+ synopsis. your friends have been pestering you to check out this one hot trending camboy and you’ve always shut them down. but one drunken, lonely night, you find yourself subscribing to this ouija dirty. with a stroke of luck, a special personal request of yours is granted, and you then find yourself with one hand holding your phone, the other down in your pants.
it’s all good fun, really — until you transfer to another university and find out that the same man you'd been jerking off to live on fridays is the same man who also happens to be your classmate, a.k.a. the hot senior in your art class.
+ cw. fem! reader, college au, scars, modulo! yuuji uses a pseud, totally made up streaming platform, mutual masturbation technically, use of sex toys, live streaming, hot man whimpering, p in v sex, use of the phrase “beat your bean” once, size kink, praise kink, slightly rough, slight humiliation, squirting, 8 inches just bec, no beta bye — MDNI / 18+ (7.4K WORDS)
+ kiko’s note. yeah this is 2 years overdue. originally a wbk fic turned jjk. I was horny, laughing, horny-laughing while I wrote and rewrote this over and over again. enjoy <3
Ding.
Your eyes dart to your phone placed on the far left counter of your bathroom sink. It’s the text tone you had assigned to your friend group chat, but as you are in the middle of your skincare routine, you pay no mind to it. You resume your pre-bedtime ritual.
Ding. Ding.
You look again but quickly brush off the persistent notifications, ignoring the back-to-back tones as you lather foam all over your face.
Ding. Ding. Diiiiiiiiiing.
“What the hell?” Your phone can barely keep up with the notifications piling on top of each other. Your brows furrow in confusion, wondering what the commotion is about.
Your phone goes quiet for a second before it starts to ring again, but this time, it plays the ringtone of an incoming video chat request from your friends. You finally decide to answer, placing your phone where your friends can see you with white clouds all over your face. “Hell—”
“Finally!”
“Took you long enough!”
“What the fuck were you doing?”
Your friends talk all at once, sounding like a mad choir of different wild registers — one that splits your ears as it berates you for your absence as if you’d gone dark for a week when it’s only been a couple of minutes.
“Yeah, yeah.” You wince at the incessant shouting, keeping your phone at arm’s length as you lower the volume when the yapping continues. “So, what’s going on? Is someone pregnant? Did someone cheat?” you ask as soon as the scolding tones down.
“He’s back! Ouija Dirty is back!”
“Who?”
“Hello?! Mr. 8 inches?” One of your friends squints, waiting for bells to ring in your head, but nothing comes to mind. “The camboy! Seriously, you gotta listen to what I tell you sometimes.”
“Ah- him.” You wash the soap off and pat your face dry with a towel, muffling your voice. “Deep voice, scars? I remember.”
“You’ve gotta see this.” Another one teases, eagerly waiting for you to watch the video she sends in the chat. “I swear, Mr. Ouija Dirty was already doing wonders before this— but last night for his comeback, he started using toys.”
You don’t bother to even open the chat. Instead, you go straight to your bedroom and get ready to sleep, bed creaking when you lie on your side. “Sorry. Need all the rest I can get before I transfer schools. And I’m not paying $10 to get off to someone jacking off when I can use my fingers for free.”
“Yeah, but I feel like you’d really like him. He—”
“I’m going to bed.”
“HEY—”
The corners of your mouth turn upright as you watch your friends frantically try to sell this camboy to you like they’re sales pitchers on a month’s end commission. “STOP— DON’T GO, YOU’LL MISS THE BEST PAR—”
“Goodnight!” you hum as you drop the call, thinking this’ll be the last you’ll hear of this Mr. Dirty.
…
Retiring from a night out at 11 pm on a Friday night is too unusual. Unsettling. Your room feels painfully empty. So empty, it makes the space between your legs feel awfully unoccupied. Tonight, out of all nights, you find yourself lonely… and a little tipsy.
After shuffling in bed for god knows how long, you finally reach for your phone. It becomes your only source of light, brightness level on blast, illuminating your face. Your eyes dart back and forth from the search bar, down to your keyboard. “You don’t know what happened. Your fingers started moving on their own,” is what you tell yourself and what you plan on telling your friends if they ever find out you had downloaded The Pink Room™ — one that hues your face a bright pink as soon as you open it.
The app surprisingly has no sketchy ads. No pop-ups asking you if you want to meet a hot dilf 20 miles from you. User experience too smooth that it doesn’t take long before you’re registered with a burner email. As for your next hurdle;
“What’s his name. Soulja? Outie?” You forget, but it was something weird and horny. Your thumbs hover over your keyboard as you venture a guess. But the second you type O-U… the first result that pops up is his user, @ouijadirty with a big star right next to his name, indicating he’s one of the trending searches. And next to the star is a red dot. “Oh?”
The red dot™.
He’s live. Looking at his profile, you can definitely see how for an “amateur” he’s pretty popular. His patrons are in the thousands, with hundreds currently watching. “Is that a lot?” you hum. “Maybe. Can’t imagine 653 people watching me live as I jack off.”
You’re not thinking straight. You’re drunk and lonely and desperate, you should just go to bed but—
“Fuck it.” The chime of a successful payment rings. Suddenly, you find yourself subscribed to a camboy, in this day and age.
Please wait. We will let you in shortly.
It says on the top right corner of your screen there’s only about 20 minutes left till the stream ends.
And from pink, your face hues blue, the color of his room. This is how you make Ouija Dirty’s acquaintance. The screen cuts the rest of his face off just above his neck. He shuffles in his seat as he gets comfortable with his little toy, pink fleshlight pumping his cock. Looking around, you can see his room is ambiently lit with posters of artworks in various mediums, mostly paintings from what you can make of them, including blurry photographs pinned to his wall in the background. All that and a suspect, out of place poster of Jennifer Lawrence in a bikini.
His voice is deep. Charming even. He talks through his pumps for the most part, teasing his Dirty Does™ that are wilding in the comments, nothing that seems out of the ordinary.
“Okay, I admit his body is nice.” It’s immaculate. He’s built as fuck but you’re mostly taken by the scars adorning his body from the chest down. Whatever horror, event, or entity could’ve scarred him to this extent — you’re grateful he made it out alive to show you all his might. Well, almost all of it.
It’s a shame the fleshlight covers his full length, and Mr. Dirty only drags the toy halfway through until he’s back to pumping down to the base. You want to see all of him because if you’re paying well, you want to be fed well. “When does it get goo—”
“O-oh, fuuuck,” he drags out his groans, all breathy and deep and guttural, adam’s apple bobbing with his every grunt, abdomen flexing and twitching as he practically milks himself with his toy. You chew on the inside of your cheek as his curses grow more pronounced, your lips cooing a silent ooh the more he piques your interest. He doesn’t stop pumping even as his cum oozes out of his toy, white sticky ring forming around the base of his cock, hips bucking into his hand as he spills out every last ounce of his seed.
The comments flood his stream while a second load of his cum oozes out of his toy. He chuckles, catching his breath, and more comments come in waves one after another on how fucking hot that was. Well, it was. And he fucking is. And right on cue, he takes off his fleshlight revealing himself in all his glory. Him, and all of his 8 inches, just like your friends had told you. But never mind the length. His girth is ridiculous.
Heat rises to your cheeks when you try to imagine all that meat between your legs, pussy clenching at the thought. You mentally kick yourself over your untimely subscription, with 5 minutes remaining in the stream and you’re left wanting more.
But before you could kick yourself even further… “I’m feeling a little generous tonight,” he cuts off your thoughts, slightly out of breath, and wipes off the sweat trickling down his torso.
“I know I kept you all hanging while I was away. So, to celebrate my comeback,” You can almost hear the smile in his voice along with the non-existent drum roll for his next set of words. He straightens, abs contracting as he fiddles with his softening cock in hand, sticky, glistening ring at the base, “I’m picking a lucky Doe‘s request from the comments. Go wild my Dirty Does”
“I mean… it wouldn’t hurt…” Your phone’s keyboard clicks as you type in your request.
“Hm? Interesting,” Ouija hums.
You shake your head. “Not like he’s gonna pick me anyway.”
“Can I,” he reads off one of the comments, “hear you whimper?”
“Shut up,” you say in disbelief. He reads not just any comment. “Shut up?”
“Whimper, huh? Never done that for anyone before,” he starts off sounding sheepish and scratches the back of his neck, “but I meant what I said. I’m feeling very generous. User @ justcuriousrly, I’m sending it to you in private. I —”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” You miss the rest of his words as you quickly turn your phone face down, losing your only source of light while you cover your mouth in shock. Unless someone else with a similar-sounding user commented the exact same set of words, Ouija Dirty just happened to pick your comment out of the hundreds that came flooding in.
Your face reaches a level of hot you’ve never felt before and you swear you might have conjured up a fever at that very moment.
…
You tap the heel of your foot in anticipation, replaying his words in your head over and over again to the point where it feels as if you have officially changed your name to user @ justcuriousrly.
It’s been 15 minutes since he’s ended the stream. Which means you’ve been waiting for 15 minutes. That’s 15 minutes too long. You can almost hear the chorale of I told you so’s sung by the wild orchestra that is your friends. Humiliation in D. But like hell you’d let them know how this guy has you in a chokehold after having just met him.
Whoosh, your phone rings and lights up. A notification reads, “Message request from user @ ouijadirty.” You take a deep breath, squeezing your hand into a balled fist before opening it.
“hope u like it my special doe. moand whimpered and cummed to the thought of u. see u in the next stream! ⚡︎”
The thumbnail alone is enough to send shivers down your spine, heart running back to back marathons over the fact that this video is practically made for your eyes only. The preview features a portrait view of his torso down to his thighs, his cock ironically hiding behind the play button, and you’re almost convinced that it’s the universe’s cruel way of building your anticipation. And making fun of you. He had used a different camera, likely the front camera of his phone. The angle is much closer to his body. So intimate, it almost feels like you’re just a few feet away from his fat cock.
Play.
“Oh, oh fuck, OHH~” Shit! Headphones! You jolt back, nearly dropping your phone upon hearing his whimpers on full blast, afraid the sound might spill and echo across the corridors of your dorm.
You scour your bedside table for your headphones that took too fucking long (2 seconds) to pair with your phone.
Suddenly, you’re holding your phone with one hand while the other finds its way to the inside of your pajamas and onto your clit.
You don’t respond to him but you’ve lost count of how many times you found yourself in a compromising situation that night, moaning to the whimpers of your 1st ever camboy as you beat your bean, playing the 1-minute and 30-second video 8 more times till you reach your 4th orgasm for the night.
…
You keep mum about your patronage since. Having been preoccupied with all things related to your transfer to a different university, you could barely afford to think about him at all. Of course, orientations just had to have fallen on Fridays, beating you to a pulp, rendering you unable to even stay up for his livestreams.
It’s been a while but a couple of weeks prior, you were at least able to catch up on his previous streams, falling asleep to replays, particularly to the sound of him whispering sweet nothings as he pumps his cock, squelch of lubed up foreskin making for an interesting lullaby.
But the transition has you beat. There’s barely enough time to get you up to speed with everything — settling in your dorm, remembering where your classes are, and actually taking your classes. You barely make it in one piece on your first day, and yet here you are, or at least what’s left of you.
You suppose even you aren’t immune to the awkward feeling of being the “new kid” who transfers in the middle of an academic year, and on your junior year too. Funny. You’d think people would’ve gotten used to it by now in college.
Still, you’re grateful. Making an acquaintance in university has become easier after being assigned an unofficial guide to show you the ropes. Nobara — another junior with the same major as you — her company has been nice for the most part. Save for the rough attention she gives her peers, some interesting profiles she’s obviously close with.
And speaking of interesting, there’s one who catches your attention during art class — your last class of the day — where you’ve been fighting tooth and nail against the weight of your eyelids. As soon as you enter your classroom, your eyes meet with brown ones of a pinkette, a student with scars on his face. He sits next to a near-expressionless spikey-haired man, the former’s demeanor in loud and stark contrast to the latter’s. You could even hear the loud one from outside before you came in.
You can’t put your finger on it, but there’s something about him that makes you stop and stare.
He’s surrounded by a horde of girls, one with a distinctly annoying fake laugh, obviously trying to catch his attention by the way her eyes keep flocking to his direction, as if to see if he’s looking her way. But he’s not. He pays no mind to her, or any of them.
He must get a lot of attention. He’s quite easy on the eyes — pretty, even — scars and all, his voice deep, his pink, textured hair pushed back. He wears an unzipped hoodie over a white tank top with scars peaking out of his torso where he shows skin. You could’ve sworn those scars looked familiar.
“Hey,” you whisper to Nobara who’s right next to you. “Who is that?”
Nobara’s eyes dart to whom your finger points. “Ah,” she says it like she’s answered this question multiple times before. “Hot guy, scars, noisy?”
“That’s the one.”
“Easy, that’s Yuuji. Yuuji Itadori.”
Yuuji Itadori… Yuuji Itadori… Yuuji ita…
From where they sit, both guys greet Nobara. The stoic guy quickly runs out of anything to say and Nobara takes that as her cue to usher you to a seat. As Itadori was about to return to his one-sided conversation, he sees you and looks back at you, twice — eyes squinting before flashing you a cheeky smile that tugs on his scar. He starts taking his hoodie off, and it hits you right in the head like a home run as soon as you recognize that body.
…dori — Ouija Di— oh shit.
You try not to make eye contact as you rush to the back of the room. You take the empty seat a couple rows behind him even though tons of seats are available out front. For almost the entire duration of your class, you try your hardest not to look, but you’re a helpless moth to a flame. Finally with a face to the name, not to mention an actual name to The Pink Room™ user, you can’t help but be intrigued. Even more intrigued than the lecture on advanced composition.
Even Ouija — err — Itadori seems uninterested in the lecture, whipping out his phone as soon as your professor talks about something something strokes, something something framing. Itadori begins to type and you can hear the faint keystrokes from where you sit. He pauses a second to think, erases whatever he had typed, continues to type again, and puts his phone down as soon as his phone whooshes after hitting send.
Right that second, your phone vibrates. Your brows furrow in confusion. When you open your phone, you’re immediately hit with a notification that says:
The Pink Room
1 new message from user @ ouijadirty
“hey so what did u think of the vidwo? wanna kno so bad. ⚡︎”
OH MY GOD.
You put your phone down and suddenly you’re met with dozens of your classmates’ heads turned to where you sit, your professor had stopped the lecture, and you realize you might’ve blurted that one out loud. What’s worse is, he, too, is staring at you with a puzzled look along with the others.
…
You’ve been ignoring him for the most part.
He once tried to strike up a conversation with you somewhere in the dining hall. With the most welcoming smile, he says, “You’re new here. I’m Yuuji.” He extends a hand, waiting for you to shake it, and you know for sure you had come off rude when you refused to take it and merely responded with a, “Yeah, I know.”
Well, what else could you have done if he keeps catching you off guard like that? By a stroke of luck, Nobara calls for your attention from across the dining hall, and you leave him without saying another word. Not even your name, which is what anyone with common sense and the most basic conversational skills would do.
You ask yourself, “When would be a good time to ask my unofficial student guide if her friend does live porn and if this is a known fact in our class?” You assume, “When you’ve only known each other for a few days.” is not the correct answer but at this point, you’re insanely curious.
“Yeah, he’s pretty open about it. And everyone’s cool with it as far as I know.” It gives you the impression that, probably, the only reason why he hides his face on his streams is because he gets a kick out of it. He seems like that kind of guy, after all.
“Are you— is anyone— I mean…”
“Subscribed? Nah, he’s like a brother to me. Everyone else, however…”
Nobara’s got that knowing look in her eyes, the one that says “ooh, so you’ve known him before you even transferred.” To which you say, “shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything. Hey, you do you!” she says with a hint of mischief. “’s that why he was talking you up? Think you guys look cute together, too.”
“Stop!” Your face heats up. “It’s not like that.”
“Sure. Although, you should probably know that he asked me about you the other day.”
“Ahem.” You let out a cough to hide your embarrassment. “What — uhm… what about?” You play coy.
“He asked me what you thought about his stream the other—”
“What?! How did —”
“Kidding.”
After nearly choking on your saliva, you manage to calm yourself.
“He thought you looked pretty, is all.” Nobara raises a brow and sends you a knowing smirk. She seems pretty amused about the turn of events. While all that’s flattering and all, you don’t let yourself get forget the fact that you know a lot more about Yuuji “Ouija Dirty ⚡︎” Itadori than you let on.
…
You try to avoid his streams for the next couple of weeks. You can’t bear to watch him now as it feels as if he can see you, his rude, weirdo, and apparently pretty, classmate, wanking off to his junk. However, it’s fleshlight week on his channel, and they’ve always hit different compared to his other streams. And it’s been a while since you were able to catch any breaks, so now you’ve got your dildo and lube at the ready on your bedside table.
It’s the typical POV from his neck down. Fuck, now that he finally has a face — an insane face card, if you might add — to go with the body, and one hell of a cock, too, it’s impossible not to see the whole picture. He’s got you in on a dirty little secret. And seeing him automatically flips a switch that makes heat rush to every nook and cranny of your body.
He starts off with the usuals. Funny and flirty little spiels, scars that deserve to be framed, studied, licked, and put in a museum, nothing new. As he gets comfortable in his chair, so do you in your dormitory bed, rubbing slow circles on your clit in sync with his lazy pumps of his foreskin, gathering your wetness from your cunt and him from his bottle of lubricant, smearing your slick across your folds while he spreads the gel across his length.
Oui— Itadori scratches his throat, snapping you out of your heated reverie. “So… there’s this girl in my class. My Dirty Does, she’s so hot. Fuck. Can’t stop thinking about her.”
Unsurprisingly, the comment section goes wild, with tons of his baby Does blasting at least a handful of “I WISH THAT WERE ME,” around 10 of “WHO IS SHE?!” and just dozens of tearful, crying emojis.
“Calm down my Dirty Does. I’m not going anywhere.” He takes out his iconic pink toy from behind the camera and you, your dildo lubed and ready in hand. “I’m just… smitten, that’s all.”
Your brows furrow in bitter suspicion, and then in fake nonchalance. Your mind immediately wagers it’s miss cutesy chuckles from art class. You roll your eyes.
“Anyone with eyes and a brain could see how cute she is. I wouldn’t be surprised if—”
“No. Fucking. Way.” When you see the tip of the silicone toy, you cannot believe your eyes.
In black ink are your initials, neatly and deliberately written near the tip of his fleshlight.
“Thinking ‘bout her. Fuck.” He brings the toy halfway down, and from what you can tell he cranes his head back. “I got it bad- ugh, fuck.” He picks up the pace, and it’s your cue to stretch your pussy with the tip of your own toy, mouth forming an “o” as you fuck your hole to the rhythm of his pumps. “Badly want to suck her tits as she bounces on my cock.”
“Fuuuck,” you breathe, “want his cock to stretch me out.” You feel hot and hazy, watching him get off to the thought of you while he tells you through his screen — in wondrous, guttural singsongs — how badly he wants you on his cock. He doesn’t even pay attention to the comments like he usually does. Just aimlessly, mindlessly fucking his toy in a haze. You can’t help but chime to his every cuss, can’t help but moan along with his grunts, can’t help but fuck yourself, with his heavy breathing acting as a battery to the toy in your hand.
“So t-tight. Fuck. Want to bend her over my lap and play with her pussy.” Yuuji raises a hand to cover his face, and you know for sure he’s imagining you speared pretty on his cock. In his drunken lovesick haze, he grunts in pleasure as he pounds on his cock.
“Feels, so good,” you cry out. “Want you to p-play with my pussy so bad, baby. Play with my pussy, baby. Don’t stop.”
“Don’t want to stop. ‘s so good. Want to make you cum.” There’s a shift in his voice. He… speaks to you directly. Cries out to you, your pussy, the toy in your hand. It’s almost like the other 600 in the stream don’t matter to him and you’re the only two people left. Like his grunts are for you, and only you. “Fuck. You thinking about my cock, pretty girl?”
“Thinking about your cock, i-itadori~”
“Thinking about your pussy, pretty girl. Cum with me, pretty girl. Cum for me.”
“Yes, Y-Yuuji!” you answer him back. “I-I’m cumming— oh fuck! Baby, I’m cumming. Oh~ oh! I’m cumming. I—”
Yuuji lets out a hearty laugh, chest heaving as he finishes in his toy.
“I got it bad,” he mutters, hint of disbelief in his voice. And you’re afraid maybe you do, too.
…
It was a bad idea. You just had to rewatch his stream when you have a class together the next day. Now, you feel as if you’re walking down the hallway butt naked, like everyone can tell what, and who, your wank material was the night before. Irrational, but still, your head hangs low. And you’re definitely not going to look Yuuji in the eye when you get to your classroom. Not even when he’s practically blocking the entrance, leaning on the doorframe as he talks to his redheaded friend.
He hits you with his usual smile, still keen on being friendly even after you rejected his advances. He mumbles something about how lovely you look today. But you completely ignore his existence, lest your acknowledgement of his presence be an admission of guilt. He feigns dejection but quickly reverts his attention back to his friend. And you, you’re intent on just beelining to your desk but something he says stops you dead in your tracks.
“… dunno. Just curious, really.”
“Huh?” you blurt out on instinct, looking back at Yuuji.
Bewilderment on his face slowly melts into a smirk, synapses buzzing in his head.
Fuck.
“It’s you!” Suddenly, he’s beaming, eyes gleaming in the know.
“W-what are you talking about? I’m—”
“You know me. Remember?” He leans closer to your frame. “The dining hall?”
“Oh!” Phew. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“Morning,” he greets as he leans closer to your ear, “my special Doe.”
Shit.
Shitshitshit!
…
You try to keep calm. The situation isn’t exactly as bad as you think it is, at least that’s what you tell yourself. So what if he discovered who you really are? And he likes you, too. There is no other way to save face except to accept the situation as it is. You wait for the bell to approach him.
“Hey, Yuuji. Can we talk?”
“What about, my special doe?” he hums a teasing tune, not a care in the world how everyone in class is still practically within earshot. Your eye twitches at the term of endearment and his grin only grows wider.
“I just want to thank you, ’s all,” you say with a straight face. Yuuji raises his brows.
“I think…” you trail. You hold your hand out, and he takes it. He stiffens only for a brief moment upon contact with the piece of paper in his palm, “… your work is amazing. I’ll see you around.”
Your strides are heavy but paced as you make your way to the door. You take this second to glance over your shoulder only to see Yuuji like a puppy blessed with a sweet treat, shooting you the sweetest smile on his face, along with the opened piece of paper in his hand.
The only time he takes his eyes off yours is when he whips out his phone, typing in your number on his contacts.
Right as you leave, you get a text from him that says:
see u around my pretty doe ⚡︎
…
The next few days seem eerily normal. For the most part, it doesn’t particularly feel like you’re texting a man who makes a decent buck streaming his world class cock to hundreds of viewers on Fridays. Just a charming guy. He never forgets to tell you how pretty you looked that day. Never forgets to ask you how your day was, or what you’re up to. But then come the random bouts of innuendos that shatter the illusion where he says something along the lines of, “thinking of u now gonna be thinking of u again on friday.”
Lack of proper punctuation, spelling, and capitalization aside, he’s a really sweet guy.
On Friday, during your free period, he finally asks if you’d like to get coffee with him then and there.
You have such a pleasant time together that you ended up coming over to his apartment that same day.
A shockwave of embarrassment and — surprisingly — relief dawns on you when he decides to come clean.
On his couch, with an arm around your waist, after you tell him how you found out about him through your friends, he tells you he knew you were watching his streams after he tried to hit on you at the dining hall. And apparently, Nobara was telling the truth when she said he thought you were pretty, and that he’d asked about you — the adorable pretty girl who left a strong impression on him in art class. At least he was interested in you before he found out you were one of his Pink Room regulars.
“If you already knew my name, why did you ask for it at the dining hall?”
“So I can properly ask you out, duh?” Yuuji lets out a soft chuckle, soothing your waist with his thumb when you try to fit all the puzzle pieces in your head.
And then, it hits you. He knew you’d be watching when he did the stream with your initials. He probably knows that people don’t exactly subscribe to him for casual kicks. Not like the average Netflix series where you can just crack open a bottle of soda and eat popcorn, and turn the TV off when you’ve had your fill. No, people subscribe to him for the same reason he milks himself dry when it’s fleshlight week. They’re all just horny and looking for thrills.
God. That stream was definitely of you and for you. So that means, while he was fucking his toy — the one that had your pretty initials in blank permanent ink — he probably knew you’d be playing with yourself along with him.
To say your face is overheating at this very moment is an understatement. Your stomach churns from downing all of that information and — all the while — having Yuuji pressed to your hip, your own shirt riding up your sides, his thumb stroking your exposed skin.
The final puzzle piece was how you reacted when he had blurted out your user, which was really just a very lucky coincidence on his part.
“Why didn’t you — ahem — ask me out then?” Your eyes trail to his lips, ones he tugs into a faint smirk.
“You knew about me first so I thought I’d have my fun and toy with you a little.” His voice drops and he leans closer to your face. “And you’re so cute when you’re flustered.”
You open your mouth but no words come out. You inhale as you search for the words, but it causes Yuuji to lean even closer. At this point, there’s nothing to say.
“You mad?”
You shake your head. No need for words, not when Yuuji started licking his lips. Maybe you started licking yours, too. Because his eyes trailed to your lips; let out a low, breathy chuckle, before giving your side a tight squeeze.
“Good.”
He kisses you slow. Intimate. You melt into his touch, his soft lips. He’s got all the time in the world to explore your mouth, and suck in the air from your lungs. He nips your lower lip softly and you take that as an invitation to straddle him.
He slides a hand underneath your shirt, fondling your tit. When juices pool between your legs, a dirty little thought pops into your head. And with it, courage in your guts. You stop him from going any further.
“Something wrong—”
“Actually, I have an idea.”
…
Something blue and something new. Looks like that’s the theme of today’s stream. At least that’s how you imagine it looks from the perspective of Yuuji’s Dirty Does. One particular Doe today, has a different view of the stream.
You were unsure whether this little stint would ruin his viewership. But the prospect of it made Yuuji excited enough that he practically bolted through his bedroom door and set up his stream hours earlier than usual.
His room looks smaller to you. Maybe it’s because you never thought about the studio lights, or the desktop and recording setup on the other side of the room. Multiple monitors, a mounted microphone, an expensive camera. His room is actually decked in subtle luxury, you realize after seeing his gear up close, with every single piece of equipment down to his furniture easily being worth a lot of money.
That, and maybe it looks smaller because you feel cramped up as you sit in Ouija Dirty’s lap, armchair supporting the weight of you and him. He rubs circles on your bare stomach as he waits for the stream to populate.
No need for introductions on today’s stream. Ouija, in his boxers, wants his Does to assume that the initials from the previous week’s stream belong to the pretty girl on his lap. Clad in sheer and lacy blue lingerie — the color of his room — one you had conveniently and boldly worn underneath your clothes on the day of your date with Yuuji.
Your heart is particularly stuck behind your throat. Afraid a single utter of a syllable will give you away. With your back pressed flush against his broad chest, you’re certain Mr. Ouija Dirty can feel your drums of heartbeats. But even with the boner growing and twitching on the fat of your ass, you’re surprisingly comfortable where you sit, albeit slightly nervous about later taking in the size of his cock. Live. In 2k resolution.
The chats fill up the monitor quicker and more aggressive than usual. How Ouija is able to keep up with them, you don’t know. He responds how he usually does to the ones that catch his eye, throwing a sweet and low chuckle every once in a while — chuckles that grumble on your back.
“Try to get comfy there, beautiful,” he tells you clear and crisp, loud enough for his viewers to hear. There. On top of his clothed cock. While he soothes your bare stomach, again, in 2k resolution.
You try to keep still, keeping your chest from heaving so Ouija’s Does don’t clock your nerves. They’ll eat you alive the minute they smell your fear. But then your eyes almost pop out of their sockets when you see the bubble on the top right corner on one of the monitors, a number that keeps growing by the second. The digits turning from 3 to 4 not even 5 minutes after he’d started his stream.
“Shit…” you mutter under your breath, interrupting Ouija’s chatter.
“Something wrong, my pretty Doe?” His hand that was on your stomach settles on your hips, a look of concern plasters his face, and his free hand brushes your hair to the side.
“I…” you crane your head, leaning closer and whispering to his ear so the mic doesn’t pick up your voice. “There’s over a thousand of them.” 1,300 to be exact.
He looks directly into your eyes. “Tell me, if you want to stop, we’ll stop,” his voice low, serious. He waits for you to speak, uncaring for the people in the chat.
“If I had known Ouija Dirty was actually this sweet ‘n considerate, I’d have jumped you from the first moment I met you.” Yuuji’s cock twitches and he tugs a stupidly adorable smile on his face.
“I’ll take care of you, don’t worry,” he whispers in your ear and peppers kisses on your jaw before reverting back to his irregularly scheduled programming.
…
“Sorry my Dirty Does. I only have eyes for one special Doe today.” Yuuji’s hand swipes across your laced slit, nails raking roughly whenever he reaches your clit. Your hole clenches tight, even harder when he pulls your underwear aside. Instinctively, your legs try close but Yuuji opens them with both hands, spreading you before his audience. He soothes your inner thigh as if to put you at ease. Finally you lose the tension in your legs. He presses a kiss on your neck, something out of his viewers’ sight and only meant for you at that moment. “Relax,” he coos on your neck as his hand reaches for your pussy.
“Mmff, yu—baby,” you whisper. Wincing after you nearly slipped. You look out for Yuuji’s reaction only for his hand to slip through your panties, warm between your legs, swiping at your leaky folds.
“You giving me away now?” Yuuji nips at your earlobe, his breath hot behind your ear. “Should we tell your friends how close we’ve gotten?” Of course he teases you now. It’s a dangerous game he plays, but it makes your insides twitch.
“Should we give them a shoutout? Do they know their friend makes pretty noises and likes to be touched… here.” He flicks your clit, making you jerk.
“Baby, please.” You’re at a loss at any other term for endearment. You didn’t think this through, or rather, he didn’t give you enough time to plot this out. What to call him. What to say. Where to touch. Instead, you’re navigating this together. Actually, he’s navigating sweet circles on your clit just fine like he’d always known the way around your pussy. “Fu-huuuck.” Your voice hitches when he picks up the pace and then slips a quick digit into your hole.
“It’s a courtesy really.” He licks a stripe along your neck. “After all, I have them to thank for my pretty Doe. I wonder if they’re watching.”
You wonder, too. Among the thousands watching Ouija play with your pussy behind sheer lace panties now stretched by his hand too far, it rides hot up your ass. You look at the screen once, you’re afraid to look again. You can’t catch up to the comments as easily as he can but you could’ve sworn you saw a couple of sweat emojis. “Baby, are they… enjo—”
“Enjoying you as much as I am, babe.” Yuuji rides off your term of endearment and lifts your bra, toying at a nipple between his fingers. His hand feels cold to the touch, but you suppose it’s also the air of a thousand pair of eyes on your bare tits. “My Dirty Does, doesn’t she look pretty? You’re so pretty with your tits out, baby.”
You tip your head back when Yuuji fucks you with a 2nd digit, thumb doing sloppy wonders on your clit. You’re so wet and hot, you nearly warn him not to go any faster. Not deeper. Not any harder. Or else he’d have a mess to clean up, but he does. He roughs at your gaping hole, a third digit reaching for your g-spot.
“W-wait, baby— fuuuuuuck! I’m sorry— fuck, I’m sorry!” You get lost in your climax, taking a few seconds to remind you of the audience before you while your nectar soils his hand, your underwear, and drips down to his boxers. “I’m so sor—”
Yuuji chuckles. And the sound of him licking his fingers clean snaps you out of your remorse. “Look, beautiful, they love you.”
From what you can tell, the comments are a mix of love-hate. A third of jealous Does in tears, a third calling you hot, and the rest telling Ouija to have you sit on his cock. Maybe it’s the first climax flying you on autopilot but both of you oblige, discarding your underwear. Bra thrown into the pile of soiled clothes, putting a hazy smile on Yuuji’s face at the sight of you fully naked.
For a brief moment you have your back turned to the audience and Yuuji takes that moment to put a tit in his mouth, like he’d been wanting to do so since you got here.
After a pop, you turn around and position your bare pussy on the red tip of his cock, big head teasing at your entrance.
“D ’worry, you can take it.”
You take a deep breath, and he sinks you down on his cock slow. As you hold your breath, your wet mess helps with the first half of the stretch. Breath out, you sink all the way in, insides thick with his girth.
“How ’s it feel, pretty girl?”
“S-so big. S-so good,” you breathe out. Eyebrows furrowing in pleasure at the mere fullness.
Yuuji kisses your cheek and moves your body gently, holding you by your hips. The slight friction makes you reach for your clit, rubbing circles only briefly before he swats your hand fast. You mouth some unintelligible curses, whining for him to give your clit attention.
“No hands, baby. I’m touching you tonight.” Yuuji replaces the hand on your clit with his, and he plays with you so much better than you ever thought was possible. Your hands grab onto anything for dear life, one hand on the back of his neck, the other on his forearm.
Yuuji rests his forehead on your upper back, face still away from view but he has lowered his head for the first time in a stream. And it’s when he can’t help the way you’re moving around his cock. Your fingers lace through his hair, grabbing a fistful when he starts ramming you down to the base of his cock. Seems he doesn’t care that his audience now knows he has pink hair.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” Yuuji cusses as he peppers kisses on your skin.
You’ve since lost all shame in front of Ouija Dirty’s regulars and have let yourself moan out loud. How you were able to hold it all in until now is a mystery. But any and all composure you’ve kept is no match for the fill of his cock and the sloppy calloused fingers on your clit.
“Fuck~ oh, fuck!” he very nearly sings as he finishes the same time as you, almost in the tune of the recording he sent you way back.
“So you do actually sound like that when you whimper, huh?”
“You got me. All for you, baby.”
The only problem Ouija Dirty has now is that he nearly forgets about his audience when he’s with you. You both realized he hasn’t paid attention to them at all in the time he had you speared on his cock.
…
Your friends tell you they still watch Ouija Dirty, but apparently he’s Ouija Dirty & Doe™ now. “You really sure you don’t want to watch? He got more entertaining when he started filming with his girl.”
“Nah, not for me,” you scoff.
“Fine. So, when do we meet this new guy of yours?”
MEL'S NOTE: this has been in the vault since july '25, and i figured i'd finally let it see the light of day to celebrate 2 years on this blog! thanks to all everyone who's stuck with me, and a special thanks to the one anon last year who sent in a spollen deku ask and sparked this whole idea. part ii is planned, but at the moment there are other projects i want to put my energy towards before i tackle it. title is from the beautiful song, stuck in my head by arcade fire. big love!
READ ON AO3 ┊ PART I ・ PART II
When does one stop feeling the ache of a phantom limb?
Midoriya hopes it's soon.
One for All lingers falsely in his veins. Sometimes, it can feel as though the power is simmering within him again. And occasionally, in the careful quiet of the night, he allows himself to question if it is well and truly gone—to make the mistake of opening Pandora's Box and peering inside, searching for an ember living deep inside him.
A retired symbol of hope, cursed by it.
Right now, Midoriya finds himself wishing an ember remained. But the familiar, disconnected ache of its power is blowing through him like a ghost and purging him of nothing but his sanity. Ultimately, it’s his carelessness that lands Midoriya in Recovery Girl's ward. He feels sixteen again as he shrinks under her inspection. Except this time it is infinitely worse than broken bones and royal purple bruising; heat curls in his stomach like a cat, and his breaths come short and panicked.
“Calm down,” Recovery Girl urges, swiping a med-scan device over his body.
“I really can’t,” he says, voice tight. “This is humiliating.”
A set of confirming beeps screech out from the device, and Midoriya flinches. Why is everything so loud?
“I’ve seen worse,” Recovery Girl says bluntly, ignoring him as her fingers fly across a keyboard on the screen. “Especially from you.”
Unsurprisingly, the sentiment isn’t reassuring.
Midoriya can already feel his student’s quirk smothering him, licking up his body like a flame. Across the campus, a bell rings, and chairs scrape across linoleum—awful notes atop the low electrical hum of the monitors dotted throughout the ward. This brand of ambient noise has never been oppressive before, but now it's as though he can't escape. Surrounded by walls of… of pollution, closing in, threatening to compress him into a live human meatball. And contrary to popular belief among the U.A. faculty, Midoriya was not oblivious to why everyone was against admitting an aphrodisiac quirk into the hero course. He doesn't blame them. Society avoids any path straying from the norm, and an aphrodisiac quirk in U.A. is an unknown quantity—a path they haven't paved yet. He spent many long days advocating for Aiko’s acceptance.
Midoriya doesn't regret his actions, per se, but hindsight is a wonderful thing.
While he takes great pride in the planning that goes into his training exercises—considering various match-ups, slaving over engaging scenarios, analysing every possible outcome—his oversight is all the more humiliating for it. Aiko's quirk colliding with a vapour-plume reaction from two other classmates should have been predicted from the get-go. And as the cherry on top of his idiotic time bomb, seconds from exploding, he had hurled his body in front of the attack. Sure, it's not among his smartest decisions to date, but what was one more fuck-up in the face of reality: it was either Midoriya alone or him and the entire class, too.
I’m going to have to rethink the training exercises this year and put her in minimum collateral training groups, Midoriya thinks frantically. We still don't understand how it works. If we can identify the exact causes and effects, not to mention the quirk's Achilles' Heel, she can utilise it on a larger scale in open-field combat while also learning how to control the range and power for melee fights, maybe if I can just—
“You’re exhausting,” Recovery Girl sighs.
For once, Midoriya can’t bring himself to feel sheepish about his accidental muttering. Around the fog gathering in his brain, he can feel himself hardening in his slacks. Humming vaguely, he threads his fingers together atop his crotch, casually hiding the quirk's shameful evidence. Judging by Recovery Girl's complete absence of reaction, which almost feels like an admission in and of itself, he's unsure it was successful.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs pathetically.
Recovery Girl shakes him off with a dismissive wave of her hand.
A moment later, she kisses her teeth, gaze fixed on the screen in disappointment.
“What?” Midoriya asks.
Leaning forward, he attempts to peer at the screen, but Recovery Girl twists it away quickly and continues tapping it. Glancing around the empty ward does little to settle his nerves, nor the incessant urge to grind his hands down onto his cock and relieve some of the pressure. He bites his lip, focusing on the spark of pain it draws forth instead.
“I’m going to heal you,” Recovery Girl says, breaking the silence and placing her tablet on a trolley nearby. Perking up, Midoriya shuffles nearer the edge of the cot and ducks his head down in preparation. “Or try to, but— actually, never mind.”
Although he opens his mouth to protest, Recovery Girl hurriedly presses a smacking kiss to his temple, effectively silencing him. Her kiss is succeeded by a quiet wash of—
Of nothing.
Warmth perseveres, still suffocating his lungs.
Recovery Girl leans back expectantly. Midoriya worries a lip between his teeth, and his fingers gingerly rub the spot she just kissed.
“Uhhh,” he starts, uncertainly. “I’m not sure it worked?”
Recovery Girl exhales sharply through her nose, her lips pinching as she considers him.
“Didn’t you say you’d be able to heal side effects from Aiko’s quirk?” he asks, cautiously.
Midoriya has only a poor semblance of calm remaining, and it slips further through his fingers with each horrid pulse of heat wracking his body.
“I did…” Recovery Girl utters, still studying him.
As though sensing his panic, beads of sweat finally drip down his forehead, and Midoriya rushes to swipe them away with his forearm. Blood prickles in his cheeks. He can't seem to slow down his shallow, sharp breaths. Not when his brain is so utterly fixated on the fact that Recovery Girl couldn't fix it.
She can fix virtually all afflictions, he panics. While she can't regrow missing limbs or organs, she can mend bones and tears and aches and pains and colds and sickness and disease. It's an incredible culmination of generations of quirks. The only trouble I've known her to have is the…
…the brain.
Oh fuck.
Recovery Girl nods as though she's privy to his spiralling thoughts.
“What if Aiko’s quirk works with fantasy?” she asks. “Deceiving the brain?” Recovery Girl gestures to his head before scratching her own. “Tricking the body?”
Midoriya looks at her in horror.
She can’t heal the brain.
The entire U.A. staff board discussed this very scenario. Recovery Girl was insistent that if Aiko's quirk affected the body, she would be able to heal it. But at no point in those mind-numbing, never-ending meetings did anyone know that Aiko's quirk might be acting as an illusion.
It isn’t real. Even if the heat radiating out from his core to his extremities is the most tangible thing he's felt in his life.
“Shuzenji-san,” he says grimly. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”
Pity lines her expression, and Midoriya swallows back a wave of nausea at the sight. Without replying, she grabs her tablet again and flicks between pages before thrusting it under his nose. Words swim bright and fuzzy on the screen as Midoriya tries to focus long enough to read more than a handful of syllables. After a painful few moments, Recovery Girl snatches it back.
“Patient 7 exhibited abnormal symptoms after exposure to an emitter-type aphrodisiac quirk through gas inhalation," she reads aloud, voice detached and monotonous as she scans the medical report. "These included: high core temperature, excessive perspiration, extreme arousal, and impaired judgment. Symptoms worsened for 1 hour until core temperature reached 40 degrees Celsius, 4 degrees below the cause of fatality. Patient masturbation during this period did not relieve symptoms.”
“Oh my god,” Midoriya whispers, horrified.
Recovery Girl barrels onward. “Patient’s temperature only lowered after intercourse with another affected patient at the incident site. Both patients made a full recovery within 1 day post-incident."
A pit of anxiety widens in his stomach.
"Consequences past 40 degrees Celsius are unknown. Long-term impacts are also unknown.”
Midoriya screws his eyes shut to avoid Recovery Girl's knowing gaze. If science doesn't know the full impacts of emitter aphrodisiac quirks, he isn't exactly filled with confidence about the mystery of a groundbreaking manipulation quirk either.
“I’m doomed,” Midoriya says, fingers still woven over his crotch. How much longer he's going to be able to hold out before he starts humping his hand is rapidly dwindling. “I can’t—” His voice rises with each syllable. “I don’t have anyone.”
"Look at me," she says.
Midoriya does, and through the haze of panic, clutching his chest, he can see the worry shining in her eyes.
“You must,” she urges.
Recovery Girl's hand comes to clutch his bicep, squeezing there to ground him. Fighting the groan bubbling in his throat at the contact, Midoriya barely hears her, staring despondently at the blurry words he can see scrambled on the tablet screen.
“Midoriya,” she snaps, and he drags his gaze up. Only when she has his full attention does she continue. “There is no other choice. Not right now.”
Not when you’re already losing time, she doesn’t say.
He hears it all the same, though.
“Who can I call for you?” she asks firmly, staring at his wide eyes.
Unbidden, his mind flashes an image of your face, taunting him with how your features would twist in pleasure. Shaking his head harshly, he tries to dislodge the idea. You're friends. He has a plan—a long-term, carefully meticulous plan of wooing you. And the last thing Midoriya wants to do is force you into having sex with him under the obligation of possibly saving his life.
This isn't how it is supposed to go.
His mind scrambles for someone—anyone—else.
“Kacchan,” he blurts—the first name to have the misfortune of crossing his thoughts. One that, in reality, never strays that far at all. He misses the way Recovery Girl shoots him an alarmed look, too busy forcing you out of his head.
“Alright,” she says, slowly. “I’ll call Bakugou. Stay here.”
Recovery Girl hurries around the corner of the ward to the office, and Midoriya is distracted in an instant.
Again, you crawl back through his head like something treacherous.
Maybe your research could help, he thinks. You could have a cure in your lab.
You could help him.
Before he’s even conscious of it, his body is standing up from the cot and stumbling out of the medical ward. Panelled hallway walls slide past his vision, and the bright lights irritate his eyes, but you’re getting closer, he can tell. Rounding corner after corner, his pace gradually picks up until he’s sprinting across the campus.
If he crosses paths with anyone, they don't stop him.
You can help.
₍ᐢᐢ₎
On the microscope slide before you, cells writhe—duplicating, separating, mutating, and then affixing to begin the process anew. Though to what end, you are thoroughly stumped.
The sample is from a hero course student, one with the most fascinating shape-shifting quirk; flesh capable of shrinking and growing within the blink of an eye. When you collected skin cell samples, you intended to mimic their adaptability for field suits tailored to live quirks. You weren't expecting to see, well… this. It’s almost like the cells are panicking. Searching desperately for an organic form to take, but they’re encased in glass, and all that surrounds them is steel and plastic. A clinical environment with no living form but your own.
Steady—always steady— your hand rushes along the page to record the peculiar pattern the cells exhibit. Duplicate, separate, mutate, and affix. Over and over again, almost like steps to a choreographed dance. You barely tear your gaze away to write, trusting your fingers to note down what they need to. Your coworkers have taken to calling your notes "illegible scribbles," and you can't, in full confidence, dispute them. Without them present today, your lab is eerily quiet. And it's strange how the silence expands to fill the space. No jargon-filled chattering disturbs your concentration, and the background chime of clinking beakers and test tubes only whispers from your memories.
In the empty lab, you feel as though you're twenty-one again. Fresh-faced and eager to prove to the U.A. staff board that your research could be completed alone. Only a few years ago, the offer of staff working under you was placed on the table. It had taken many weeks to come around to the idea, and it's almost funny to look back on your deliberations now, considering how the lab team has become your family.
The mechanical door slides open with a hiss, and you startle, whacking your knee on the underside of the desk in surprise. You hadn't expected any visitors.
“Shit!” you grunt, wincing. A hand shoots out to clutch your throbbing knee. You whip your head around, ready to run your mouth at whoever is barging into your laboratory uninvited.
In the doorway to your lab stands a very red, very sweaty Midoriya.
What the fuck?
Slumping his weight on the metal door jamb, he braces a hand on it to… hold himself up?
And is it the lighting in your lab, or is the frame bending under his hold?
And have you mentioned—it’s mid-fucking-day.
“I need help.”
A phrase that immediately crowns your most-concerning-things-to-hear-from-someone-as-allergic-to-help-as-Midoriya-is list. You gape at him, more than a little lost, and all the fight dissolves from you immediately.
“Okay…” you start, waving your hands in the air as though fishing for the words currently eluding you. “Uh, come—” you clear your throat, awkwardly. “Come sit?”
While it comes out as more of a question than the statement you were aiming for, Midoriya drops heavily onto a lab stool some paces away nonetheless, hands fisted in his slacks. You readjust your goggles before discarding them entirely, the small crack spidering out of a corner irritating you all of a sudden.
…Now what?
You drum your fingernails on the lab desk anxiously. If asked, you would tentatively claim to be friends with Midoriya Izuku. Occasionally, you’ll go for a drink after work together, tucking yourselves into the dingy corner of an Izakaya to talk about almost anything under the sun so long as it circles back to quirks. Sometimes, Midoriya will visit your lab and ask about your work—pestering you with well-meaning, incessant and strangely thoughtful questions. Rarely, you will decide to observe a training session he runs with the students, curious to view even a taste of the power he once held with One For All.
Invariably, however, you spend every second in Midoriya's company and an unfortunate number of seconds alone, ignoring your desire to splay him on a glass slide and inspect him under your microscope. You crave to understand the cogs turning in his mind and how his body operates down to the cellular level. You want to poke and prod him and see how he reacts, how much he can take, how good he'd be. You want—
Too much.
You want too much.
And Midoriya, panting in your lab like a symbol of sex rather than the retired symbol of peace, is not doing you any favours.
Friends help each other, your brain supplies.
“Uhm—” You clear your throat, jumping as Midoriya’s head immediately shoots up at the sound. His eyes are lidded and unfocused as they watch you. “So, what can I do— or, how can I— fuck, uh. What’s the problem?”
In the quiet of your lab, your voice—too loud, too quick—makes you cringe. A quiet hum from the fluorescent lighting fills the space when you fall silent.
Midoriya straightens up, though the effort looks painful.
“I’ve been hit with an aphrodisiac quirk,” he says without finesse, voice wound tight like a spring.
“Uh... oka— right,” you breathe, stomach swooping. All of a sudden, the flush marring his face and the incessant fidgeting are washed in a new, terrible light.
“A student’s quirk. In an exercise— shit,” he hisses. “I’m sorry, but I have to—”
Midoriya doesn’t finish his sentence before he yanks his blazer off, dropping it carelessly on the linoleum floor, in a manner so uncharacteristic of the careful teacher you know that you’re lost for words. Moments later, it's as though a dam has been opened. He starts shoving his shirt sleeves up his arms. When his fingers move towards the buttons on his shirt, you panic.
“Hold on,” you flounder. “When did this happen?”
You’re not even sure he hears you for a few terrifying moments before he pauses. It surprises you that you don’t find an ounce of embarrassment on his face.
“About 15 minutes ago,” he says.
“Why the hell is there a student with a sex pollen quirk?” you ask, bewildered.
And why hadn’t you been told about it?
“Because it’s safer for her here,” he pants, wrestling his tie from his neck and throwing it to the floor to join his blazer as though it’s burning him. “A quirk like that— needs to be— closely monitored— and she needs to— fuck, learn how to handle it.”
“What fucking place does an aphrodisiac quirk have in the field?” you fire off, frustration misplaced in your panic as you face Midoriya rapidly losing another barrier of clothing—what you’re positive is the only thing keeping you somewhat sane in this moment. “What is she supposed to do— incapacitate targets with what? Horniness? Feelings of uncontrollable lust?”
“Look at me.”
And you do.
Shit.
Okay.
So he has a point.
Whatever.
Stupid aphrodisiac quirk.
Stupid smart-ass Midoriya Izuku.
Stupid broad shoulders and stupid boyishly handsome face.
You swallow uneasily, lost as to where you factor in here.
“How long until it— sets in?” you ask, painfully, pushing the words out through gritted teeth.
“I don’t know— none of us does— Recovery Girl said—” he cuts himself off, and it’s the first time since he burst into your lab that you see a sliver of the typical Midoriya underneath.
Shy. Hesitant. Scared.
“Recovery Girl said what?” you prompt him urgently.
If Recovery Girl told him what he needed to do, why the hell is he in your lab?
Midoriya shakes his head and groans, hunching over to rest his forehead on the adjacent workbench.
“She tried to heal me,” he says into the table instead, avoiding your question. A red flush has bled to the tips of his ears and the back of his neck. It looks like he’s overheating… almost glowing from the inside out.
“And?” you ask impatiently.
“Her quirk… we didn’t know it wouldn’t work.” Twisting a hand tight on his slacks, you watch the muscles of his thighs tense and relax rhythmically like he’s grounding himself. Irritation bleeds into his voice. “Everyone thought it would work.”
“Midoriya,” you say, standing up to cross the space, patience running thin. “You have to give me something to work with. Why couldn’t she fix you?”
In the air, your hand hesitates, hovering over him as though a barrier has formed between you. Steeling yourself, you drop the back of your hand to his exposed nape.
He is burning up—his skin is a fucking furnace.
“Oh.” Midoriya sucks a breath in through his teeth, back arching.
Despite yourself, despite him, and despite the confusion clouding your head, you turn your hand and, touch-barely there, you drag your fingertips up the side of his neck and over the tender hollow beneath his ear. Midoriya keens, his entire body tensing for a split second before he relaxes further onto the bench. Head tilting to the side instinctively, like a puppy after more pets.
Snapping out of it, you stumble back and stare at your hand like it’s betrayed you.
Midoriya makes a pained sound at the back of his throat, voice laced with panic. “I can’t think.”
“Okay. Okay,” you say, swimming up to your teeth in guilt. “Take a breath and try to focus."
Truthfully, you have no idea if you can help. But you will find a way. Somehow.
“I’ve made a mistake,” he says, suddenly rising to his full height and all but falling off the stool in his haste to get to the door. “I shouldn’t have come.”
“Midoriya!” you call.
Chasing after him, you reach out to grab his arm. He dodges you without looking back as though he has a sixth sense, before losing his balance and teetering into a countertop basin.
“Don’t touch me!” he bites out.
Midoriya looks vicious. Wild, untamed energy weaves through his body, and his gaze is a living thing that pins you to the floor.
“Please—” he pants, “I can’t— control myself. I don’t know what I’ll do!”
At the end of your tether, and beyond confused as to why he came to you if that’s the case, you throw your arms out.
“Tell me how this quirk works!” you shout, furiously.
“It’s mental!” He tangles a fist into his hair, pulling it away from his face as though he can’t bear the extra layer. You swear that Midoriya is heating the lab; the usually cold space is suffocating. “Like an illusion. Tricks the brain to— send the body false signals.”
You nod, but you couldn’t be more confused.
“Aiko is the first time— a student with an aphrodisiac quirk— has been admitted into UA.”
“It’s unprecedented,” you say quietly.
Midoriya hums, chest still heaving in painful breaths.
“Surely Recovery Girl has seen quirks like this before?” you ask after a moment. “There must be a solution.”
As though you’ve physically struck him with your words, Midoriya recoils.
You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Spit it out.”
“It has to— run its course,” he gasps, leaning heavily into the countertop behind him. “She said there’s no other way.”
And then you make a grave mistake.
Stupidly, ever so stupidly, you glance down. The outline of Midoriya’s hard cock tenting in his slacks is impossible to miss.
It feels like your face may be on fire. Throwing your head back to face the ceiling, you swallow, and finally ask the question that has been burning your tongue since the moment he stumbled into your laboratory.
“Why are you… here?”
“For you,” he says, and you can hear the telltale fabric rustling of his restless movements.
…What?
Gaping, you whip your head back down to look at him.
“I was hoping you’ve encountered something like this before. I didn’t know who else to turn to," he admits, dark eyes fixed on you. "I could only think of you.”
Guilt bubbles up in your stomach, potent enough to eat you alive. “Midoriya…” you begin. “I… I can’t.” And it’s a kick to your ego to admit it. “I could keep you here and test you, but I don’t know how long it would take me to develop a cure. It could be hours. Or days.”
You’re telling the truth—you know you could create a cure. Hell, if the hero-course staff had thought to tell you about the… who was it… Aiko. About Aiko’s quirk in advance, you could’ve whipped up a precautionary measure to have on standby. Disillusion formulas aren't entirely unheard of, but it doesn't change one thing: you study quirk biochemistry. How the biological and chemical components interact within a quirk, aiming to aid optimisation in the field. Not to aid those afflicted by said quirk.
Midoriya’s hips start twitching, helplessly humping the air like he can’t hold himself back anymore.
“I don’t think I have days,” he says, humourless. “Or hours.”
You'd be lying if you said you weren't a little afraid. Your coworker is big. And imposing. And his muscled body takes up too much air in your considerably spacious laboratory. You know you wouldn’t be able to do anything if he suddenly came onto you. No matter how ridiculous the notion is—someone like Midoriya coming onto you—a person’s self-restraint can only stretch so far. A hand squeezes your lungs, and it becomes hard to breathe between your spiralling thoughts.
"You need to leave." Exhaling harshly through your nose, you whet your voice until it's scalpel-sharp. "I can’t help you. Go back to Recovery Girl."
Midoriya seems perfectly content where he is, bowed against the countertop and panting like he's in labour.
“Anything,” he gasps. Head dropping back between his shoulders, he clutches the steel behind him with those big hands as though it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “I’ll take anything. Just—”
Midoriya’s elbows give out, and he falls further back. A button has snapped off from where the top of his shirt is straining against his bowed back, and even his collarbones are flushed a bright red.
“Shit— I don’t want this. I have no— I can’t—” When he interrupts himself to look at you, it feels like you just kicked a puppy. Big, wide, wet eyes stare at you in a silent plea.
“Midoriya..” you trail off, helplessly.
And as though sensing your weakness, he shoves himself away from the countertop and stumbles towards you. Subconsciously, you begin to back up, expecting him to halt somewhere in his lumbering path when he sees it. Instead, his eyes sharpen as you retreat.
“Where are you going?” he asks, voice suspiciously wiped of emotion.
“Uh…” you begin, unsure where the desperate, watery-eyed teacher from a moment ago has gone. In his wake is a figure you only recognise from your deeply shameful wet dreams. “I’m… just going to—”
Waving your hand in the vague direction of your archaic lab phone, a precaution to ensure no cellphone signals interfere with your laboratory research, you make a strangled sound in the back of your throat.
I’ll just call Recovery Girl. Then I’ll just go home and rub one out, and we’ll pretend this never happened tomorrow, you think hysterically.
Midoriya continues his approach, chest heaving and limbs wound tight as though ready to pounce if you try to flee. You’ve never found yourself trapped by his gaze before. You've seen videos of it online from his hero days—the utterly single-minded look he possesses when facing down an opponent—but the reality is so incredibly unnerving to be on the receiving end of that you fidget under its weight.
You’re too afraid to look away, though, as you edge backwards.
“Midoriya,” you try again urgently. “Snap out of it!”
“You can help me,” he rumbles, the words clawing up your body.
No, you panic. No, I can’t. I can’t. I can’t!
A frantic noise rips itself from your throat at how deluded he is, and the way he’s stalking forward is decidedly not helping, the hulking mass of his body coming closer and closer, and you’re running out of laboratory behind you; you just know it, and you need to get to the phone before he… before he…
You force yourself to abandon that train of thought before it derails into carnage.
A distraction. You need a distraction.
Casting your eyes across the room, you search desperately for inspiration. Meticulous rows of labelled glass beakers and test tubes line shelves like soldiers in an army. Microscopes, too heavy for you to use as a weapon, occupy each workstation. An eyewash station is tucked by the door to your environment-controlled dark room, the one housing sprawling plant quirk cuttings. A laboratory walk-in freezer. Clinically clean. Clinically bare of any help.
Midoriya’s heavy footsteps echo on the linoleum, drum beats to a song swirling repulsive anticipation in your gut.
You raise your voice. “Midoriya, please."
The only indication that he heard you through the grip of this quirk is his pupils dilating and his nostrils flaring as though to scent your fear in the air. Like it's fueled him, he cocks his head, eyes seeing straight through you, and his pace quickens.
Scrambling backwards, your heart lurches in your throat. Shades of fear paint you a mask. Your ankle catches on something you can’t see behind you in your panic, and you flail. For a suspended moment, you think you're fucked, but then you're pivoting, using the momentum of your fall to make a perilous break for the lab phone. Throwing your body across the laboratory, you run, lungs burning up in your chest.
So close, so close, so close, so close—
In a blink, the distance between you and the phone is gone, and you don’t need to glance behind you to know Midoriya is right on your tail. The low growls and furniture clattering against linoleum are all the motivation you need as you sprint, vaulting yourself over a workbench and sending glass careening towards the floor. The resounding crash of broken research barely registers in your mind.
Your beacon of hope—of a life knowing Midoriya won't resent you for the rest of his—rests barely two metres away. The pale grey, worn phone tucked between stacks of binders, collecting dust for this very moment.
Just as quickly, the beacon flashes out of view as you’re slammed face-first into the top of a low, laboratory bio-fridge. An awful, wounded sound, that of an animal, rips itself from your throat as you reel, head spinning from the impact. Blearily, you turn your head as much as Midoriya’s grip will allow to look at the corded phone; it drifts in and out of your view, glitching like an old distorted tape.
Since when did we have three phones?
“Stay,” Midoriya urges, plastering himself over your back where he's got you bent over the low fridge, letting his words drip down your neck in a hot breath as he soothes you. “You need to stay… You can help me.”
Some disconnected part of your brain remembers that the phone is important, but as it floats in the ether, you can’t seem to recall why. Confused, you reach for it. Your fingers drop onto the adjacent countertop, pathetically short of your target. The digits twitch under a mind of their own, lifting and dropping over and over again, spasming on the steel.
“You’re bleeding.” Midoriya leans further into your space and stares at your face intently.
Belatedly, you notice warmth covering your face. The throbbing in your nose. The taste of metal in your mouth.
“Midoriya,” you croak—a broken record. All you can seem to do is say his name, as though the nth iteration may finally break through the haze of this quirk controlling him. “Midoriya.”
“I can smell you,” he says, ignoring your pleas.
He noses at the junction of your neck and shoulder and groans, a big, warm hand still pressing down on your back painfully. One of your arms is lodged under your body from the way you fell, and your other, outstretched on the countertop, twitches when Midoriya presses the hard outline of his cock against your ass. Traitorously, you can feel yourself leaking. It’s this that snaps you out of the daze you’ve been in.
“You don’t want this!” you gasp, like you're surfacing from deep water. You struggle uselessly in his grip, eyes locked onto the phone. I want this, you think to yourself, awfully. I want this, and you don’t, so please, stop…
“I do.” His voice is solemn, the words like a prayer. Like wedding vows from an altar only he stands upon. “I do. I do. I do.”
“Izuku,” you all but sob, your tentative friendship fracturing before your eyes.
At his given name, he pauses, face buried in your hair. Sensing the shift, you turn your head, trying to catch his eye fruitlessly.
“You were all I could think about from the minute I got hit,” he says into the back of your neck, muffled by a layer of your hair but struck through with a surprising clarity. You can’t tell if it’s him or the quirk speaking. “Only you.”
“Only me,” you say, breathless.
Perhaps it doesn’t matter.
“You can help me,” he repeats, but this time, there’s a trace of a question in his rough voice.
Only you.
“I can help you,” you parrot back, refusing to think about the future. About your relationship as colleagues, as tentative friends.
Only you.
Apparently, this is all the affirmation he needs because in a flurry, he’s standing up straight and flipping your lab coat up over the swell of your ass. Quickly, your trousers are yanked down, along with the modest cotton underwear you hadn’t expected anyone to see when you came to work this morning. When he shoves your shirt and the folds of your lab coat up to pool around your waist, you feel utterly exposed. He grips your waist possessively, and the dull flash of pain has you gasping, arousal dripping into the cold air.
Midoriya fists his belt buckle, and you can’t see, but you hear the metallic sound and the sharp whoosh of his zipper coming undone, cutting through your sanity like butter. A second later, his cock slaps against your ass, and then he’s swiping it through your wetness, before pressing the tip in unceremoniously.
“Ah—” you pant, voice high and reedy.
The stretch is intense, as unprepared as you are. A cruel sting emanates from where he splits you open, steadily pressing deeper and deeper. Your breath catches, and you squeeze your eyes shut against the relentless pressure, but Midoriya doesn’t stop, forcing his way until he’s finally seated, his hips flush and too-warm against your ass.
A shaky inhale is all you get before he pulls out and slams back in, immediately chasing relief from the quirk.
“Oh fuck—” you choke, a terribly slapping sound filling the quiet of the laboratory as he begins to pound into you.
The pain subsides into heat quicker than you would've liked.
Dancing up your spine, sparks of pleasure laugh at your undignified descent. You bow unwillingly, further offering yourself to Midoriya. You jolt as he snarls, the fist in your hair tightening as though he fears you may move. Glass test tubes rattled dangerously in the fridge, but thoughts of broken samples are the last thing you can focus on when pleasure licks you at every brutal thrust of Midoriya’s hips.
“Mine,” he punches out, his other hand gripping one of your asscheeks and spreading it apart to look at where you’re connected.
The slick sound of your cunt is like a brand of shame, but Midoriya revels in it, fingering around your opening and spreading your arousal across your lower thighs between thrusts. You want to nod, to say something to acknowledge you heard him, but the idea is fucked out of you a moment later.
“So pretty,” he moans.
You can’t tell whether he says it to you or your cunt, cheek still smushed against the cool steel of the fridge. In your shoes, your toes curl in pleasure at the sting of his hips slapping against your ass. Your fingers spasm underneath your body, your arm long-gone numb, and you breathe in harsh pants that fog up the metal. You feel impossibly stretched. Like Midoriya is carving the shape of his cock into you and it hurts and it’s perfect and sick and wrong and—
“Ngh—” you moan, strangled, trapped beneath the pleasure wracking your body.
You feel overheated. Your core molten and melted down to make room for Midoriya bullying inside you. Midoriya brings his hand down on your asscheek, a searing pain registering only after the slap rings in the air, as though your brain needed the confirmation that what you were feeling is real. That it isn’t a figment of your imagination.
“Ahh—!”
“Mine,” he groans again, soothing the pain with his palm, gripping the soft flesh between his fingers like a toy.
Your world has narrowed down to where you connect, and everything else is floating away, far away where it can’t hurt you anymore.
“Yours—” you whine, outstretched fingers squeaking where they try to grasp the seamless surface of the countertop. “Please—”
You’re not sure how you fell from grace quite so quickly, but you can’t, won’t, care when Midoriya is slamming that spongy spot inside of you with every rough snap of his hips. Pain sparks dully at the way your hips are being shoved into the fridge on each thrust, and you’re sure you’ll bruise. The thought makes you moan.
“Made for this.”
It’s the quirk making him talk like this. Some distant part of you knows this. But it doesn’t stop you from whining at his words, nor pushing yourself back on his cock to the best of your abilities, still held down on the fridge by his inhuman strength.
“For taking— me.”
“Yes,” you babble. “Yes, yes, yes—”
The fire is devouring you from the inside out, and there will be nothing left once Midoriya is done with you.
“Izuku!”
At his name, Midoriya’s hips stutter against you, just for a blink, and then his pace derails into something hard and punishing. There is no rhythm to predict, and every thrust catches you by surprise as you jolt against the fridge over and over. Without warning, Midoriya comes with a low groan, spilling into your cunt as he curls around you protectively. Big hands smooth up your sides, dragging your shirt and lab coat further up your body until he’s slipping his hands under your tits, cupping them through your bra. He rides it out with short, deep thrusts that have you reeling, his tip pressing right up against the spot that has you seeing stars.
“…Fuck,” he mutters into the bundle of clothing gathered around your shoulders.
It’s the most lucid he’s sounded since he walked into your laboratory. You glance at him over your shoulder, a muscle in your neck twanging as it finally gets used.
“Izuku?” you ask, cautiously.
His lips part to bite you through the fabric. Though the pain is dull, you can taste the promise of it in the back of your throat and shift in response, whining at both the sensitivity and the reminder that you're still so close. Attached like an anglerfish and her parasite. Deliriously, you wonder if you could come like this. With the warm weight of Midoriya keeping you down and the low spark of pleasure each time you wiggle your ass. His cock barely moves, but it might just be enough.
Angrily, Midoriya slams his hips into you once and you keen, face twisting in pleasure at how deep you can feel him inside you. It feels like he’s everywhere, plastered over your body and inside your brain, and you can't fucking think.
Naturally, you still somehow manage to notice he's still hard.
Then, you're making an abrupt noise of confusion as this is contradicted by Midoriya pulling out of you, leaving you empty and cold and on the edge of an orgasm you can feel vibrating in wait behind your teeth. Ignoring you, Midoriya slides to his knees, strong hands pawing at the back of your thighs and pinning you to the fridge as though he suspects you'll run if given the opportunity. You won't, you want to say. But words are lost to you when he blows a gust of warm air onto your cunt. You flutter at the feeling.
“Just want a taste,” he murmurs, and he sounds broken, not even the corpse of his kind, cheerful tone to be found.
Come dripping out of you, you startle when Midoriya licks a stripe up the crease of you, slapping a hand against the countertop. A dull fission of heat spreads to your fingertips. Without preamble, he fucks his tongue into you, almost like he's trying to push his come back inside. The thought is enough to make you dizzy, and the ground beneath your feet turns liquid as you choke on a moan. Midoriya's thumbs drag upwards until they rest under your ass, fingers prying your cunt open for him to unhinge his jaw, tasting himself, teeth scraping against your swollen clit, tongue fucking you almost better than his cock did.
Sweating, your forehead slides on the fridge as you open-mouth pant onto the metal. You whine in the back of your throat as his chin drags over your clit again.
It's filthy.
Him. You.
The tongue in your cunt and the way your hips twitch, subconsciously trying to ride his face; the wide pad of his tongue laving over your arousal, his, dripping from you; the harsh dig of his fingers in your soft flesh and the sound of him slurping at your core.
When he moans into your pussy like tasting the medley of your arousals is giving him real, tangible pleasure, you can't help but moan in response—like an animal calling to another over the din of a forest. Almost as though the evidence of what he's done is rocking through him, shockwave-fast, he jolts, pushing his tongue impossibly further into your cunt as though it's where he'll finally find the cure he's desperate for; insistent, like he's saying, see? You can help me.
Or was desperate for, you suppose. If a fix-all potion miraculously materialised in the heavy air of your laboratory, you wouldn't place your bets on Midoriya jumping at the chance to take it, and almost worse, you don't want him to.
Your orgasm slams into you, and you cry, bowing into the fridge as your thighs spasm, pinned under Midoriya’s hands. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, wave after wave burning through your composure, and soon you’re whimpering in overstimulation, trying and failing to twitch away from his mouth.
“Izuku, ah— please stop!”
You may as well be speaking to your specimens for how little he hears you.
“Izuku!”
Jerking like a fish out of water, you wheeze as he uses his hold on your thighs to force you further up, until you’re balanced precariously on your tiptoes and he’s eating up into you like a man starved. Your shirt and coat are bunched around your chin, and you’re positive your tits are out atop the cool fridge—the furthest thing from the sanitary conditions you like to maintain in your laboratory—yet, you’re overheated. Sweat slicking your hair to your skin, fingers slipping as you try to prop yourself up, bracing a numb hand against the wall in front of you fruitlessly.
A moment later, you slip, and then you’re face down against the fridge again, test tubes rattling beneath you at the impact.
“Ngh— Izu— Ah!” you moan, high and loud, as Midoriya sucks on your clit, teeth scraping the sensitive bud ever so slightly, and then you’re gone. A second orgasm rocking through you like a tidal wave. Washing over you until you can’t breathe, until you don’t know which way is up or down, nor how to break the surface of the pleasure drowning you.
Finally, he stops.
Midoriya’s mouth pulls away from you with a wet squelching sound, but he stays close, breathing in deeply. You’re too out of it to bristle at him smelling your cunt.
“Mm,” he moans, teeth biting into the soft swell of your ass as though holding himself back from diving straight back in.
Blearily, you open your eyes. You didn’t even realise you closed them. The lights of the lab are bright enough to feel accusing where you’re still folded over the low fridge.
“Can I—” he begins to say, but the end of his question drops off as he stands.
His dick prods against your sopping cunt in question, and you merely hum, resting your cheek on cool metal as you finally twist your head to take in his red cheeks, his wild eyes. This is all he needs; he slides back into you like he's coming home.
Exhausted, you’re dead weight atop the fridge, limp as you let him use you. Dull pleasure fizzes in your core, and you let out little breathy sounds in the back of your throat against your will each time he thrusts back into you. The bruises on your hipbones throb in time, edging the line of too much. Bracing his hands on the fridge, Midoriya leans over you, a human shield to the real world. The fridge shakes, and that was definitely the sound of test tubes breaking inside the ventilated space. Fuck… you're going to have to write down a fucking catalogue of apologies to your coworkers.
Veering down, he mouths at the sweaty line of your neck, teeth scraping over your skin in a warning. You lean your head further to the side and try to catch his gaze, but he simply buries himself further into the new space, tongue laving up the column of your throat like he’s trying to taste your sweat. He bites at your chin, and you tip your head down slightly, wondering if he’ll kiss you.
Do you want him to?
No.
(Yes.)
Tainted with desire, spoiled with guilt, you tilt your chin down further. Midoriya pants over your lips, still jackrabbiting into you. Each puff of his breath is a warm caress you want to sink into and never return from.
You move to close the distance.
Midoriya's breath hitches.
Someone calls your name.
Wait…
Someone calls your name?
You freeze.
Aren’t we alone?
Midoriya seizes up, curling around you protectively, and you turn your head as best you can with him still stuck to you like a limpet. A flash of red, tired eyes has your heart lurching in your throat.
Aizawa.
For a painstakingly long moment, Midoriya doesn’t stop fucking into you, and the two of you stare at each other in horror.
Aizawa repeats your name, though his tone is level this time, caution written into the word.
Snarling in the hero's direction, Midoriya plasters himself to your back as though you're his to claim and his to keep, and he punctuates this behaviour with a particularly harsh snap of his hips that has your reply morphing into a humiliatingly wanton keen. "Aizawa."
The man in question takes a halting step into your laboratory, eyes fixed on Midoriya—uncharacteristically wide for the facade of nonchalance he usually maintains. The building pleasure is making it hard to think, and slightly dazed, you wonder how you’ll ever be able to look him in the eye again now that he’s witnessed Midoriya fucking into you like a dog in heat.
“It’s—” you hiccup. “It’s okay. We’re— okay.”
Aizawa, perhaps rightfully so, doesn’t appear convinced. Inching closer and slowly unfurling the capture device he’s got wound around his neck, he lets out a noncommittal hum. Midoriya, hearing this, snaps his head up to face him, baring his teeth in a foul snarl. Body drawn tense as though he wishes to fight but can’t bring himself to pull out of your cunt, nor to stop his aborted thrusts. Aizawa eyes the abandoned blazer and tie on the floor as he passes them.
You don’t know how much Aizawa knows—if he got sent here by Recovery Girl or if he’s here of his own volition—and it doesn’t matter. You can see him gearing up to take Midoriya down, and you try to scramble upright from where you’re strewn across the fridge. Midoriya squashes the attempt, letting his body drop heavier atop your own.
“Aizawa!” you call, voice hoarse, trying to get his attention away from Midoriya lest the man launch himself at the hero next. When those bright eyes flick to yours, you pant. “It’s okay.”
“I’m going to help,” he replies slowly, one hand splayed as though soothing a hissing stray as he disregards your insistence. “Stay still.”
You do as he says, yelping when Midoriya bucks into you anew. Furious and fast, like he knows his time is limited, it’s all you can do to close your eyes and moan, avoiding Aizawa’s gaze. A sound like a whip cracks through the air, and then Midoriya’s heat is suddenly gone.
You turn your head to see Aizawa’s capture device tight around Midoriya’s neck—leashing the teacher like a dog—and he stumbles backwards, his cock slipping out of you. Hissing, you wince at the sensation, pussy swollen and sore. By the time you’ve propped yourself up, body stiff and uncooperative, it’s all you can do to keep yourself upright, and you grasp the lapels of your lab coat together to try and preserve the shreds of modesty you have left.
Aizawa wraps Midoriya from waist to neck in his capture device, arms lodged at his sides. When Midoriya makes a snap for the hero with his teeth, Aizawa takes advantage of the quirk's haze and hooks Midoriya's ankle, sending him sprawling against a lab island. Aizawa wraps the capture device around it, effectively tying Midoriya to the leg of one of your workbenches. You exhale shakily.
Midoriya’s cock is still out, bobbing against his stomach, red and angry and weeping, and you already know he's going to be fucking humiliated when he comes to.
You'll probably never be friends again.
If he even remembers it, your brain supplies unhelpfully.
Aizawa takes one last look at Midoriya to ensure he’s secured for now, before rounding on you—piercing gaze and worried little creases lining his expression. Your face twists in embarrassment. He raises a hand to your shoulder but, as though thinking better of it, stops just before he touches you. It hovers there awkwardly as he speaks.
“Are you hurt?”
You shake your head, mentally cataloguing the ache in between your legs and the throbbing of your hipbones.
Your dignity, though? Irreparably.
“Liar,” he says. Fingers finally brush your nose, and you wince, both at the sharp pain that lances through your face and the pained sound Midoriya makes behind Aizawa. You forgot you were bleeding. God, you hope your nose isn’t broken. “We need to get you to Recovery Girl.”
You make an aborted noise of panic in the back of your throat, confused as to why words are failing you.
Aizawa waits patiently, eyes boring into your own. The hand clutching your lab coat together shakes under the weight of his stare.
“Izuku,” you breathe quietly.
“He’ll be okay,” Aizawa replies, flicking his eyes to the teacher for a brief second. Midoriya growls, and you can hear the table rattle as he tries to break free. Thank god for stainless steel. “I’ll come get him after. He’s not going anywhere now, don’t worry.”
Frustrated, you tip your head back to study the panelled ceiling.
“Let me—” you swallow back against the dryness in your throat. Your first port of call after this fuck-fest-nightmare is over will be necking a cool glass of water. “Let me help.”
“No,” he utters, voice firm.
“Let me,” you urge, eyes trained on Midoriya over Aizawa’s shoulder. He’s looking straight at you, wide, wild gaze boring into you. “Just—” you groan, though there is no more space left for humiliation in your brain. Not now. “Do you know what he needs?”
You don’t know how long this will last, or exactly what Recovery Girl said to Midoriya.
“Yes,” comes his blunt reply.
When he doesn’t elaborate, you furrow your brows and lean your weight further onto the fridge behind you. Your legs have all the structural integrity of jelly right now.
“And?” you prompt, impatiently.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. Tell me.”
Aizawa looks at your rumpled clothes, at the barely-there shake in your limbs and at the dried blood crusting over your cupid’s bow.
“The quirk has to be worked out of his system,” he states. The pinch in his face is the only indication that the situation is less than ideal if he takes you to Recovery Girl.
“And there’s no other way?” you ask to be sure.
He shakes his head, mutely.
“What happens if he doesn’t?”
Aizawa doesn’t say anything, and that’s enough for your stomach to drop.
They don’t know.
They don't fucking know, and they're leaving it to chance.
To hope and a prayer.
Aizawa lowers himself and tugs the slacks pooled around your ankles, panties with them, back up your legs carefully. The action is entirely parental in nature, and he keeps his gaze respectfully fixed on a point across the lab, so you truly have no idea why you're suddenly smothering the laugh bubbling in your throat. Maybe it's the absurdity of the situation. Or the stomach-dropping nerves of being thrust into a life-or-death mess where the only solution is fucking your coworker. Either way, you let him redress you without complaint as you worry your bottom lip.
"Why did you stop him?" you whisper when Aizawa straightens once more.
Aizawa's face is grim when he answers, "Midoriya wouldn't forgive himself."
I wouldn’t either, his face adds.
“Let me help. I've…" You swallow back the truth. It surfaces anyway. "I've already forgiven him."
A silence stretches between you; contemplative on Aizawa’s side, but interspersed with frantic rustling and animalistic grunts from Midoriya, who’s started bucking up into the air. When his cock catches on the capture device, he moans aloud.
Aizawa seems to hear the logic of your argument, though he clearly loathes it. “Go,” he utters, finally, with all the solemnity of an executioner.
You don’t wait to see him change his mind, rushing over to Izuku on wobbling deer legs and all but collapsing at his side. Midoriya’s eyes are wide and wet, almost like his desperation has softened some of his violence, and he moans your name like a plea to end his suffering.
“I’ve got you,” you murmur.
Your gentle fingers grasp his cock, and he reacts like he’s been shot, bodily jerking at the sensation. You form a tight fist, and he’s fucking up into it before you can even start moving it, a litany of whiny noises spilling from his bitten lips. He braces his feet on the floor and bucks up as best he can in his bind.
“It’s okay,” you whisper, shuffling closer to his side.
You’re not sure where Aizawa is, and you can’t tear your eyes away from the sight to investigate.
“Ahhh—” Midoriya groans, the sound rumbling up from the floor through your knees, tingling up your spine. Unconsciously, your hips jerk forward. His eyebrows furrow and his lips twist in displeasure. Nothing about his face fills you with confidence that you’re helping.
“Ple— please,” he pants, wild eyes finding yours. “Inside.”
A jolt of heat slashes through you, carving you open from the seam of your cunt to the hollow of your throat.
“Inside,” he repeats manically. “Inside, inside— ah, inside.”
You do the next best thing you can think of, lowering your head to take him into your mouth in one swift go. A mewl rips itself from his throat. You don’t get a moment to catch your breath before he thrusts up, and you choke. It’s all you can do to stay still; to let him fuck your throat until he’s keening on every thrust, hips stuttering, your nose brushing his pelvis over and over and over.
Until he's coming—pathetic spurts of arousal hitting the back of your throat. The sensation is far from pleasant, but you moan anyway and swallow, letting him shallowly rut into you as he rides it out.
Miraculously, you can feel him softening in your mouth. You don’t move, unable to or unwilling; you’re not sure. You feel rooted to the spot, and you breathe deeply in through your nose as you try not to wince at the abnormally sweet taste lining the back of your throat.
Come usually doesn’t taste like this, you think, strangely. Is it the quirk?
You don’t know how long you’re there for, but your hazy, floating thoughts are interrupted when Midoriya, sounding more lucid than he has since he walked into your lab, breathes out a horrified, “Oh my god.”
Slowly, you lift your mouth off him and let his spent, wet, softening cock drop back onto his stomach. You sit up and look at him.
“Oh my god,” he repeats.
Horror is smeared over his face. Regret twists his words into something ugly. And his eyes flick over your swollen lips, the blood you're sure has turned a dirty rust colour above your lips, your sweat-matted hair.
“I’m okay,” you say before anything else.
When he doesn't react, you sit back on your haunches and reach for his cheek.
Midoriya watches you in poorly veiled terror and flinches when you make contact—he can't flinch far, though, still tied to the workbench. He looks groggy, like he’s just woken up from one of those disorienting, time-bending naps that have you questioning what year it is.
“You’re…” he swallows, voice wavering.
“Okay,” you finish when he trails off. Your voice is shredded, and the harsh tone grates on your ears like sandpaper.
“I’ll take her to Recovery Girl,” Aizawa says from somewhere behind you.
You hear the relief in his voice and latch onto it like driftwood in an open ocean. You've done what needs to be done. You've done the right thing.
Midoriya looks up at him fearfully, and when he makes to move, he jolts at the reminder that he can't. He looks down at the bindings in shock, as though he forgot.
As though he doesn’t remember.
You swallow painfully, closing the shutters of your expression to keep the tears threatening to spill inside the house. To let the rain wet only you. You drop your hand from his overheated cheek.
When Midoriya glances back up, Aizawa is already helping you up, big hands sliding under your armpits and hauling you unsteadily to your feet.
“Then I’ll come get you,” Aizawa says, with a finality that lands like an anvil between you all.
The older man spares a moment to look you up and down, to check you're decent, and then he's marching you through the lab and back out into the corridors of U.A. He places a hand on the small of your back, and the contact is soothing. You lean back into it, letting your brain switch off as he guides you. Distantly, you register that he’s taking you a quieter route.
If you could find your words, you’d thank him.
Maybe even apologise.
But you can’t. Your voice is hiding somewhere inside you like it has stage fright. And in any case, Aizawa doesn’t seem eager to start a conversation, either.
You certainly wouldn’t want to be in Midoriya’s shoes when Aizawa goes back to collect him. Hell, you barely want to be in your own. Humiliation slowly crawls up your body until your shoulders are hunched by your ears, and all that Aizawa’s hand on the small of your back is doing is reminding you of the heated, possessive way Midoriya touched you.
When you make it to Recovery Girl's ward, the blinding lights there echo your lab, and the tightness in your chest eases. She crosses the space quickly, coaxing you out of Aizawa’s hands before you can say a word, and into a spare cot tucked in the corner of the room. When you look back, Aizawa is already gone.
“Oh, honey… What has he done to you?” she murmurs, worried eyes scanning your figure as she waves a med-scan device over you.
You try to sit upright, but the weight of exhaustion is heavy, and before you know it, you're hunched over on the edge of the mattress like a child.
“Will he be okay?”
Sharp eyes flash up to yours in reprimand, and you shrink under them. She places a hand on your chest and pushes you to lie back on the cot. You don't fight it. Nor the wet, smacking kiss on your forehead. At once, the aches sizzling along your bones fade into a dull throb.
Sleep teases the edges of your mind but eludes you.
What have you done? It’s one thing to have a crush on a colleague—something innocent and secret, tucked beneath your ribcage and nestled against your lungs. Something safe. It’s an entirely different thing to take advantage of a colleague under the influence of an aphrodisiac quirk. You push the heels of your hands into your eye sockets, rubbing them angrily as you try to stave off frustrated tears.
You’ve ruined everything.
You.
Midoriya was under the influence of a quirk. What excuse do you have for giving in? You could’ve fought back. Fought harder. Not have practically presented yourself for his taking.
A small, wrinkled hand on top of your own stops your spiralling. You peer at Recovery Girl from between your fingers.
“You’ll both be okay."
You force yourself to believe her kind tone.
Maybe she's right.
Maybe she's wrong, and you've ruined the tentative friendship you had with Midoriya Izuku forever.
Maybe you should move to a new country and start a new life and never think about this day again until you're on your deathbed, repenting every wrongdoing for the throwaway chance at a peaceful afterlife.
Maybe… just maybe, today can be tomorrow's problem instead of yours.
A small hand strokes your hair. "Sleep."
You do.
‹‹ MASTERLIST ・ PART II
thank you for reading if you got this far! please consider leaving a comment, reblogging, or dropping into my inbox if you enjoyed! ♡
bakugou katsuki x reader, multi-chapter series, 18+ only
The underworld of Houston is a living thing, a being that breathes down your neck, drips down your throat, fists its dirty fingers in your hair. On the outskirts of the city, on a stretch of hot, unforgiving pavement, engines scream and money changes hands. Names don't. This side of the city won't ever ask how you got there, or if you're staying. All it tells you is to hold on tight.
a/n: this fic is one of my favorite things i've ever written. i am so excited to be sharing it with all of you! please find all the chapters below, and enjoy :)
read on ao3!
Chapter I: It Goes Down Easy - Carmen stops by The Office to trade a proposition for two shots of house tequila. Welcome to the secret underbelly of Houston.
Chapter II: House Shows 17 - You discuss the merits of gambling with your boss, and Katsuki shows you exactly what 650 horsepower feels like in your chest.
Chapter III: Like a Junkyard Dog - coming soon - Katsuki feels like he's going fucking insane, and he's never been closer to punching his best friend. At least he has birria and Bud Light.
hear meee outtt, single mom reader whos starting to get out there in the dating world and a younger bakugo id say maybe like 25 to 26 whos so down bad for mama
— drabble
and the kid can talk, like 7/8, new adult pregnancy situation and he’s soooo blunt and frowny towards bakugou like straight up tells him “i like deku more.” but they both end up getting on because they’re both honest and forward and bakugou’s more big brother that’s strict energy.
BUT hmmmm not sure how he meets you first. him out of uniform in public. you’re so wrapped up in your own busy life that you don’t connect the dots that bakugou katsuki is dynamight. omg what if you go to a speed dating event that goes wrong and he’s also at the bar with his friends in the corner. he’s waiting for his drink to be made and you go up to him assuming he’s one of the guys that you didn’t get to speak to and he’s also there for the event.
you recognise he does look a little younger than you, but he’s also fine as hell. exactly your type with his strong build and grip. tall with a pretty face.
“these things are always so awkward. this is my first ever one.”
and he frowns at you, confused with what you’re talking about or why you’re talking to him. but you’re also gorgeous, stunningly so. what your age could be doesn’t even pass his mind.
so he kinda just plays along, “er yeah. fuckin’ hate them.”
he leans his forearms on the bar, licking across his bottom lip, trying to gain context cues to what you mean. you, who’s maybe on the edge of tipsy with your two drinks you had previously for some confidence, stare at the veins in his arm. how thick they look, how his plain black t-shirt sucks on his bicep. you’d love to suck on his bicep and—
then you realise you were staring. darting up to his face with round eyes then away, looking forward. you’re a little nervous now, overwhelmed with the shitty conversations you just had and now you’ve got yourself in a conversation with a stupidly sexy man.
“how come i didn’t get to speak to you? i would have dotted your name down on the card.”
bakugou takes advantage of the fact you’re not looking at him, that you’re cutely chewing down on your lip as you stare into your drink and notices the sign by the door.
27+ Speed Dating 8pm-9pm
what the hell are you doing in fucking speed dating events?
should he lie? say he came late or something? and why such a random age limit?
“gonna be honest, sweetheart, i’m here with those idiots in the corner. didn’t come for the dating thing,” he nods a thanks to the bartender as his beer slides along the bar. “apparently i’m not even old enough to attend.”
he doesn’t move though, instead he slightly leans on the top to face you. bakugou watches as another wave of embarrassment settles through you.
“oh, shit. sorry, i just assumed…,” that’s what you get for being brave. one night away from your kid and you’ve wasted it. then you blink in a mixture of shock and disgust at yourself, “wait, how old are you? you’re not one of those kids that look double their age with all the gmos and preservatives are you?”
bakugou chuckles, it starts deep in his chest and rises up out of his mouth. it’s an attractive laugh, it’s even more attractive when he takes a swig of his beer and licks the foam off his top lip.
“i’m twenty five, but don’t worry i’m into older women.”
heat blooms under your skin. you feel as if your body has been set on fire. you have the urge to grab the ice cube in your glass and press it to your forehead.
you fight it, especially when he smirks at your reaction. you scoff under your breath, “that makes me sound like a cougar. you’re only four years younger than me.”
you flick your eyes onto the man and he’s already staring back at you. you won’t lie, you love how his attention feels. his ruby eyes are beautiful, specks of burnt orange swimming in them as he keeps his focus on your face. occasionally on your lips and one glance at your top but nothing inappropriate. he licks along his teeth, pretends like he’s confident talking to gorgeous women at bars. he’s just as new to this as you are.
“hey, i never said cougar. i’m a big boy, i don’t need a mommy.” then he waves for the bartender, “d’you want another drink?”
he points at your single melting ice cube in your glass.
you’re shocked at how thrilling talking to this man is. after boring, uninspired and one offensive conversation about you being a single mother at the speed dating table, this one is fun and you actually find the guy attractive.
“i have a child by the way. i am an actual mother,” you blurt, then sigh at yourself, “not that you’re interested in anything more or even like me like that but just so it’s out there.”
you’ve been in situations where guys are into you and then back off at the fact you’re got a kid at home. then you get guys like today blaming you for not being with the baby or the baby’s father. you’re exhausted.
bakugou raises an eyebrow, “hold on sweetheart, drink first and then you can tell me whatever you want. including your name.”
your flush isn’t letting up. when you were younger you were so much better at flirting, talking to random men on nights out but after focusing on your kid and work, you’ve seemed to have lost it.
you ramble off your choice of drink to the bartender and then you introduce yourself, “yn, 29. i grew up around here. that’s what we said at the speed dating thing.” you point your thumb behind you at the now empty tables and the few couples awkwardly getting to know each other.
“alright. katsuki, 25. i grew up a city over but i live here now.”
“oi kacchan! you comin’ back to us or what?” another blonde guy in the corner table shouts and you watch as katsuki grits his jaw. you don’t see the look he gives them but they all laugh, settling back into their seats.
“sorry about them. fuckin’ idiots,” you notice the faint blush on his cheeks, looking down at the brown liquid of his beer.
seeing him blush is cute but you feel the urge to ignore it just to talk to him more, “what do you do for work?”
that has him looking up again, tilting his head. that gets his confidence up. standing straighter, his chest puffing out slightly, “i’m a hero. been one since i was sixteen.”
you gasp, “wow that’s crazy! you’re so brave fighting villains all the time. maybe you could deal with all the annoying people in my life.”
he smirks and from this angle, his gold cased canine catches the dim light of the bar, “unless they’re tryin’ to kill ya, i can’t help there sweetheart. though i could bend my morals for you.”
he’s smooth with it, bakugou’s impressed himself with this one, even when you lightly giggle, “shush. my son’s favourite hero is deku. i don’t know if you know him but he’s always watching his videos online.”
you think you said something wrong when bakugou scrunches his nose, “the fuck? not dynamight?”
you frown, “which one is that? sorry i’m terrible with heroes.”
bakugou forces his jaw not to drop. obviously not everyone knows about heroes but to know deku and not him? like they don’t work together all the time?
“you must have seen him. blonde hair, explosions?” he blurts, pointing to his own hair and he even holds out a palm, letting it crackle between you.
“oh yes! my son thinks he’s loud, always shouting. he’s with deku, isn’t he?” you reply and then everything connects. you blink a few times and bakugou watches the realisation in real time, “you’re dynamight? wow.”
bakugou chuckles again, wiping his face with his hand, “tell your son, i only shout because nobody listens. you gotta be brave to tell people how it is.”
you smile, “he’s gonna think i’m lying if i tell him i met you.”
bakugou notices you’re not starstruck or anything, if anything you’re genuinely excited to tell your son this little story. he wonders if the kid has the same eyes as you, hair colour. if the fathers in the picture.
“how old is he?”
“nine. i had him when i was twenty.”
bakugou imagines you pregnant, waddling around, needing breathers when out in the supermarket with your hand on your stomach.
“must be a cute kid if he looks anythin’ like you.”
he’s taking cheap shots here, he’s talented in many things but flirting with pretty mothers isn’t one of them.
you roll your eyes, “he’s alright.” you joke but you catch yourself, “i mean he’s my whole world. always comes first for me.”
bakugou nods, he gets it. he works with children a lot either at hospitals or schools. little ones running at his feet. their parents always have the same glowy look in their eye, the same one you have currently.
“what’s work for you?”
“i’m an animator. freelance but i do work for lots of studios, if they need extra hands or specific scenes they’ll message me in.”
bakugou doesn’t get shocked often but he does here. he doesn’t know what he was expecting you to say but not that. “that’s fuckin’ sick, what the hell?”
the conversation drags you both to a two seater table in the corner. your knee in between his, chairs so close you can feel his breath on your face when he talks.
he tells you he texted his friends that he’s gonna sit with you when you worry you just took him away from them, “they don’t give a fuck. probably laughin’ at me for even talkin’ to you.”
“why would they laugh!?”
bakugou takes a gulp. he’s not sure how much he should admit to him being a loser when it comes to women. sure they come onto him but he never does anything back.
“i don’t really talk to women. especially ones that look like you.”
alcohol has fully saturated your blood at this point, “looking like that,” you point at his chest, “with a mouth like that,” bakugou licks his bottom lip as a reflex, “i don’t understand why you wouldn’t.”
he loves the praise and also the distraction from his terrible skills, “like what? more words, sweetheart.”
his smirk makes your panties wet, you’re going to have fun choosing a toy out of your drawer tonight.
“you look like you belong in a boys anime but girls watch and write fanfiction about you.”
it’s probably the best compliment bakugou’s ever received.
“pretty face,” you continue, sipping your drink, “great body and you can actually hold a conversation. rare nowadays.”
bakugou grunts, a satisfied one that makes him lean over the table. “i dunno what the fuck you were doing at a speed dating event.”
“just wanted to meet new people, get out there.” you reply innocently, full of hope that makes bakugou want to look after you. treat you kindly and wrap his arms around you. but then you’re looking at him with these watery eyes, shifting your bare thighs in this tiny skirt, nudging your knee with his.
he is so fucked.
“forgive me for being so forward but i need to take you out or home. whatever you want i’ll give it to you.”
you run through the options in your head. he’s asking if you just want sex or want to date. your mouth dries up and you’re immediately taking another sip of your drink.
“oh, i’m, err looking to date?” you respond, tilting your head. forcing yourself to not focus on his lips. how tempting it would be to press yours against his. that would be the only reason why you say your next words, “but i’d have sex with you too.”
with glowing signs from both parties, bakugou slides his hand on your jaw, the first touch of the night and then kisses you. it’s only a peck that quickly becomes more. a groan and he angles his head, nipping your bottom lip so you open up. you’re almost crawling into his lap when you suck on his tongue. you take control of the kiss, no matter how badly bakugou wants to. it’s a little messy, very needy and when you part, you need to wipe the spit from your mouth.
“oh god,” you whisper.
“d’you still have a thing with the father? your kids father?” bakugou mumbles against your lips. it’s not the right time to ask but he’s not about to ask to date you if the man is. fuck it, maybe he can, prove he’s the better choice.
your eyes widen, “no, no!”
“good.”
after spending another hour of conversation and making out, bakugou slides his phone over to you.
“i’m gonna take you out.”
you like the forwardness. you don’t see it with many people nowadays, “okay. i don’t like fish and my bladder is too weak for rollercoasters.” you wince, too much drinking for tonight, “ignore that i said that.”
“fuck rollercoasters. my whole life in a teenagers hands. fuck that.”
human ears are such bullshitttttt i cant even emote with these. whats the fucking point if i cant swivel my ears in ur direction or like perk them up when i hear something interesting or point them all back when something scary happens. whats even the point
your body on his, skin against skin, hand guiding him to your warmth, slick embodied with all you've ever desired and ached for in another. that reverence in his gaze and the act of something more and something holy and meant for worship when you ask if you can have him
origamiaround
gamechangershow
