, though, was falling in love with an Eldian boy named Jean Kirstein.

The boy you shared whispers with beneath your blankets, stolen pieces of bread or meat from dinner for, whose hands stuck flowers found during training in the hair above your ear. His fingers always brushed yours a second too long, and he looked at you like you were the only quiet thing left in a world tearing itself apart.

The boy whose heart you broke into pieces when your true reasons for coming here were revealed.

The building groans with age and war, but it’s a shelter. Jean made it his personal mission to help you, always there with gauze and ointment. Much to your confusion, he’s gentle. Too gentle.

And tonight, like clockwork, you’re waiting.

You just got out of the shower, towel clutched around your body, water dripping from your hair down your spine, stinging a few not-so-healed wounds. The room is dim, lit by a single candle on the dresser, its flame flickering like a heartbeat.

Usually, Jean shows up the moment the sun disappears over the horizon, leaving the Shinganshina district draped in a dark blue hue. So, you time your showers accordingly, making sure to clean yourself thoroughly and put on a fresh pair of sleeping attire.

The door creaks open.

You turn, startled. Jean freezes in the doorway. His amber eyes widen at the sight of you – damp, half-naked, hair dripping.

He blinks once. Twice.

You stand there, caught like a deer in headlights.

“I– I can come back,” he mutters, already stepping back, looking everywhere but at you.

You aren’t sure. Maybe it’s the way he swallows thickly as he looks at you. Or the new candle you had lit tonight, coating the room in a musky, dizzying scent. But you shake your head, the word no rolling off your lips so quickly, you couldn’t have stopped it even if you tried.

Jean freezes, looking at you like he isn’t sure if he heard you correctly. You clear your throat lightly, moving to the edge of your bed.

“Let’s just get this over with–”

Still in only the towel, you perch yourself on the bed on your knees, back turned to him, hiding your burning face by staring at the wall in front of you.

The silence is deafening.

Jean steps inside, the door clicking softly shut behind him. You don’t turn around, but you hear the soft rustle of his uniform as he removes his belts, the clink of buckles as he sets his gear aside. The warmth of the room shifts as he approaches, the scent of him – leather, pine, and something so unmistakably Jean – invading your space.

He takes a seat behind you, dragging a chair over from the lone table in the corner. You can feel his eyes on you. You gather your hair in one hand and sweep it over your shoulder, exposing your back.

Another moment passes.

“Are you just going to stare,” you ask, glancing over your shoulder, “Or are you going to do something?”

The tub of ointment is in his hands, albeit unopened. Staring at your covered back and the balm like he’s hesitating. His eyes snap up to meet yours, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Drop the towel for me, will you?”

Your breath catches in your throat. He said it way too easily, way too quick.

You hesitate a beat too long before facing forward again. Then, without a word, you let the towel fall, letting it gather loosely at your waist. Cool air kisses your skin, and you don’t know if that makes you shiver or the fact that you could feel his eyes rake over your back.

The chair creaks.

He starts with the upper scars, like usual, his fingers deft and steady. The ointment is cool at first, a thick clear goop that warms beneath the slow pressure of his hands.

When he reaches your lower back, the towel still covers you modestly, though it’s also covering the last few scars. You take notice of that and are about to move it yourself when his hands gently push the fabric lower, careful not to expose more than necessary. He tucks the towel along the crease of your hip, knuckles grazing bare skin.

If he hears your breath hitch, he doesn’t make it known. He just keeps going, his fingers slowing and lingering, deepening the circles. Apparently, he gets lost in the sensation, too, because he presses too hard on a not-quite-healed scar. You hiss.

“Shit– sorry,” he murmurs, both hands now sweeping up your spine. “You okay?”

You nod, humming and immediately getting engulfed in the feeling of his calloused fingers running up your spine.

His thumbs find your shoulders and begin working out the tension there, drawing slow, firm circles into your skin. You melt. Your eyes flutter closed.

You don’t want to ruin this – whatever this is.

But the question has been living in your bones since the moment you woke up in the airship. You buried it under irony and silence. It festered there, quietly, a wound of its own.

His hands work methodically, almost reverently, and your body betrays you.

“…Why did you save me?”

The words slip out – barely a whisper. You feel his hands pause on your shoulders, and your body almost betrays you again when you have to bite back a whine.

The silence that follows was so loud you almost wish you could take it back and just pretend you said nothing.

He exhales through his nose. You startle when his hand comes over your shoulder to gather your damp hair again. He lets it fall down your back like a waterfall, covering the scars.

You feel his hesitation before he finally answers.

“I didn’t think. I just…” He combs his hand through your damp strands, once, twice. “…saw you.”

Your breath hitches at the same time he removes his hand from your hair.

An arm moves up to cover your chest as you turn slightly to say something – anything – but froze.

Jean is standing up. You’re face-to-face with his crotch, his body towering over you. You look up slowly, heart slamming into your ribs. He stares down at you, eyes locked with yours and gaze carrying an emotion you can’t quite pinpoint.

You swallow. “Thank you.” A weak attempt of trying to lighten up the sudden and heavy semblance your question spurred.

He doesn’t answer. Just swallows thickly, throat bobbing, and nods tightly once.

He turns to put the supplies away, and you pull your towel back up – but only barely, clutching it with one hand. You lean back on your other arm, watching him.

His sleeves are rolled up now, veins and muscles flexing as he moves. You’re shameless as you watch him, a fleet burst of heat runs from your neck down right into your abdomen.

He turns – and stops cold.

Jean finds his mouth dry as he allows his eyes to roam over you – softly, heatedly. The towel barely clings to your body, a sliver of skin visible at your waist. Your legs are relaxed across the sheets like some work of art.

You look straight out of an oil painting. The candle’s warm hue casts over your totally immoderately covered body–

He shakes his head and steps forward slowly, gaze still locked with yours. When his shins hit the bed he reaches out a hand and places it over yours – the one holding the towel with a grip that makes your knuckles white.

You don’t look away. You can’t.

“Jean,” you whisper.

It’s like the way you whisper his name makes something stir inside him. He just pulls your hand away, the towel falling open. Your nipples are pulled taut and your chest rises and falls with each breath you take – you could almost say you’re panting.

He doesn’t allow himself to look, though. Instead, he’s watching you. Watching your face. Your lips. Like he’s giving you an out. Like he’s giving you a chance to lift the towel back up and to tell him to leave, to get out–

But you’re not taking that chance.

It takes minimal effort to raise yourself up on your knees and to press your lips to his in a soft, slow kiss.

You only part for a second or two to catch your breath, when Jean pulls you back to him by your shoulders, slamming your lips together in a messy kiss.

It’s all teeth and tongue and spit but you couldn’t care less, not when you feel hot all over and his stubble tickles your chin and he’s so careful not to touch your back after all the good work he did by cleaning your wounds up.

You claw at his uniform, then. Nimble fingers work at his shirt and you run your hands under it, over his built chest. Jean groans into the kiss when he feels your nails on his stomach, his cock getting harder with every passing second.

“Off,” you mumble into his mouth, impatiently pulling the garment up. He complies, breaking the kiss, but following it with a wet peck right after. Like he can’t not kiss you right now.

You fall back on your ass and move up to the headboard, watching him strip from his shirt and moving to take off his pants, too. You forget all about the few unhealed cuts you still have on your back and lean into the bed, stopping short when you feel a pinch in your lower back.

Jean, working on getting his pants off now, hears your hiss and snaps his head up, concerned gaze fleeting over your face.

“Shit–” He stumbles, almost ripping the second pant leg off and climbing on the bed and over your form. “Careful,” He urges, lifting you into a seated position by your shoulders.

“I’m good, I just–” you start, pushing yourself upright, unfurling your spine as you try to stretch as gently as possible. “My lower back–”

He cuts you off by swiftly flipping you around on your stomach and pushing you down into the mattress. You barely register it, trying to push yourself up, ready to snap Jean a questioning glare when– oh.

Your whole body shivers when one of his hands moves your hair out of the way, while the other rubs at your inner thigh – dangerously close to your aching core. You gasp and arch your hips off the bed when he moves to the other thigh. “Jean–”

“I got you.” A whisper, followed by a feather light kiss on your shoulder.

He places kisses all over the wounds on your back, and keeps rubbing your inner thighs. You’re all over the place, panting and dripping without even being touched where you needed it most.

Head dropping into the pillow, fingers twisting in the sheets – you let out a long moan when he finally pushes in a finger, not wasting time in pushing in a second, too.

“Fuck,” Jean curses, watching in awe as your cunt squelched with every thrust. “This all for me?”

You nod feverishly, pushing yourself slightly onto your knees and rocking back onto his fingers. “Yes,” you gasp, and he adds another finger, all three of his long digits reaching the gummy spot in your walls easily.

He senses that you’re close and quickens the pace when you start chanting something along the lines of yesyesyesyes and jeanpleasedontstop’msoclose. You almost scream when he replaces his fingers with his mouth, licking and eating you out through your orgasm which hits you full force.

Eyes squeezing shut and legs almost locking around his head, you ride your high out on his tongue, only stopping when the overstimulation is too much.

He gives your clit one last suck before removing his mouth with a wet plop. He clambers over your body up to your face, and finds you already staring, eyes glossed over and lower lip flushed as if you have been biting down on it.

His lips lift up into a dorky smile. “You taste so good,”

You snort, reaching your hand back and pulling his face down to yours, messily kissing him, not at all caring about your slick that’s all over his lips and chin.

Jean lays down next to you and you break the kiss, looking down to see a tent in his boxers, a dark patch on the tip of it. You place your hand on his abdomen, raking your nails over his happy trail and enjoying the way his breath hitches and his cock twitches in his briefs.

Reaching into them, you grab his stiff cock and pull it out, while Jean helps by pulling his boxers down completely, throwing them somewhere off the bed. He’s leaking like crazy, a drop of precum escaping his flushed tip.

He releases a shaky breath when you start pumping him up and down slowly, squeezing every time you pass his tip. At one point he grabs your chin and turns your face towards him, kissing you sloppily and groaning into your mouth.

You kiss down his neck and twist your hand around his tip, slicking up your own fingers with his precum.

“Shi–it,” he stutters, grabbing your wrist to halt your movements. You stop your sloppy kisses and sucks on his neck and look up at him, confused. “If you keep doin’ that ‘m not gonna last long.” He’s panting, swallowing to keep his throat from drying up.

With one movement you throw your leg around him, settling on his legs, his cock standing up straight right against your stomach. Jean watches with a slacked jaw as you move your hair to drape along your back again, giving him a full view of your body. The way your tits bounce at the act, and the way his tip almost reaches your belly button. Almost.

You perch your arms on his abdomen, his hands grab at your hips, your waist, your tits, groping them and running his thumbs back and forth over your nipples. You squirm, your cunt still dripping with arousal and coating the hairs on his balls.

“You’re unreal,” he swallows. “Fuck.”

You bite your lip to suppress a smile, but it comes through anyway. Lifting your hips, you align his tip with your entrance and sink down languidly. The moment his tip slips into your hole, Jean hisses and grips your hips, nails digging into your skin.

“Oh my fucking–” He starts, getting cut off by a moan that climbed up his throat. As he watches himself disappear into your cunt he has to stop himself from slamming you down his whole length himself. When you finally bottom out, the two of you moan. You throw your head back and grind back and forth a few times, getting used to the delicious stretch.

You sink back up and down again, quicker this time, and repeat that motion a few times until you start riding him fully, supporting your weight on his chest. Jean’s deep groans make you ridiculously wet, his cock slick and sinking into you with an obscene squelsh.

“Jean,” you mewl, digging your nails into his chest. “You’re so–” your gasp cuts your sentence short when his cock hits that velvety spot inside you so good you cried out.

“I’m so what?” he asks, halting your bouncing and moving you back and forth, down onto his pelvis, his thumb catching onto your clit and rubbing it in circles. He watches your expressions closely, the way your eyes screw shut and your mouth drops open. “Hm?”

You mewl as he presses down on your clit harder, opening your eyes to look at him. “Big, Jean. You’re so big.” You accentuate your words with a particular hard grind and a grip of your inner walls that made Jean moan out and throw his head back.

“Baby,” Grabbing your jaw, he pulls you down to his face and kisses you feverishly. Jean then reaches between you two, splaying his hands on your ass cheeks.

He bends his legs at the knees, plants his feet on the bed, breaks the kiss and all in one motion delivers a harsh thrust up into your cunt. Your brain turns into mush right then and there. You drop your body onto his and stutter out a moan, forehead meeting his shoulder.

The sudden brutal pace he decides to set makes you squeal followed by a shout of his name, forgetting all about the other scouts in the next rooms trying to sleep. There’s sweat beads building up on Jean’s forehead, and his brows are furrowed, focused on the task at hand.

He lets out a deep growl when he feels your nails dig into his shoulders, followed by your teeth sinking into his skin to muffle your moans. His cock hits deeper with every thrust, abusing your g-spot as if it knew exactly where to find it.

“Yesyesyes–” you babble to your best ability, with your jaw still biting down on his flesh. “Oh, ‘m g’na cum,”

“Yeah? Shit,” He keeps hitting that spot in your walls that makes your eyes roll back into your head and your toes curl.

Jean abruptly sits up with you, moving his hands to your hips and helping you bounce in his lap. You latch off his skin and lock your arms around his neck, lifting your hips and smashing them back down to his.

“Gonna cum with me, yeah?” He asks breathlessly and you nod, moaning with each thrust. You lock your lips with his when you feel the white-hot pleasure building up in your abdomen, gasping into his mouth when it travels all the way up your body.

His lips part from yours when he feels your body shudder, and removes his iron grip from your hips to grab your face, combing back your hair to witness the pleasure glaze over your eyes as you come undone on his lap.

Jean watches in admiration as your brows furrow, gaze traveling all over his face, moaning through your o-shaped, almost raw-kissed lips. You’re still bouncing on his dick, fucking yourself through your orgasm.

In the midst of all this, Jean feels his own orgasm building up, moving one hand back down to your hip to guide you to bounce quicker, harder. With one last, particularly hard slam down onto his lap, he buries himself deep within you, releasing a guttural moan as he fills you up.

Your cum, as well as his, slide down his balls as you both try to catch your breath, sweat-slicked bodies pressed together. Your forehead drops to his and you give him a chaste kiss on the lips.

When you two part, you look into his eyes and sigh. He watches you intently, his fingers lightly trailing up and down your back.

Jean says your name at the same time you say his, and you two break out into a little laugh. When he motions for you to go first, you open your mouth and let the words you’ve been wanting to tell him for so long slip out.

“I’m really sorry. For–” You shake your head, looking down at his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in a swallow to avoid his intense gaze. “Everything. I–” You choke up.

“Hey,” Jean cooes, moving a hand to your jaw and tilting your head up so he can look into your eyes. “Don’t– don’t do that right now, okay?” He shakes his head at you, genuinely hating the way your eyes gloss over.

He knows exactly what you’re referring to. He wants to talk about the betrayal and anger he felt four years ago as much as you did, but he just wants to enjoy this moment a little longer.

And as much as he hated to admit it; he missed you. Way too much to be deemed healthy.

You stare at him, swallowing down any sobs that were building up in your throat. His heart clenched. “Whatever you want to say – we’re doing that tomorrow, alright?”

Nodding, you slide your hands down to his chest, suddenly extremely hyperaware of your and his slick sticking to your thighs. And apparently, he is too.

“..And preferably not when I’m still inside you.” Jean says, a lazy smile growing on his face.

You snort.

You and him both hiss as you raise yourself to stand on your knees to let his softening dick slide out of you. Jean grabs the back of your thighs as he stands and lifts you with him, relishing the way you squeal at the sudden movement.

“C’mon,” Bouncing you up once in his arms, making you laugh. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

[powerchairpunk]

you’re in his dms? okay, well, im on top of him. we’re not fucking he just likes the pressure

[kirsty-bytes]

When I tell you I shrieked after spotting the south African flag after using your blog as my dinner doom-scrolling material.

Hi fren! Just know you have a fellow south african now religiously consuming all your scrumptious writing and also stalking your blog.

🐑 Anon

feels good not to be the only SA person who occasionally nerds out, thank you ahhh😭❤️

[ohxxlapetitemort]

Need a hug with his dick inside me

[kirsty-bytes]

yall my prom tmr so nervous 😔

[kirsty-bytes]

in which midoriya expects this ‘relationship’ to be dead after what he did—but your soft spot said otherwise.

cw: edging (m receiving), handjob, blowjob, teasing, facial, cursing, degrading +18(mdni)

It was Friday, at exactly 1:47pm, a few minutes after lunch ended. Well, not a few, almost 2 hours and you were absolutely livid. Why exactly?

Izuku fucking Midoriya.

He was late.

You checked your phone expecting to see a flurry of apologies. No messages. No missed calls. Not even a lazy apology or some exclamation-ridden excuse.

Nothing.

A hard breath slipped from your nose as you stood. You weren’t going to cause drama, slamming into his class and demanding why he had stood you up, you weren’t even going to ball tears in your room. A boy—no a pet—didn’t deserve such attention from you.

But the irritation within you bubbled steadily, just enough for your glossed lips to curl as you picked up the bag of food you hand prepared yourself and threw it inside.

Satisfying, in the most unfulfilling way.

The hallway was loud when you turned to go to your destined class. Midoriya’s voice echoed off the walls—soft, warm, that boyish excitement that made people like him. Laughter scattered like marbles, and you spotted him too easily. In the center of the hallway, sweat clinging to his brow. His arm, well one arm were too full—of joy, of forgetfulness, of Uraraka.

The other was clearly in a bright blue sling, his wrist seemingly injured.

The entire class seemed bubbly, talking animatedly among each other about wherever they were in their hero gear. She was the loudest, recounting a move she fumbled on the training sights in glee.

And then—without warning—Uraraka jumped onto Midoriya’s back with a bubbly squeal. He nearly lost balance, red in the face, trying to steady both of them.

Your eyes narrowed for a brief second.

The same boy who couldn’t be bothered to send a single message was here, letting someone cling to him like a baby to its mother. Sweaty and smiling. Joking around like he hadn’t promised you a part of his day.

But you didn’t say anything.

You didn’t give yourself the luxury of expression. You adjusted your grip on your bag, straightened your posture, and kept walking. Your heels echoed against the tile as you passed through them. A few of them—Mineta, Kaminari, even Bakugo—stiffened at your presence and instinctively stepped aside, parting like the Red sea.

You didn’t look at him. Not once. Let him feel your presence, let it haunt him.

Midoriya turned at the movement and froze, caught mid-laugh, hand still holding Uraraka’s knee behind him. His smile died quickly, eyes going wide.

You didn’t break stride. And by the time he remembered—

“Crap.” He whispered, voice tight. “Lunch.”

He shifted forward, peeling Uraraka off his back gently but urgently. “Wait—I had lunch plans—I forgot—”

Iida blinked. “With who? What are you—”

But Midoriya was already stepping forward, heart pounding, searching down the hall. Gone were you, too far to catch without running. He cursed under his breath, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab at the moment and rewind it. To say wait, to say he’s sorry, to explain, to—

He didn’t enjoy his entire day like earlier. He pondered nervously during class, how would he explain himself? You hated excuses—that’s one thing. And he’s been drawing out the chance to apologise by the second. It was currently 7pm, in the common room of the dorms—a blur of voices and plates and clinking utensils. Midoriya sat between Uraraka and Iida, pushing his curry rice around while his mind chewed through imaginary texts he hadn’t sent.

“I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t on purpose.”

“You can yell at me, if that helps.”

But nothing he could type would be enough. Not for a girl who didn’t just plan a lunch, but curated it. Not for a girl who had given him gifts that cost more than most students’ scholarships. Your silence didn’t just mean disappointment to him—meant he’d become something to file under “not worth the reminder.”

“Alright,” he muttered, standing. “Gonna call it early.”

“Midoriya you’ve seemed fidgety ever since we got back from training. As your friend and class president, what’s the matter? Is it your arm?” Iida asked.

All he did was smile, strained tight, and shook his hand, treading to the dustbin. He tossed what remained of his dinner, rice half-eaten, and waved a vague goodnight before trudging off alone. His fingers trembled around his phone as he walked, screen lighting up again and again as if the universe was mocking him. Only weather alerts, news updates and this stupid widget app—Nothing from you.

By the time he reached his dorm, he was exhausted from trying to think of what to say to what didn’t have a shape. He pushed open the door—

—and stopped dead. There, curled into the black leather of his desk chair, you sat idly. Legs crossed, body leaned back like you’d been there for hours, like this was your chair, your room, yours.

A tight, long-sleeved black shirt hugged your arms, sleeves pulled neatly over your wrists. Shorts, ridiculously tight and short, cut high over your thighs, paired with tall cotton socks. No shoes adorned your feet but that wasn’t the biggest issue. You were in his dorm—not even expressing the faintest glint of guilt for breaking in, sitting there like you owned everything.

“You look comfortable today, Izuku—except for the arm.” you said coolly, your voice steel.

His stomach dropped.

He stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide. The air thickened with tension so fast it felt like a wire stretching tight between you. You rolled your eyes. Always a deer caught in the headlights, pretending to be baffled.

“Oh, calm down. I’m not here to kill you.” You stood slowly, brushing invisible dust from the chair as if that had offended you more than anything else. Irritation, pure and practiced, carved into every movement you made.

“Seriously—how… how did you get in?” he asked, still stiff, voice unsure. “My room’s pretty high up—”

You smiled, dry as the air between them.

“I flew in. Duh.” Sarcasm dripped off every syllable, but you didn’t elaborate. You never did, it was always a secret.

Midoriya stared at you for a long moment before moving forward, stepping in, letting the door close behind him with a soft click. He flopped onto the edge of his bed, body heavy with exhaustion and regret. He peered up at your motionless body, thinking.

You looked back but not in the way you used to look at him. Your eyes are usually playful, cunning and unpredictable, now? All you felt was displayed proudly on your face. Disappointment, anger—annoyance.

No one spoke for a minute. The silence this time wasn’t as peaceful. It was charged. It sat between you two like a thirdwheel , loud in its restraint. You didn’t need to ask why. The weight of his guilt was doing it for you already.

And you knew it.

“Midoriya, you know the type of person I am.” You said, swallowing harshly, “ You missed lunch. You missed my lunch.”

He stopped. “I know. I swear I know. I felt awful the second I realised—“

“And yet no message,” you went on, still motionless. “No excuse. Not even a lie, Midoriya. I was disappointed and it takes a lot to disappoint me.”

“I was going to text—”

“Were you?” you snapped. “Because I didn’t hear from you at all. But it’s fine, at least I fed the rats of UA with the food I carefully prepared this morning myself. At least they never pick and choose—they are thankful for what’s given to them.”

So much for no drama earlier today.

You stepped closer, your eyes narrowed, a cool fire lit beneath them.

He looked sheepish. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you really sorry? Because with all the giggles you had with Uraraka today, you seemed perfectly content.” You muttered lowly, emphasising on the Uraraka part. His breathe hitched and he felt a part of him crack.

“That’s just my friend—I swear I had so much—

“I don’t care! I don’t care if she’s your friend or not or you broke your arm, was it so hard to inform me that you weren’t available?” You reached out, took his available wrist in his hand, where the silver bracelet you gifted dangled with your initials.

“You forgot about me today,” you murmured, voice quieter now. “But you wore what I gave you.”

“I didn’t forget about you,” he whispered. “Just the time.” That startled a tiny breath of laughter from you.

“I hate that I waited for you,” you continued. “I don’t wait for anyone, Midoriya. I don’t. Not for my mother. Not for my guards. Not for people who call themselves royalty. But you? You vanish for half a day and I still think you’ll come. I sat there for almost 2 hours—thats the most patience I’ve held.”

“I wanted to spend time with you.” he said softly.

Your eyes flicked down, kissing your teeth. “Don’t make me want things I can’t have. I may be bossy but I know my limits, if you don’t agree to this—just say so so I can find someone else who actually respects the rules I set out for them.”

There it was—unguarded emotion. For a second, the walls fell a tiny bit.

He looked at you gently, pleading. “You already have me. I’m genuinely so sorry and I’ll do anything to show that. Please…just don’t give up on this.”

You blinked. Your body stilled, no breath, no twitch of your lips. Just silence.

He continued, quietly, “I mean—I’m not good at this odd relationship we have. You know that. I’m… not built for mind games or knowing what girls want me to say. But I want to try, I want to be no—I am yours fully. Today was a mistake, one that I am going to learn from moving forward.”

“You’re earnest,” you muttered, almost annoyed.

“Is that a bad thing?”

You leaned closer to him, your body slightly towering over his perched one and glared into his eyes—then your expression softened gradually. As much as you hated it, he was—“ You know you’ll have to make it up to me somehow.”

He nods, “I know. And I want to.”

“Show me.” You smirked. Midoriya’s jaw tensed. He shifted closer, hand brushing along the outside of your thigh. His fingers trailed upward, inching toward the hem of your shorts, slow enough.

A sharp smack to the back of his hand made him flinch.

You shook your head. “Oh, no. You don’t get to get off while making it up to me. That defeats the point.” He lowered his hand, throat dry. He stared for a moment lost.

Then slowly and quietly, he shifted off the bed. His knees hit the floor.

He lowered his head until his forehead touched the cold wood of the floor, hands flat against the carpet, body bent.

“Forgive me,” he murmured.

You watched him, lips parted slightly. His posture wasn’t performative. It wasn’t flashy or begging for pity. It was reverent and honest. He was learning. Your expression softened. Not by much, but just enough. Your fingers reached out, brushing against his curls, and you exhaled, a faint breath of amusement breaking through the tension.

“I do love when people kneel,” you said with a small smile, half-hidden. “It’s very… grounding.”

He didn’t move. You sat on the bed, legs parting to rest on either side of one of his shoulders and his breath caught.

“Look at me.” His eyes lifted, green and wide and heavy with nerves. Your legs framed his jaw. His body was still rigid, but his face told you everything—regret, restraint, and something more vulnerable. You slid a hand along his cheek, fingers brushing his jawline.

“I should make you stay there all night,” you muttered.

“Wouldn’t stop me,” he whispered.

You bent forward and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead—just above the fresh bandage from today—lips cold.

Then, without a word, you tugged him upward. Midoriya followed your pull, moving fluidly until he laid back, propped up on his soft pillows. You sat on your knees, your manicured fingers skimming the edge of the mattress, your lips parted slightly as your eyes tracked his form—settling at the bandaged wrist that rested gently against his side.

Your voice, low and laced with curiosity, slid into the space between you two.

“What happened?”

He looked over at you and offered a tired smile, though his eyes still held the problems of the day. “Boulder. Almost fell on me. I dodged just in time—well, kind of. Ended up fracturing my wrist when I hit the ground wrong.”

Your brows lifted slightly, expression unreadable. Then, with an eerie sort of calm, you reached out and cradled his injured arm in your hands like it was made of glass. Your fingers were icy but soft as they slid up to the edge of the wrap. You leaned in and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss on the outside of the bandage.

“You’re reckless,” you murmured, not looking at him as your lips brushed his skin again. Then, you finally lifted your gaze to meet his, pupils dilated. “It makes sense considering you forgot our lunch today.”

Midoriya flinched, a sliver of guilt flashing across his face. “And I begged for forgiveness—“

You cut him off with a sharp inhale and a faint, controlled smile, pursing your lips in mock consideration.

“I shouldn’t be here at all, you know.” Your voice dropped to something more teasing. “But… you’ve had a long, painful day.” You lifted a hand and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. “So I’ll do something very special. Just this once.”

He blinked rapidly. “Special?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you rose slowly, deliberately, and with the kind of grace that made his mouth go dry. You slid up next to him on the bed, knees settling over either side of his hips. Your palms flatted over his chest as you leaned closer, your lotion harbouring a soft but intoxicating smell.

“Pick a spot on me,” you whispered, your lips barely an inch from his.

His eyes widened instantly, darting in pure panic between your face, neck, the slow curve of your waist, and lower—too low. His breath caught when his gaze momentarily faltered between your legs before he shut his eyes tightly and shook his head, flustered beyond belief.

“Anywhere. I’ll let you. But you’d better choose before I change my mind.” You smirk deepened. You could feel his pulse race beneath you.

“M—My… your mouth,” he said finally, voice small and cracking.

“Good boy,” you said, just loud enough for him to hear.

You leaned in and kissed his forehead. Once, then again. You moved lower—his cheek, then the other, soft, lingering. And finally, your lips found his. Light. Slow. Just a whisper of pressure, as though you were testing how much he could handle.

He trembled.

You pulled back slightly, your noses still touching, and stared into his eyes. “You’re shaking,” You didn’t wait for an answer.

Your lips dropped again, this time to the underside of his jaw—then his neck. You found a spot just behind his ear that made his breath hitch and hovered there, biting gently. When you felt him tense further—the telltale signs of his dick tented right against your ass, you chuckled low in your throat.

“So sensitive Izuku,” You giggled in his ear.

You pressed lower, kissing down his throat, his collarbone, and then—you paused, resting your chin just above the hem of his shirt.

“You always get so nervous when I’m nice to you,” you mused, lips brushing the edge of his shirtline.

“How can’t I?” he mumbled in a haze.

Then your fingers toyed lightly with the waistband of his pants, just the elastic, as if weighing a decision. You glanced up at him, your eyes dark with amusement. “You trust me, don’t you?”

He nodded. It was barely perceptible.

You leaned in and bit playfully at the waistband, not pulling—just grazing your teeth along the fabric, enough for him to twitch. His breath left him in a staggered exhale. Then you dipped lower, dragging the flat of your tongue along the sharp cut of his v-line—slow and hot and deliberate.

His hand flew to his mouth.

A choked sound slipped past his lips, half-formed, feral in the back of his throat—and at that exact moment—footsteps.

“Deku?” Uraraka’s voice rang through the door, light and concerned. “Hey, we just wanted to see if you were okay.”

Midoriya’s soul nearly left his body.

“We were gonna grab snacks,” came Tsuyu’s calm voice. “Do you want us to bring you anything? Or maybe come in and cheer you up for a bit?”

You didn’t pause.

Your tongue flicked again—this time even slower, bolder—like a threat disguised as affection. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, squeezing his eyes shut as his body arched slightly against the bed.

“I—I’m good!” he called out hoarsely, forcing a smile into his voice. “Just gonna—just gonna sleep it off!”

You looked up at him with mock innocence, eyes gleaming.

“Okay! Let us know if you need anything, alright?” Uraraka called.

“Feel better soon, Midoriya,” Tsuyu added. He didn’t move until he heard their footsteps finally retreating down the hallway.

Midoriya waited a beat longer before letting out a strangled sigh and collapsing back into the mattress, utterly drained from the effort of not embarrassing himself in front of half the dorm.

Your laugh was low and husky against his skin, sin wrapped in amusement. “You actually kept it together.”

Your fingers hooked into the waistband of his pants.

“Let’s get you more comfortable, yeah?”

Slowly, teasingly, you began tugging them down—his pants and underwear at once—inch by inch, like you were unwrapping something precious and fragile. Momentarily, his full length sprang up and the voice in your mind was impressed. His dick was wow, even your parietal lobe couldn’t work out his exact measurements—but you knew—this was big.You pressed another kiss to his lower abdomen, then murmured,

“You won’t forget again.”

Your fingers curled around him slowly—deliberately—like you had all the time in the world and every intention to savor it.

Midoriya shuddered. Your gaze flicked up to watch his face: his lashes fluttering, his jaw clenched tight, and that familiar, adorable flush creeping over his cheeks. You moved a little closer, your hair brushing against his thighs.

“Eyes on me, Izuku.”

You pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses along his length, languid. The contact was light, teasing, and devastating. You hummed quietly, almost in glee, as his cock gave a faint twitch under the movement. His tip leaked thick globs of precum and your wet muscle darts out to lick at it, tasting the hint of saltiness and fruit?

Your glossed lips wrap themselves around his tip, sucking lightly, noting the way his voice goes up an octave and the trembles in his abdomen increase. Midoriya’s hand slipped to the back of your neck—hesitant at first, but desperate for something to ground himself. His other hand hovered over his mouth, trying—failing—to hold back the sound that nearly broke from him when you licked a slow line from the base afterwards and back to his tip, swirling.

Your grip adjusted on the base, pace measured and maddening. Your warm mouth took him in deeper, inch by inch, and he felt his mind start to blur around the edges—heat curling in his gut, tension tightening in his core like a bowstring ready to snap.

You moved rhythmically now—mouth and hand working in tandem, perfectly in control. The moan of satisfaction you let out as you felt him throb in your mouth made his head fall back against the pillow. He was unraveling—completely, helplessly unraveling—and you were thriving in it.

The pressure of his fingers at the back of your neck grew just slightly—pleading, shaky. You smiled inwardly against him, removing yourself, just your hand stroking slow and casual. A dribble of spit ran down your chin but you still looked so, so addicting.

“Look at yourself, ready to blow your load so early,”You murmured between slow motions, voice husky and low.

Midoriya let out a broken sound behind his hand. You just looked up at him again with dark, heavy-lidded eyes—utterly calm, utterly in control—as you let go of his twitching length, more precum escaping and laid your head on one of his sculpted thighs, pouting mockingly.

“I want to help you, I really do but…do you really deserve it Izuku?” You asked, darting a playful lick on his tip.

He breathed, almost a whimper. “P-please…”

Your lashes fluttered.

“Please what?” you asked softly. You didn’t look up yet, just letting your breath fan warmly against his skin. “Use your words, darling.”

He bit down on the side of his finger, trying to compose himself. Failing completely.

“I c–can’t,” he whispered. “Please… I—don’t stop, I c-can’t take it…”

His voice cracked, and your heart stuttered for just a moment. You lifted your head slightly, hand teasing a pulsing vein then you grinned.

“You’re so polite when you’re desperate.” His hips trembled. A strangled noise escaped him—muffled again by his palm, but raw and pleading. Your name was a prayer and a warning all at once. “Please, I—please let me cum…”

You take him fully in your mouth, the tip of his cock kissing the back of your throat as you suck him slowly all the way. Your throat bulged as you moved your head back and forth, spit flying everywhere but he didn’t care, not when you were making him feel so good. He knew he shouldn’t disturb your focus, or touch you at all, you were still angry.

But the nasty, wet sounds that came from you as you deepthroat him, the slightest gag you had when he touched your uvula once and help him so, the single trickle of a tear down your right eye, it was all so sexy. His fingers crept slowly behind your head, hesitant at first—almost like he was afraid to touch you too boldly. You didn’t pause—mouth continuing the pleasure.

His fingers slipped deeper into your hair.

You felt it then: the faint pressure. A gentle tug. Not forceful, but firm—needful. Your eyes flicked upward just as his hand pressed you further down. A small, muffled sound of surprise escaped your throat, not in protest, but curiosity. Your lashes fluttered, and for a moment, your pace faltered.

Midoriya’s breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His hand trembled where it gripped your hair, like even he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing—just lost in the moment, drowning in sensation. His hips bound forward into you, and you choked, shocked, then relaxed your throat as he thrusts, chasing his pleasure.

So… he could be bold, after all.

You moan lowly, letting the vibration travel between them—rewarding him, encouraging him. Then you resumed, your tongue swirling, deliberately drawing out every whine you could feel rolling through his covered mouth.

His fingers tightened, and he slows, pulling you off by a grip in your hair as he visibly twitches, then erupts. His thick cum doesn’t land where he expects it though. It streaks in wild spurts over your cleavage and face. A small, involuntary gasp leaves the both of you. All you can do is take it.

You exhale slowly, eyes fluttering shut for until it reduces to oozes. Jizz clings to your skin, trailing like heat down the curve of your face. You draw two fingers across your cheekbone, dragging through the moisture like you’re savoring the weight of it. It glistens faintly in the low light—evidence of how deeply he’s satisfied.

Your fingers pause near your lips. With slow, deliberate movements, you bring them to your mouth. A flick of your tongue—measured, sensual. You hum softly, letting him watch the way your lips close around the taste of heat and control, the tension in the air almost magnetic.

When you open your eyes again, they’re darker.

He’s watching you with wide, dazed eyes, his chest rising fast, lips parted like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“I am s—so,” He stutters but you lean forward.

Your hand finds the side of his face, firm but gentle, and you tilt his head just enough to bring your mouth to his. You kiss him—slow and full and deep—until he melts into you with a quiet, groan. The salt, the heat, the memory of what just happened—it lingers between your lips.

You moved toward his desk without a word, plucking a few wet wipes from a packet with efficiency. He watched you in silence, chest still rising and falling too fast, his green eyes half-lidded and awed.

Your knees dipped the mattress softly, and you crawled toward him—not with the seduction from earlier, but something more affectionate. You slipped beside him, folding into his side without asking. One arm draped across his chest, the other tucked beneath your head as it found rest against the space just above his heart.

Midoriya didn’t speak. He just turned, slowly, to look at you—eyes still wide, still pink at the corners, as if trying to process that you were still here.

For a long time, silence filled the room like water rising to chests.

“Something about you makes me want to open up everything that urks me,” you said softly. “And I don’t do that often. It’s weak.”

His fingers tensed slightly on your ribs. He didn’t respond.

“People in my world don’t get the luxury to forget things—it’s deadly. I wish…I wish I had that freedom.” You chuckled bitterly. He gently lifted your chin with two fingers, forcing you to meet his eyes.

What he saw there made his breath hitch. No cunning calculation behind your eyes, no riddled playfulness…Just… soft. A quiet vulnerability you try too hard to bury on a daily basis.

He swallowed. He didn’t dare speak. Your eyes searched his for something you couldn’t name.

Then, with a sigh, you dropped your gaze and laid back against him again. Midoriya ran his fingers gently down your spine, a slow, thoughtful stroke, as if trying to memorize the way your skin curved under his touch. Your breathing slowed.

“I can’t say I understand—but I can be an ear. Even if it’s useless…” He whispered into your hair and you hummed, tracing slow circles on his chest to feel the warmth under his shirt, the steadiness of his pulse.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said quietly.

“And you’re exactly what I expected,” he murmured.

You raised a brow.

He smiled a little, tired and genuine. “Addicting and complicated,” Your gaze hardened for half a second. “Don’t romanticize me.”

“I’m not,” he said, voice dropping lower. “I’m warning myself.”

You laughed once—dry and low and beautiful.

Then you sat up, just enough to shift positions. Your thigh swung over his waist, straddling him in a slow, easy motion. His breath hitched—not from lust, but from the sheer weight of you.

You loomed over him, arms resting on either side of his head. Your top had ridden up slightly, exposing a sliver of your waist and chest. Your sleep shorts clung, unapologetically tight.

His fingers dug into the sheets, resisting the urge to touch you. You leaned closer, gaze unwavering, “Don’t forget me next time,”

He nodded once. “I won’t forget.”

“You will,” you said. “I don’t chase.”

Midoriya swallowed. “Then I’ll come crawling.”

You smirked. “I’d like to see that.”

“You did. Earlier.” You clicked your tongue and rolled off him, settling back onto the bed beside him with a dramatic sigh.

“I was trying to be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“Then stop making me want to laugh.” He turned toward you, watching you stretch, lazy and languid against his sheets.

“You’re staying?” he asked.

You blinked at the ceiling.

“Maybe.” He didn’t argue. You pulled his blanket up over your bare legs and turned onto your side, facing away from him.

“I could’ve eaten with anyone today,” you said. “Dozens of boys who would’ve skipped class for the chance.”

Midoriya stayed silent.

“But I chose you,” you said. “Even though you frustrate me. Even though you don’t act the way you’re supposed to.”

“…I know.”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

He scooted closer behind you, just close enough for your back to graze against his chest.

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

He reached over, hesitantly, and wrapped a loose arm around your waist and for once, you didn’t stop him.

part 1, part2, part 3, part 4, part 5

(exams have been beating my ahh, so this is probably the last one in a little while)

[kirsty-bytes]

in which midoriya finally learns his place within your ‘relationship’ and where’s that? beneath you.

cw: oral sex (f receiving), face sitting, cursing, praising, grinding, degradation (if you squint) +18(mdni)

It’s been weeks ever since he jerked off to that bikini picture of you and accidentally hearted it. He’s nervous—mostly because you hadn’t approached him about it yet.

That’s what scaring him.

For the most part, you two barely interacted at all, opting to either smile at him while strutting through the halls, the click of your numerous designer heels sounding or just a simple nod of acknowledgment. It left him filled with conflict. On whether to approach you first or let it be, that you had finally decided to leave him alone, giving up. But that was never the case with you.

You hated losing.

He knew you’d come. Even before the class ended, even before you rose from your seat with the casual refinement of someone who commanded attention, he knew you would follow through. You always did, The impression you left wasn’t just physical. It was deeper. It was a shift in his perception.

So when you paused at the class 3A door, eyes straight ahead, lips curled into that quiet, unreadable smirk, and murmured without looking back—

“Come to my room later. At 8pm, I want to show you something.”

“I—not allowed to stay out late outside the dorms.”

“Izuku, you’re still in the dorms, just…around.” You shrug and walk away, your two shadows bounding towards you like always.

You didn’t need to ask twice.

He could feel the flush rise to his face—feel the heat on his cheeks. And still, he went there at exactly the time you stated, 8 pm.

The walk to your dorm was a quiet sort of procession. He walked like a tether, a shadow with too much heartbeat, looking down at his hands, then at the other business students that glanced curiously at him, then away again. The hall began to empty. The students began to whisper after he passed with Reiji and Yamato.

A hero boy around here with your personal guards?

The rumor mill would spin itself raw before sunset.

Let it.

When they arrived at your private dorm suite—top floor, corner end, sealed with your family’s emblem etched into obsidian glass—the two didn’t even mull quite long, one just typed into his phone then they both stepped away in the direction they came from. He heard the door click a few times, then it was left wide open for him.

He went in and heard it click shut behind him.

Your dorm wasn’t just a basic room like the others. It wasn’t a suite either. It was a kingdom— practically an entire 5 rooms combined to yourself. How did UA even agree to this?

Velvet draped the windows. Wooden floor met plush rugs shaped like various cartoon characters—quite unsettling, unusual of you. Bookshelves framed with antique gold. An open lounge wrapped in pink throws, cold empty cups lying on the tray you’d had delivered before. Your laptop was already open, a sprawling file full of confidential documents glowing on the table.

Your unbuttoned uniform jacket laid carelessy on the sofa, your blouse down to a few buttons. Even in moments where your hair was messily tied, with your glasses—thick frames—perched on your nose, you still looked good.

He stood near the door, arms half-crossed, unsure what to say.

Cute.

“Relax a little,” you hummed. “I’m completely unarmed…just let me finish a little on this.”

He flushed a little, shifting awkwardly.

You stood and wandered toward your lounge and gestured with two fingers. “Sit.”

He obeyed.

You sat opposite, legs crossed at the knee, head tilted.

Then, you let the silence do its work as always.

He cracked first.

“I, uh…” He coughed. “Thanks for inviting me.”

You smiled.

“Oh, don’t thank me yet.”

His brow creased, and you pretended to glance at your screen—just for a moment—then tapped once, sliding up your brightness just a little.

You shifted it so he could see.

And there, lit faintly in your interface? A screenshot. A tiny, guilty little relic from months ago.

A post. From your profile. An old one. A photo of you in a pink bikini, sat up-top a rock on the beach, feet bare, one leg bent just enough to suggest—but not reveal—your full form.

You watched his expression pale.

“Is this…” he began, throat tightening, “from my account?”

You raised your brows, lips curved.

“You liked it.”

He froze.

“I mean—yeah, but—I didn’t think—”

“You scrolled months down, Izuku.”

His mouth opened. No sound. You leaned forward, resting your chin on one fingertip. “That’s not what a casual like looks like.”

He was beet-red now. Practically glowing.

“I wasn’t—I was just—”

You cut him off with a low laugh. “Relax. I’m flattered. I know I’m captivating.”

“I didn’t mean to—stalk you I—”

You waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, please. You were stalking, I don’t mind but did you see what you wanted to see?”

He choked on air, silent.

You gave him time. Let him absorb it. Then finally, leaned back with a soft sigh, brushing your nails along the hem of your blouse.

“Since you like looking at me so much… why not have the real thing instead? I’m sure it’d be much, much better than your hands.”

He swallowed, hard.

You stood.

Crossed the room slowly, hips swaying with deliberate rhythm, and took your seat behind the laptop again, this time at the work desk that overlooked the window.

“I have a task,” you murmured, the mood shifting like mist, darker now. Smoother. “My grandmother assigned it to me—there’s a merger between two East Asian subsidiaries, and I need to revise the terms before they go to our board.”

You typed something. His eyes followed your fingers.

“And I’m tired,” you continued. “Girls get tired, Izuku. It’s hard. Being this perfect.”

You didn’t look at him—but your smile widened.

“So help me.”

He blinked. “Help you…?”

“Relieve my stress.” You pushed your chair back slightly.

And parted your legs.

Not enough to scandalize. Just enough to signal.

He didn’t move.

You arched one brow and kissed your teeth.

“I said help, Izuku.”

And—obedient, flustered, unsure if he was dreaming—he moved. Slowly, wordlessly, he slid from the couch, lowering himself to his knees between your thighs. The way you sat, you were half-turned from him, still facing your laptop screen on the desk.

But he could see you. And he knew what this meant.

He didn’t touch. Not yet.

But his breath hitched, unsure. But all you did is give a small, deliberate nod—cunning eyes gleaming through your glasses. And your hand drifted down to brush his hair, just once, like a master petting something loyal and trembling.

“Good boy,” you whispered.

And then you opened the file again and started working.

Sighing deeply, his scarred fingers began to work at your shorts, pulling the fabric inch by inch till it pooled on the floor. Midoriya could feel his hands shake slightly, wide eyed as his iris finally saw the valley between your legs. He really was in this moment, face to face with your cunt.

Peering up at you—in your focus—, he allows himself to wrap his hands around your luscious thighs and part them further, a hum of approval escaping from your lips.

Unsure, but quietly determined to make you scream, to win for once, he bounds forward with a small, tentative lick through your folds. He quickly looks up, seeing nothing notable.

“It’s gonna take more Izuku.” You murmur, eyes glued to the writing.

He lets himself get closer, continuing with soft, kitten like brushes, as if he’s trying to test the menu before diving in completely. Still nothing much but a small twitch in your thighs. Two of his fingers run lightly along your slit, collecting the juices that run down slightly. Then almost timidly, he spreads your pussy, observing the way your clit peeks out from his actions and the glistening of your lips.

Flat tongue, he nudges your bundle of nerves, trailing almost teasingly toward your fluttering hole, its seems so jealous—the way it twitches occasionally as he teases your clit. His index finger prods around, not directly entering but teasing the area. A small moan rings from you, above and he smiles lightly against you.

Then, he spits a heavy glob of saliva onto your pussy. It dribbles slowly through your fat folds, and he almost—just almost whimpers at how nasty it looked from his perspective. The usually prim, put together queen bee was practically turned on at a nerd like him eating her out.

Then with his ring and middle, he slowly pushes his fingers into your hole, humming at the way you instinctively clenched around them, sucking them in. He doesn’t move them though and instead holds them right there, diving further to swish his head side to side, lapping you up like his last supper.

Above where you were typing away—lips parted ever so slightly, brows drawn in delicate concentration—your composure faltered, inch by inch. The revised business term document before you, a jumbled mess of figures. You tried to focus—tried to type another correction of the file glowing on your laptop—but your composure was slipping fast. The clauses and redlines blurred together, numbers swimming on the screen as your body tensed.

And the reason knelt quietly between your legs. You thought you’d be in control—like always—but then his fingers moved, slow and sure, and your breath caught.

“Fuck—just like that.” You whispered.

You gripped the desk, trying to ground yourself, but heat rolled through you in waves. You clenched your jaw, fighting back more sounds. You were supposed to be focused on furthering the family legacy yet as your pet ate you with gusto, your legs trembled.

He changed rhythm—just slightly, a curl to your g-spot and his lips sucked softly on your clit. You finally let out a loud, cracked and audible moan. You weren’t supposed to reward him like that yet…

But he heard it. You knew he did.

You tried to glance back at the screen. Anything to ground you. But your gaze snagged on one word the system had underlined in red, flagged for correction:

Control. How ironic.

A quiet breathless sound slipped from your lips, and you leaned back further into your chair, legs spreading even further as your head hit the rest of it. Your nails, sharp and decorated, scrape through his soft hair, pulling him closer, grinding in small motions on his mouth.

“Y-yes, yes…yes,” your eyes fluttered close and for a moment, this was your mercy to him, that you were handing over the little control you had clinging onto him, but his one little mistake made you snap back, smiling.

He grinned against your lips and spoke.

“That’s a good girl, take it.” He spoke into your clit.

You adjust your frames with a flick of your fingers, glaring down at him.

“Did I say you could speak?” you ask, voice icy. He stiffens. The way his hands pause mid-motion tells you everything. You’ve clipped his wings with five words. Good.

You step away, deliberately pulling yourself from his touch, and leave him kneeling in the space where your presence still lingers. You say nothing as you cross the room, only the sway of your hips and jiggle of your ass filling the silence with a new command. At your bed, you stop.

Then you turn and your stare? Brutal.

A sharp tilt of your chin is all it takes to summon him. He stands, slowly, unsure, still flushed in the cheeks with want and shame, and walks toward you like a summoned knight, not a boy who dared speak out of turn.

“Lie down,” you say and he does.

Of course he does.

You remain standing, your arms crossed under your chest—nipples taut through your blouse—gaze heavy. “See, I don’t like when people talk with their mouths full,” you say softly, the venom sweet as honey. “It’s annoying. Disgusting. Strange.”

His eyes betray him though. They’re still focused—shamefully—between your legs, where a single trickle of your essence down your thigh betrays what he was doing moments ago. You catch it. You catch everything.

So you slap him lightly.

His breath hitches—not in pain, but in understanding.

You point to yourself.

“I’m going to teach you what happens when someone mistakes mercy for permission,” you murmur, pacing the bed with slow steps, like a tiger considering where to pounce. “You think you’ve earned the right to talk back? Just because I let you have a taste?”

You climb onto the bed, straddling the space just above his shoulders, your thighs caging him in with intent. His eyes widen. He doesn’t dare move. Your voice softens into something darker.

“You’re not the one in control, Midoriya.”

You lean in, your fingers grazing his jaw, tilting his chin just enough to look up at you—look properly, obediently, helplessly.

“I am.”

He nods.

“Good, now eat this pussy like a good boy.” And with grace, you seat yourself onto his mouth, sighing at the way his mouth immediately opens to accommodate your clit. You didn’t care if he struggled to breathe. That wasn’t the point.

Your pleasure was.

Your hips moved slowly—measured—as if you were tuning an instrument to the perfect pitch of your own satisfaction. His hands gripped your thighs with a reverence that bordered on desperation, and still, he didn’t stop. Your phone buzzed lazily in your hand, screen lighting up with a series of messages from your group chat.

You rolled your eyes.

They were like children. Obsessed with you—but tonight, you had something far more interesting. Midoriya—ever the pleaser—let out low hums of focus, unintelligible murmurs that somehow made your pulse skip. The sound vibrated through your body like a secret frequency meant only for you.

“Weren’t you admitting how much you disliked me a few weeks ago? Look at you now—finally learning your—fuck—place.” And then, unexpectedly, one of his hands pressed low against your abdomen. You frowned, not entirely sure what he was doing. It didn’t feel painful. Just… different. New.

Strange pressure began to bloom beneath his palm, warm and tense. Your breath hitched despite yourself.

You glanced down, disoriented, fingers still wrapped around your phone as if it might anchor you. But the screen dimmed, the world falling quiet save for him. His name should’ve meant innocence. But beneath you now, he was anything but. What a freaky man. And yet, you held the power. Even if your body was starting to convulse from the way he flicked his tongue back and forth.

And with a soft, involuntary gasp, you came undone. Your body arched, legs violently twitching, thighs tightening around his head for a beat longer than necessary. He kept going, relentless, but you shivered with oversensitivity, your fingers curling into the bedsheets as your composure cracked, breathy and deliciously uneven.

“Enough,” you whimpered, and pulled away—slow, sticky, sated and aching. You collapsed backward onto the bed, silk sheets crumpling beneath your spine, your chest rising and falling as if you’d just stepped off the edge of something irreversible.

Your head lolled to the side, a satisfied, feline smile ghosting your lips. Your glasses foggy, with the breaths you had let out. With a lazy flick of your hand, you pointed toward the open drawer nearby.

“Top drawer,” you said, voice low. “That’s for you.”

Still hazy, still practically hypnotized by the taste of you on his lips, he rose and padded toward the dresser. Inside was a small, silver box with elegant engraving, and beside it, a wrapped parcel in deep crimson paper. He hesitated slightly then lifted them both.

You sat up slowly, pushing a strand of hair from your face, and let your eyes trail all over his hunched figure, clutching the presents in his hands—the bulge in his sweatpants.

And smirked.

“I’ll admit… that was unexpected of you,” you murmured, eyes narrowed with affection. “I knew you’re a people pleaser, but that? Whew.” You fanned your face with a shaky hand.

He rubbed the back of his neck, face a shade of rose only matched by his ears. “Ah—thank you,” he said, voice shy and breathy, as if unsure how to respond to praise from someone like you.

Your smile deepened.

“I wonder,” you mused, letting the words drop like honey from your lips. “How do I taste?”

He blinked, startled. “Huh?”

“Come here.”

He obeyed and leaned down, the gift boxes still clutched in his arms like offerings. You reached up, cupping his freckled face gently between your palms, your touch uncharacteristically soft.

You studied him.

The glazed look in his eyes, the damp curve of his lips, the slight shake in his shoulders. So easily unmade.

So easily yours.

You leaned forward and pressed your mouth to his, slow and sure. A kiss that lingered but not long enough before letting your muscle lick a long stripe along his jaw, where your juices ran messily, tapping once on the roof of your tongue and humming.

Midoriya swore he felt himself nut in his pants from what you did. You kept your hands on his face for a moment longer—his breath shallow, his eyes wide, his pulse betraying him beneath your fingertips.

“Can I please kiss you? Please?” He whispered, leaning into the soft touch you held. He had one, just one single taste of you and he was whipped. Funny.

Then you smiled, not kindly, but with the quiet cruelty of someone who already knows how much power they hold.

Then you tilted his face, pulling him into a deep, messy kiss. You two kissed each other like you were torn apart for years—with your tongue sloppily intertwined with his. You felt his body gravitate towards yours lying on the bed and you obliged, opting to rest one of your legs over his lap, hands exploring the apex of his stomach—rock hard. You pulled away, a sliver of spit leaving you connected before he broke it off, licking his lips.

“You look so beautiful like this,” you whispered, your voice tightening around his spine. “So soft. So innocent.” His throat bobbed, his lips parted slightly, helpless to your praise and the storm beneath it. Against his conscious, his fingers ghosted over your thigh, stroking the soft skin—trailing slowly to your soaked entrance—but your hand easily caught his wrist, shaking your head lightly.

“I’d return the favor,” you continued, tilting your head as your thumb brushed lightly over his waistband.

“But..”

You leaned in closer, lips grazing his ear, letting your breath ghost over skin that was already burning for you.

“…I want our time together to be frustratingly painful for you.” You felt him shiver. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again, your tone molten and low.

“I want you to think about the nights you touched yourself to the sight of my body. And how you will again to this night. And the next. And the next. Until I finally reward you…” —your lips curved— “…fully.”

His breath hitched.

You kissed him again—just once—barely a press, barely a brush, yet devastating all the same. A kiss that tasted like cruelty and longing.

“Goodnight, Izuku,” you murmured. Then, as if nothing earth-shattering had passed between you, you turned your back.

And sent him out.

Like he was nothing and everything.

Like he wouldn’t sleep for hours thinking about what your body felt like in his hands—and the promise of what else it could become in his dreams.

On the walk back to his dorm, the silver bracelet clinked softly against his wrist. He glanced down and read closer, your initials.

Polished, elegant, unmistakably yours. It shimmered under the pale glow of the moon, and something about it felt heavier than any quirk training he’d ever endured. A mark.

A collar made from precious metal.

And then the box—still tucked carefully in the crook of his arm wrapped perfectly. You hadn’t even let him open it in front of you. His mind spiraled. Your voice. Your lips. Your thighs…

The train of command you still held over him even through your gasps and moans. He swallowed. Fucked was he.

The dorms came into view, warm light spilling from the common room windows. Laughter filtered through the walls, muffled by distance and his disorientation. He stepped through the door and there, on the couch, sat Todoroki.

he was in a blanket. One hand holding chopsticks and a bowl of soba, the other cradling a remote. On the screen? Sailor Moon—sparkly, pastel, and absurdly out of place given everything Izuku had just been through.

Todoroki looked at him slowly, blinked and eyes the bracelet. Then looks at the giftbox.

Then met his gaze.

“…Do I want to know?” Todoroki asked flatly, tilting his head. Midoriya blinked and opened his mouth then closed it, silently.

“…No,” he said after a long moment. Todoroki nodded once, unbothered.

“Okay.”

Midoriya kept walking—straight past him, straight toward the hallway leading to his room. He didn’t stop until the door shut behind him, enclosing him in the quiet of his space. Finally, he exhaled. He stared at the gift box in his hand, fingers hesitating before he pulled the ribbon free and opened it.

A vintage All Might action figure that was limited and rare. His heart stopped.

This was something he’d searched for once years ago—briefly, obsessively. It was sold out.He’d given up. But you…

You must’ve known. It wasn’t just expensive. It was an intention. As his thoughts mulled over the gift, his phone buzzed. A single notification from you.

It was a screenshot.

A dimly lit image—taken earlier tonight. The faint glow of your desk lamp illuminating just enough to make out the object.

It was him, on his knees—between your legs.

He stared at it.

Your caption? ‘I love my new homescreen.’

Then threw himself back on his bed with a groan, both hands covering his face.

He was so screwed.

A final message from you rung out.

21:07

—you

next friday you’re having lunch with me.

And whatever deity help him—he didn’t want it to stop.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

[kirsty-bytes]

in which midoriya finds himself hopelessly drawn to you, at his own disapproval.

cw: cursing, brief teasing, mastrubation 18+ (mdni)

“you’re my bitch now.”

The words echoed in the spacious room—a blur of what just transpired.

Midoriya’s jaw clenched, heat burning from the base of his throat to the tips of his ears. Your smirk curved across your lips as you sunk deeper into the plush curve of your sofa, smug and glimmering with unshakable confidence. That voice of yours—liquid honey steeped in poison—lingered, potent and maddening.

He didn’t know what compelled him. Maybe it was the frustration of being toyed with, or maybe it was the feel of shock under his skin but his body moved before his brain caught up.

He stepped forward, petulant.

“No. You don’t get to decide that.” he said, voice low, caught somewhere between defiance and disbelief over your blatant words.

Your brows arched—subtle, entertained. “Oh? Now you let my poor little self ramble on, then you decide to grow a spine and speak up? Fascinating.”

“You don’t own me,” he added, his hand tightening at his side. “You act like I’m something to claim—but I’m not scared of you.”

It was bold, maybe foolish. You were U.A.’s queen bee—dominant, powerful, dangerously self-assured. You could end someone with a pointed look, and he’d seen you do it—reduce boys to ashes and egos to powder, even the likes of Bakugo and Shinso weren’t spared from your mercilessness.

But your eyes didn’t narrow like they usually did in disgust or annoyance, instead they lit up.

“Then prove it,” you loudly said, despite being the only two in your bathroom.

He moved.

In a heartbeat, he was over you, pressing you lightly to the chaise. His hands rested on either side of your head, not holding you down rather caging you in. Your faces were close now, breath fanning across breath. His heart thundered, loud enough to feel in his teeth.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink…

…just smiled.

A soft, amused sound slipped from you—half laugh, half sigh, entirely infuriating. “Mmm,” you murmured, “Cute…but pathetic. I’ve dealt with far worse than you, Izuku.” There it is, that irritating, grating voice of your pronouncing his name like you owned it.

His hand trembled, just slightly, where it gripped the upholstery. You lay beneath him casually, tolerating this gesture—bored, serene, delighted. Your position was intimate—his body above yours, knees pressing into the expensive throw, his thigh brushing your gaped ones by proximity.

“The thing is about me, I love complicated games,” you whispered, eyes glittering, “especially one that looks so good when he’s angry.” Midoriya’s breath caught. The flush that crept up his neck was instantaneous. He looked away—no, fled, yanking himself back like he’d been burnt.

He stumbled over an apology that was inaudible, clumsy and made for the door, only to hear your laughter follow him down the hall. It was a rich, low sound, threaded with victory.

Midoriya 0-1 you.

It didn’t stop though, the laughter. Even as he hurried back across the U.A. campus, even as his class came into view—it clung to him like your perfume.

Your voice. Your laugh. Your eyes.

He ended up fifteen minutes late to class, shirt collar skewed, tie a little loose. His hair refused to settle after running there so fast.

Aizawa raised an eyebrow. “Nice of you to join us.”

“I—sorry—I—” Midoriya paused, flustered.

Aizawa sighed, sipping his coffee. “Save it.”

He started walking down the aisle toward his seat when Kaminari leaned over his desk with a look of pure mischief. “Bro,” he whispered, “you’re blushing so hard it looks like you ran a marathon. Spill. Now.”

“I didn’t—nothing happened.”

“Oh, sure,” Kaminari teased, eyes narrowing. “Nothing made you show up late, out of breath, after the hottest chick in UA just snatched you from the cafeteria with everyone watching.”

“Shut the fuck up Dunceface, nobody gotta hear the nerds sex life—or lack of.” Bakugo snickered but quickly gets hit playfully by Kirishima.

“Midoriya so how long did it last, was she a screamer or—“ Mineta got smacked incredibly hard by a digusted Tsuyu, who shushed him before turning back to the board, though chiming in a comment on the conversation.

“Midoriya-kun, if you do get into a relationship with the girl, watch out for your heart. I heard she’s—“

“Asui. Kaminari. Bakugo, fifteen laps on the field afterschool. Midoriya, thirty for being late.” Aizawa grumbled, leading to a course of groans from the two before returning to their work.

Midoriya shoved his notebook in front of his face.

He tried to focus—tried being the operative word. In the margins of his page, he began scribbling, as though logic could untangle what he’d stepped into.

Name: ______

Age: 18

Course: Business Leadership (U.A. Tier One)

He stared at the rest of the page, empty.

Quirk: Unknown.

Tactics: Unknown.

Motivation: Unknown.

History: Classified.

It was like trying to study a ghost covered by multiple layers of barriers, that was trapped in a reenforced coffin. You weren’t just out of his league—you were the league. The game. And for one moment, he’d thought he could push back.

But your laughter still ringed in his eardrums and for some reason, it made his leg wobble with anxiety and his abdomen tingle. He only felt like this when he was interested in someone, he knows, from years of fumbled crushes…but no.

He hated you. You were manipulative, cruel—calculating in anything as simple as a greeting. How could he fall for someone like that when sweet, bubbly people like Uraraka and Mina existed, as well as helpful people like Yaoyorozu, even the shy, sarcastic ones like Jirou. You out of all people? Tsk.

Sleep didn’t come. He replayed every second of your conversation. Every word. Every shift in your tone. The way you looked at him when you called him a game. The way your lips curled when you said you wanted to own him. He was yours now.

What was it exactly about you dammit?

Then a ping rang through the room. Groaning, he reaches over to see the notification.

Unknown number.

23:47 pm

— still thinking about me?

He glances around his room—wary—then looks closer towards his glowing screen. Oh, of course it was you.

23:47 pm

—midoriya

how did you get my number?

You snort lightly at his message. You’d think by now he’d know that you never reveal your hands, always close to your chest.

23:56 pm

—you

it’s a secret 🤫

does it matter though? I wanted it.

so I got it.

He scoffs at your words, your typical arrogance.

23:58 pm

—midoriya

and you’re so confident that I won’t block you?

cause I can.

He pauses, chewing his lip then sees the typing appear almost instantly…then disappears for a minute before reappearing.

00:01 pm

—you

do what you want izuku

but the fact you have me saved says a lot.

anyhow, I was just texting goodnight.

Hm…

00:03 pm

—midoriya

goodnight i guess?

00:03 pm

—you

dream of me, whether good or bad dreams.

Then you immediately went offline.

He lay back on his bed, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. It was pointless to try and figure out how you got his number. Instead, he decided to do a little research of his own. He grabbed his phone and turned to Wikipedia, searching for your name.

Only the family name appeared, alongside a brief mention: ‘daughter of the richest businesswoman’. He knew you could afford to go to far more prestigious places than even UA itself—why were you here?

His thumb hovered over the Instagram icon. He typed in your name. Your profile was the first to appear, boasting over 500,000 followers, though you only followed ten people back.

Of course you did.

You didn’t post many pictures of yourself , opting instead for snapshots of the places you’d traveled and your numerous academic and social achievements. It made sense now, the various colored stitches on your blazer—you were an overachiever. Even the most intelligent students in the hero course only had one or two.

He scrolled further, stopping at a picture of you on a beach, smiling alongside an older man and woman. It seemed surprisingly serene, a stark contrast to your otherwise polished persona.

A picture of you at the beach again—alone this time. Perched on a rock. A coral bikini, understated but flattering. You weren’t posing for the camera and your gaze was distant—focused on something far off.

It wasn’t scandalous—but intimate.

The soft curve of your waist, the slope of your neck—your plush, glowing legs all over again. That had to be his favourite feature—

He shouldn’t be thinking like this.

He lightly tossed his phone onto the beanbag nearby and shoved his face into his pillow, ignoring the slight twitch in his leg. He wasn't going to do it.

He wasn’t going to touch himself to pictures of you. It was unethical, perverse, but mostly…

…it meant you’d win.

—still, he couldn’t ignore the images flashing behind his eyes of you. And begrudgingly, he felt his fingers creep down, along his sculpted abdomen, towards the area where it throbbed. He was seriously pathetic, getting a boner simply because he saw you in a bikini.

Tugging his waistband down lightly, he lightly hisses as the tip of his cock experiences the coolness of the air. Red, angry with desire drooling down the side—he allows himself to close his eyes and wrap his hand around himself, sighing in relief.

Stroking, he begins to think of you.

Would you approve of him surrendering this early to your games? Would you be shocked, disgusted or flattered that he thought of you in this way?

His imagination leads to your thighs. How would it feel to thrust his aching cock in between those thighs of yours—fuck. Speeding up his tempo, he squeezes his cock around the hand, rubbing lightly on the tip. Your fingers would feel so much different— the softness of them with your long, sharp nails, decorating his dick.

“Fuck—this girl,” Then he erupts, heavy spurts of thick hot cum staining his shirt and his stomach. Breathing heavily, he grabs his wet wipes and cleans everything off, turning to grab at his phone again when his heart sinks to his ass.

He had mistakenly liked your post. Your beach post.

And he knew you’d see it eventually.

Well—guess you won again after all.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

[kirsty-bytes]

in which midoriya gets cornered into a very confusing arrangement with the queen bee of UA.

cw: cursing

Business Course student. Third year. Flawless and untouchable, a rumour wrapped in gloss and perfume. You heard that you owned three cars already. That you bought out an entire wing of the girl’s dorm to turn it into a private suite. At least the rumours were accurate.

Every hallway you treaded down became a runway. Every word from your lips was law—whether they liked it or not. Teachers couldn’t stand you but they wouldn’t say shit to the highest ranked pupil in the entire school. Yaoyorozu? Had nothing on you. Students feared you. And the Hero Course? They were obsessed with you. Just like how you intended to be.

Males from 3-A and 3-B tripped over themselves to impress you with their strength, their quirks, their pathetic declarations of undying devotion or even money. Girls whispered behind your back and then posted filtered photos of you with captions like “mother” and “greatest inspo”. But you didn’t care.

Because your eyes were only on him.

Midoriya Izuku.

Green-haired, freckled, wide-eyed Midoriya—

Midoriya never understood how he somehow ended up in your line of sight. Albeit on the rise in the hero course at UA—he still held the same personality he did as his quirkless self—clumsy, shy and a major fanboy. So when you, alleged queen-bee of the business course, it left him stumped. He never even spoke with you, how could he be yours?

“Uh…Deku?” Uraraka questioned over a piece of bread she held in her pudgy hands. She turns to nudge him over the notebook he was malling over, muttering one of his daily analysis.

“What? I’m kinda busy.” Oh.

He suddenly noticed how every sound around him went mute. The doors were cracked wide open and there you stood.

Two flawlessly sculpted figures flanked behind you—Yamato and Reiji. Towering, silent, brutal. Basically your shadows in human form—muscle carved from stone, with expressions like tombstones. They weren’t students. They were threats on a leash, and you held the chain.

Each step was sovereign, deliberate like the floor should be grateful you touched it. Like U.A. itself tilted to accommodate your weight.

The cafeteria didn’t just stay silent, it was frozen—waiting with bated breath on what the queen of UA would do.

You moved forward through the seats like a knife through silk—elegant, merciless—strapped in high designer shoes. You simply passed Bakugo. He blinked, visibly thrown off, his scowl faltering for the first time anyone could remember. Brushed past Todoroki and he stared with narrowed eyes, as if he couldn’t decide whether you were beautiful or dangerous. Or both.

And still— you didn’t look at them.

Because none of them mattered.

Only he did.

You tilted your head slightly, hair swishing at the movement. “Izuku Midoriya.”

You saw how his body stiffened at your words. Everyone else at his table just paused, looking to see what their friend’s words would be. The silence said it all, choose carefully.

“Uh—y-yes?” He gulped.

Your voice was silk wrapped around steel. Smooth, slow, but sharp enough to slit a throat without trying. You smiled, not kindly though. More like a cat who’d found something to play with.

“Walk with me,” you said. Not a question but a command.

He blinked. “I—I’m still eating lunch.”

Your smile deepened. “You can finish later.”

Iida, ever the knight, cleared his throat and stood tall “Excuse me, Miss ____, but Midoriya here is under no obligation to—” One of your boys stepped forward. No words. Just a glance. Iida stiffened, caught the message, and sat back down slowly. The other boy subtly cracked his knuckles while staring at him.

Midoriya’s adam’s apple bobbed.

“…Okay,” He said, standing up. “Sure.” You turned on your heels, an elegant spin, and began to walk away with no look back.

You heard his unsure, hesitant steps trail behind you and slowly the murmurs of the cafeteria began to fill back up, though with renewed interest on why you were stringing Deku along in your games.

You don’t speak as you walk.

You don’t have to. The silence works in your favor—it always has. Silence makes people nervous. Makes them fill in the blanks with fantasies or fear. You’re not sure what he fills it with. That’s part of the fun.

You lead him through the east wing—your part of the school. Not his. This isn’t where they run drills or study hero dynamics. This is curated space. Gold-trimmed doors. Minimalist art. Floors that echo like cathedrals. It doesn’t feel like U.A. here.

It feels like you.

You stop in front of your door.

The plaque reads simply private.

No name. Just a truth on who it belongs to.

You open it. Don’t look back. Just leave it cracked enough for him to make a choice. And he does.

He steps inside.

It wasn’t a restroom. Well—technically, it was. But it didn’t look like one.

The lighting was soft, warm, diffused through gold sconces shaped like orchids. The floor was marble. The stalls were individual rooms with polished wooden doors. A velvet chaise lounge sat against one wall. There was a sink made of black glass and a giant mirror surrounded by soft ring lights.

And the scent, it smelled like expensive candles and something light underneath. Musk and jasmine and something like vanilla. Through your peripheral vision, you felt how he stood awkwardly in the center. You pranced to the chaise, sat down, and crossed your glossy legs.

He didn’t know where to look. Your skirt slid just slightly higher, revealing a luscious thigh and you felt him glance away, heat crawling up the back of of his freckled neck.

“You’re nervous,” you said.

“I—I just… wasn’t expecting…”

You tilted your head. “What? That someone like me would want to talk to someone like you?” With a teasing edge, you watch him flush a shade brighter. How easy it was to embarrass him. “No! I mean—maybe? I just don’t know why I’m here.”

You smiled again. “You’re honest. That’s cute.” And leaned forward, elbows on your knees. “I like cute things.”

His foot lifts to take a cautious step back and your sharp eyes track the subtle movements, amused.

“Relax, Izuku,” you said, and he startled slightly at the sound of his first name in your mouth. “I’m not going to bite you. Not unless you ask nicely.”

A tiny sigh.

“What… do you want from me?”

You leaned back again, watching him. “I’ve had my eyes on you for a while now. You’re different. The hero boys in your class? Most of them bark to get my attention. You don’t even glance at me. That makes me curious.”

He swallowed. “I didn’t mean to offend—“ You laughed. A low, rich sound.

“Oh, sweetheart. You didn’t offend me. You intrigued me.”

You straightened up, walking toward him now, slowly. Every step echoed louder than it should’ve. He stays still.

“I like watching you, Izuku,” you murmured. “You try so hard to be good. To be kind. To carry the world’s problems on your back.” Your dainty fingers brushed the collar of his uniform.

“That goodness… it’s rare. I wonder what it would take to destroy it.”

He glances down at you, heart pounding. “Why me?”

“Why not you? You seem like a fun chase.” And then you leaned in, close enough that he could feel your breath on his neck.

“And well, I always get what I want.” His hands clenched at his sides. He couldn’t tell if it was fear or something else. His frame urged him to back away, strangely enough he held firm—caught in your presence. You tilted your head, eyes half-lidded.

“You’ll learn to obey me. You’ll beg for it soon enough. Trust me, I know—ask Monoma.”

You met his gaze. He scoffed lightly though his voice was thin. “Is that what this is about? Control?”

“Of course,” you whispered, and your hand brushed his cheek. “But also… curiosity.” You stepped back then, lips curling.

“You’re mine now, Izuku.” You didn’t give him a moment to speak, spinning toward the mirror, fixing a strand of hair with practiced elegance. “You belong to me. Starting today.”

“…What does that even mean?”

You met his eyes in the mirror.

“It means you’re my bitch now.”

this is a part one of the queenbee series btw, i’ll figure out a title along the way. it’s gonna have 5/6 parts maybe? dk.

part 1 part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

[kirsty-bytes]

feels like im the only person that loves side characters 🥀

Junpei Hyuga still can’t believe that he’s dating you.

You’re real.

You’re a nationally recognised volleyball player, with a reputation built on impossible saves and even more impossible spikes. The kind of girl that is in a league of her own. If the volleyball world had its own Generation of Miracles, you were above it—no doubts. He never thought he’d be involved with you.

Not because you aren’t incredible—but because girls in his book used to be distractions. He’d said it once, boldly and self-righteously. Back then, he believed in discipline, in leadership and locking every stray emotion out of his focus because Seirin needed a captain, not a guy with a weakness for soft giggles and flirtatious eyes.

And yet…here he is.

He remembers the day he met you. You’re Riko’s friend and you had dropped by to visit her since you two had barely seen each other, the focus on guiding a team to victory evident. Your knee pads still clung to your legs, tall socks riding high and hugging the thick shape of your thighs. You wore a thin tank top and shorts, the purple windbreaker of your team resting on your shoulders.

He remembers how a loose ball flew right to your head, a mistake of the first years, and how you easily deflected it—reducing the room to silence as they stared at you. Riko was estatic, jumping onto your sweaty frame, Koganei was energetically admiring you, jumping up and down that he had saw your games last year at the internationals. Kagami scoffed, barely impressed. He remembers how you bowed to him and offered your hand, with a thoughtful look on your face—he cleared his throat when he realised he still hadn’t pulled away from the handshake.

So when you show up to their game against Seiho late—not because you wanted to make an entrance, but you complained that traffic was hell and you had insisted on purchasing energy drinks for the team—the gym was buzzing already, crowd thick with bellowing voices and clapping hands, sneakers squeaking against polished wood.

You had slipped through the doors quietly, but there was nothing quiet about the jersey you were wearing.

Hyuga’s number—your number now, apparently—hangs off your frame, just a little too big, the hem brushing your thighs. It still smells like him and wearing it wasn’t no mistake. Riko had spotted you first, mouth open through a halfway wave when her eyes trail down.

“Hyuga’s jersey? Oh he’s so whipped.” She squealed.

You shrug, biting back a smile. “Laundry day.”

One of the benched players mutter a small, “Wasn’t he the one who said girls are a distraction?”

You meet his eyes across the court. They haven’t started yet, just performing warmups and he frees mid sip from his water bottle—eye drifting to see the jersey on you. Number 4 in white, black and red, boldly displayed on your chest. He chokes just slightly and looks away fast.

You wink and walk toward one of the benches in the front. Kagami notices the captain’s line of sight and sees you, muttering under his breathe, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

As you settle in, the whistle blows. You don’t cheer, not yet. Just choosing to sit there with your legs crossed, Hyuga’s name hugging your spine like a brand, gaze steady as the game unfolds.

But every-time he lands a three pointer, his eyes flicker to you. Every time the opposing time gets the best of them, he clenches his jaw and steals a glance to see your reaction. The game is a struggle at first, with back and forths, but Riko’s sharp eyes and unwavering wit let her break down Seiho’s defence and they win despite the odds.

After the win, the team floods off the court in a roar of sweat and high-fives. Hyuga heads your way, towel slung low on his neck, already scowling.

“You just had to wear it,” He says under his breath, glaring but red-eared.

You smile, soft and smug. “I look good in your colors.”

“I can’t focus when you’re—“ He stops himself and rubs the back of his neck. “—when you’re watching me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re undressing me in your head.”

You blink slowly, grinning. “Captain, please.”

You two bound off towards their locker room allocated and you wait, thumb playing with the hem of your shorts as you wait for him to freshen up. He rounds the corner, glasses fogged from the steam. He barely finished up though, shirt halfway on. You smile as he approaches, eyes dropping to admire the glean of his stomach and the small, light happy trail peeking out, before refocusing on his eyes, pinched.

“Don’t do that again.” He warns.

“Do what?” You bat your eyes innocently.

“What you’re doing right now,” You shrug and lean close, close enough for your voice to be for him alone. “I’m just supporting my boyfriend, is that such a harmful thing?”

He swallows sharply, his hands twitch like he may grab you but a joke from stops him Izuki in the lockers, and he pulls away.

“Don’t you have a bench to sit on?”

You raise an eyebrow then smile, as you retreat. “Don’t trip over yourself.”

The other part of the game has them facing off against Shutoku but you’re confident, you always are. Seirin is preparing as always, strategies ticking at the back of their skulls.

Then you both hear it.

A laugh, rather a sneer, from one of the Shutoku players. A comment directed towards you. Hyuga’s jaw tightens but he doesn’t look over, doesn’t lash out. But the flick of his eyes, the flex in his fingers—it’s subtle violence. Riko can sense it too but she chooses not to comment, just narrowing her gaze. You don’t flinch though.

You uncross your legs, stand smooth and slow and begin to walk past the team, past your friend, past the frozen Seirin bench. The Shutoku players pause their movements as you approach, and the guy who spoke looks up with a cocky grin that slowly dies the minute he sees your eyes.

You don’t look at him.

Rather you lean in to Hyuga first, speaking in a voice only he can hear—a low murmur against the edge of his ear. “If you win, I’ll give you the real prize later.”

His breath catches.

You trail away and you step past him toward the Shutoku bench. You don’t touch the player, you don’t need to, your eyes say enough. You stop right in front of him, close enough that he can see the slight arch of your brow, the curl of your lip that isn’t quite a smile. Then you look up in his eyes.

And stay there.

You smile then speak, “Goodluck, you’ll need it.” And walk back to your seat.

Back on the court, Hyuga’s lips twitch—not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. But there’s a passion behind his glasses now. A promise of war. The game hasn’t even started yet, but Shutoku already made a fatal mistake.

Disrespecting you.

[kirsty-bytes]

because i love writing for alt baddies as one

Izuku Midoriya was used to his fanbase being sweet, younger, and endlessly respectful. That was the image he built—the hopeful, persistent symbol of resilience. He wrote about it, spoke about it, lived it.

So when his manager insisted on putting together a fan meet and greet for his first book, he agreed without hesitation. What he didn’t expect was how bizarrely exhausting it would be. The venue was packed, crowded with adoring fans, families, young kids clutching All Might plushies and his own merch. His table was stacked high with copies of his book, next to other pro heroes doing the same.

Todoroki’s table had a neat line. Kirishima’s was surrounded by excited sports nerds. Kaminari and Bakugou were a circus of various energy.

Then came you.

He noticed you immediately, not just because of the way you looked, but because of how out of place you seemed in the sea of pastel and fan-made T-shirts.

Your aesthetic was the opposite of the usual crowd—ripped stockings beneath tiny shorts, heavy boots, a cropped top, and a faded jacket slung over your shoulder. Your makeup was dark, sharp eyeliner winged just right.

You should’ve been lining up at Bakugou’s table or Kaminari’s but you approached his booth with a bounce in your step, arms full—his book, a plush keychain of his old costume, a Deku pin, even a water bottle with his hero symbol on it. You were all smiles, bright and eager beneath that cool exterior.

“Hi!” you said quickly, voice high with nerves and excitement. “I—God, sorry, I love your book. Like, actually love it. I’ve read it three times and annotated it too. I relate to the need to prove yourself so much. We’re actually the same age, too, which is wild because you’re…y’know… Deku and I’m just me.”

You paused, cheeks flushed, “Sorry I’m rambling.”

Izuku blinked. “No, it’s okay.—I’m really happy you liked it.”

You nodded fast, fiddling with the edge of the book before handing it over. “Can you sign it for me?”

“Sure,” he said, smiling shyly and uncapping his marker. You watched him scribble your name in neat cursive, then add a short, thoughtful message under it. You read it with a tiny smile—then looked up again.

“Actually,” you said, shifting your weight a little, “there’s something I wanted to show you.”

He tilted his head. “What is it?”

You looked a little more flustered now—the same cool girl, but something sparkled behind your lashes as you pulled out your phone and turned down the brightness.

You tapped, opened a photo, and flipped the screen to show him.

His brows lifted instantly.

It was you clearly in lingerie, posing in soft lighting with your back slightly turned to the mirror. But that wasn’t the most shocking part.

He opened his mouth to respond but only choked slightly on air. Right there on your ass cheek, bold and proud in black ink, was his hero name, surrounded in a heart.

It was tattooed and permanent.

His face went scarlet instantly.

“That’s how much of a fan I am,” you said sweetly, pulling your phone back. “Surprised?”

“Uh—I mean—wow. That’s…that’s commitment.”

“Only for you,” You giggled, twirling the water bottle in your hands.

You pulled a smaller book from your bag with a simple ribbon tied around it and handed it to him carefully.

“This is for you. A gift,” you said with a little shrug. “Something personal. Just… don’t open it here. I want to be just for your eyes only, Deku.”

You winked—then turned, gave him a soft goodbye wave, and walked away through the crowd like you hadn’t just flipped him sideways.

Izuku blinked, breath shallow.

He picked up the notebook and flipped it gently, opening just the first page.

Inside was a small polaroid—you in panties only, blowing a kiss toward the camera, hands holding up your chest in a pose that had no business being that effective.

He shut it instantly.

Flipping it over, he saw your name again and beneath it, a number scrawled in red ink, followed by a tiny lipstick mark.

Just then, Kaminari leaned over from his table, sipping a smoothie. “What’s got you all red, Deku?” he asked, grinning. “Fan leave you a love letter or something?”

Izuku cleared his throat, closing the notebook and slipping it quietly into his pocket.

“Something like that.”

He’d definitely be using that number.