he comes back to the office so late that you're the only one there, finishing up a project that's due at the end of the week. Despite how sweat drips from his brow and the veins on his arms are pumped, he insists he's fine, practically demands you don't get closer.
You don't listen. You can't, not when he looks so ruined. His pupils are wide, so dilated he has to look over his glasses to see you properly.
"Hit by a quirk," he explains, breathless, "It's- it's got me--"
He grips the desk behind him and you swear his hips press forward.
"A bit, ye-yes," he pants, hand over his mouth to muffle his words. It's like he can't control himself, like these words need to come out, "God, it hu- fuck, you smell so fucking good right now."
That freezes you in your tracks. Iida doesn't curse-- ever.
"Oh, don't say my name," he pleads, "Not with those lips."
You instinctively go to touch your lip. A bit of the lipstick you're wearing smudges with it-
"God, I wanna ruin those pretty little red lips," he continues. Iida has leaned back and over the desk, eyes slammed shut as if righting himself, "You and those fucking lips-"
Your heart is pounding into your ribs, but you step forward again and place a hand on his arm. The contact makes him spring back to life, hands immediately grabbing for the fabric around your hips.
"What kind of quirk hit you?" you whisper.
"I don't know- I-I can't think-" Those wide eyes are drilling into yours as his hands gather and gather. pulling your skirt up, "I keep thinking about how much I want you."
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