MHA: Lust Quirk

The buzzer went off while Ryo was still in the shower.

He'd gotten back from Training Room 4 about an hour ago. Midnight had spent the whole session showing him how to actually guard his ribs instead of tucking his elbows and hoping, and his shoulders were sore in places he hadn't known had muscles, and the hot water was doing the only useful thing hot water had ever done in this apartment.

The buzzer went again. Longer.

He turned the water off. Grabbed the towel from the hook on the back of the door, wrapped it around his waist, and crossed the apartment trailing wet footprints on the floor. The fridge hummed. Gerald watched from the ceiling.

He opened the door.

Mina Ashido was standing in his hallway in a yellow sundress.

He'd seen her in the pink hoodie. The joggers. The P.E. uniform. The camo bodysuit. The leggings and the acid-burned sneakers and the oversized shirts she borrowed from whoever was closest. He'd never seen her in a dress.

It was a pale warm yellow that sat off her shoulders and ended above her knees and had a zipper down the back that he could see because she'd already started turning to say something and then turned back when the door opened. Her horns were polished. They caught the hallway light, two small pale curves with a sheen on them that wasn't usually there. Her nails were done, short and clean and painted a dark gold that matched her irises.

Her sneakers had the acid burns on the toes. Same shoes. Everything else was different.

She looked at him. He was in a towel. His hair was dripping onto his shoulders and his chest was bare and the burn mark from Bakugo's palm was still fading on his cheek and he was standing in his doorway like an idiot who hadn't expected her at the time she'd told him to expect her.

Her eyes went down his chest. Came back up. The pink of her cheeks got darker.

"You're not dressed."

"You're early."

"I'm exactly on time." She held up her phone. 7:12. She'd said seven. "You're late."

"By twelve minutes."

"Late is late." She walked past him into the apartment like she always did. The door was a suggestion and the interior was already hers. Her shoulder brushed his arm on the way through. Warm through the sundress fabric against his still-damp skin.

She stopped in the middle of the room. Looked around. The apartment hadn't changed. Bed, desk, rice cooker, Gerald. She looked at the floor between the bed and the desk. Her spot.

She sat on the bed.

She'd never sat on the bed. She'd sat on the floor every time. The floor was their spot, between the bed and the desk, backs to the wall, knees touching through whatever they were wearing. The floor was where the rice balls happened and the horror movie happened and the kiss happened and the "not yet" happened.

She sat on the edge of the bed with her knees together and her hands on the yellow fabric over her thighs and she looked at him.

"Remember when I said 'not yet'?"

His chest tightened. The apartment was very small and she was sitting on his bed in a dress she'd bought for tonight and the hallway light behind him was still on because he hadn't closed the door.

"Yeah."

"It's now."

He closed the door.

The apartment was dim. He hadn't turned on the overhead light when he got back from training and the only light was the desk lamp in the corner and the streetlight through the half-open blinds. Her dress glowed warmer in it. Her eyes brighter. The pink of her skin was always going to be visible because she was Mina and she was pink and no amount of shadow changed that.

He crossed the room. She watched him come. Her hands tightened on the fabric over her thighs and her breathing was faster than normal and her pupils were wide. He stopped in front of her. Close. His knees almost touching hers.

"You polished your horns," he said.

She blinked. Whatever she'd been expecting him to say, that wasn't it.

"Shut up."

"They look good."

"SHUT UP." The blush hit her ears. She reached up and grabbed the front of his towel and pulled him down and kissed him.

Her mouth was warm and open and she tasted like lip gloss and underneath it the acid-citrus he already knew. She kissed him hard. The angle bent him forward at the waist and her grip on the towel was the only reason it stayed on and her other hand went to the side of his neck, fingers in his wet hair, and she kissed him hard. All of it, all at once.

He kissed her back. His hand found her jaw. Tilted her chin up. Changed the angle from desperate to slow. She made a frustrated sound against his mouth and tried to speed it back up, and he held the pace and her breath shuddered through her nose.

He sat on the bed next to her without breaking the kiss. She turned into him. Her knees bumped his thigh and her hand left the towel and went to his shoulder, his bare shoulder, and her palm was hot against his skin. They kissed and the desk lamp threw their shadow on the far wall and the streetlight cut lines across the bed through the blinds.

She pulled back. Her eyes were blown. Gold eaten by black pupils so wide there was barely a ring of color left.

"Okay," she said. Breathless. "Okay. So."

She reached behind her back. He heard the zipper before he understood what she was doing. The sound of metal teeth separating, quiet in the apartment, and the yellow fabric loosened around her shoulders and she pulled the straps down her arms and the dress fell to her waist.

She wasn't wearing a bra.

Pink. All of it. Her breasts were round and full and the nipples were a deeper pink, almost magenta, and her skin felt like the rest of her when his eyes traced it. Smooth. Her collarbones caught the desk lamp light. Her stomach was flat and toned from acid-skating and the muscles moved when she breathed.

She was looking at his face. Reading him. Her jaw was tight and her shoulders had pulled in, making herself smaller, and her arms came up and crossed over her chest.

He caught her wrists.

His fingers around her forearms. Holding, barely. She looked at his hands. At him.

"Don't," he said.

"I'm-" She swallowed. "It's a lot. All the pink. I know it's-"

"Don't."

He moved her arms down to her sides. She let him. Her breathing was short and fast and her chest rose and fell and she was sitting on his bed with her dress pooled around her waist and nothing else above it and the pink of her was everywhere and she was watching his face like it was the only thing in the room that could tell her if this was okay.

He looked at her. Let himself look. Her breasts and the dark pink nipples and the smooth collarbone and the horns catching light and the gold eyes in the black sclera. He looked and she saw him looking and her blush crept down her neck and onto her chest, darker pink spreading wherever his eyes went.

"You're incredible," he said.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Her eyes got wet and she blinked it away fast and grabbed his face with both hands and pulled him into her and kissed him like she was trying to climb inside his mouth.

He pressed her back onto the bed. Her shoulders hit the mattress and he was over her and the towel was still technically around his waist and her dress was bunched between them. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down and her bare chest pressed against his and the heat of her skin was a wall, her whole body running degrees above normal, and everywhere they touched burned and his thinking narrowed to just the contact.

He kissed down her jaw. Her neck. The pulse point under her ear where the acid-chemistry smell was strongest, skin and citrus and a sweetness underneath he couldn't name. Her head tilted back on the pillow and her fingers tightened in his hair.

"Nn-"

Low. Quiet for her. He kissed lower. Her collarbone, the flat plane below it, and then his mouth was on her breast and his tongue circled her nipple and her back arched off the bed.

"Ah-!"

She slapped her hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wide and her fingers were pressed against her lips and she stared at the ceiling like the sound had escaped from somewhere she hadn't approved.

He stopped. Looked up at her. She was pink and flushed and covering her mouth and her chest was heaving.

"Be loud," he said.

Her eyes dropped to his. The hand on her mouth loosened.

"I can hear the neighbors," she said. Muffled behind her fingers.

"Be loud."

Her hand came down. Slowly. She set it on the bed next to her hip and her fingers curled into the sheet and she nodded once, short, like agreeing to jump off something.

He put his mouth back on her.

He'd found the lower back in the kitchen. That first time, his thumbs on her spine, her whole body going rigid, the sound closer to a cry than anything else. He'd thought about it since. Where else the acid-gland tissue ran. Where the nerve density lived. Her Quirk secreted acid from any skin surface, but the production wasn't uniform. Some areas ran hotter, more glandular tissue packed into the dermal layer. He'd felt it on her lower back. Where else.

He kissed down her sternum. Her stomach. She shifted under him, restless, and her hands were fists in the sheet. He pulled the dress down over her hips and she lifted to let him and it came free and he dropped it off the side of the bed.

Black underwear. Simple. Her thighs were toned and smooth and pink and the muscle definition from skating was visible along the outside. He put his hand on the inside of her left thigh, just above the knee, and ran his palm upward.

Her whole body flinched.

"Wha- oh. Oh." Her voice went up. The skin under his hand was different. Hotter. Softer at the surface. He'd felt this on her lower back. A concentration of tissue that pulsed under his palm. He pressed his thumb into the inner thigh and she made a sound he'd never heard from her, a sustained "ahhh" that started at normal volume and climbed and her leg jerked against his hand and her hips lifted off the bed.

"That's- what- I didn't know that was-" She was trying to form a sentence and his thumb was circling the spot on her inner thigh and every circuit pulled another sound out of her. "Hah- ha- that's so- what is that-"

Acid-gland tissue. Concentrated. Nerve endings packed tight enough that a firm touch was an earthquake. She hadn't known. The lower back was accidental. This was new territory.

He pressed harder. She yelped. Her hand flew to his wrist and grabbed it, held it there.

"Don't stop." Fast, loud. "Don't stop don't stop that's-"

He ran his hand up the inside of her other thigh. Found the matching spot. The sound she made was raw enough to carry through the wall and she bit her own lip and her hips rolled against nothing and her underwear was dark where the wet had soaked through.

He hooked his fingers under the waistband and pulled them down. She kicked them off one ankle and her knees were up and her thighs were open and she was completely naked on his bed and the streetlight cut across her stomach through the blinds.

Her pussy was pink. Darker pink. Slick and swollen and wet enough that he could see it, the light catching the moisture on her inner lips. Smooth and soft and flushed dark.

He ran his finger along the outside. Light. She bucked.

"COME ON-"

"Impatient."

"YES. Obviously. Clearly. Are you going to- ahh-" He'd slid one finger inside her and the rest of the sentence died. She was tight and hot and wet and the walls of her gripped his finger and the temperature inside was higher than her skin, a furnace he could feel in his fingertip. He curled his finger forward and found the spot and her legs clamped around his wrist and her head went back.

"Oh god-"

He added a second finger. Slow. She stretched around them and the sound was obscene, slick and wet, audible in the quiet apartment. Her hips were moving on their own, rocking against his hand. She'd stopped trying to talk.

He pulled back. She whimpered.

Then her hands found him. She reached for the towel, yanked it open, and her fingers wrapped around his cock. Clumsy. Her grip was wrong, too high, too tight, and her hand was shaking. She looked down at what she was holding and her eyes went wide.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"That's-" She adjusted her grip. Looser. Slid her hand down and back up and watched his face, reading the reaction, adjusting. He closed his eyes. Her hand was hot and smooth and the acid-proof skin had zero friction and her thumb dragged across the head and his hips jerked.

Her grin was back. He didn't have to see it. He could hear it in her voice.

"Good?"

"Yeah."

"How about-" She squeezed, light, at the base, and pulled up slow. His breath caught.

"Yeah. That."

She stroked him and her grip got better because she was paying attention. Her hand found a rhythm and his thinking went quiet and her other hand was on his chest and her fingers were hot on his skin.

He opened his eyes. She was looking at him. Gold irises, pupils blown, cheeks flushed dark, lips parted. She let go of his cock and put both hands on his face.

"Ryo."

First name. She'd never used it. It had always been Hayami. In the classroom, in the hallway, in the texts, on the floor between the bed and the desk, against the wall. Hayami. The name on the seating chart.

She said it quiet. The quietest she'd been all night.

"Yeah."

"Now."

He settled between her legs. The head of his cock against her and she was so wet that the contact was frictionless. She grabbed his shoulders. Her nails bit into the muscle.

He pushed in. The first inch.

Tight. Hot. The walls inside her were smooth, slicker than her skin, and her body gripped him and the wet sound of entry was audible in the apartment and her fingers dug into his shoulders hard enough to bruise.

"Oh-" Quiet. Strained. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her mouth was open and her horns pressed back into the pillow. They'd gone pink at the base. Flushed.

He pushed deeper. Slow. Inch by inch. Her breathing hitched with every fraction and her legs came up and wrapped around his waist and her heels pressed into his lower back.

"Ah-" When he was all the way in. Barely a sound. She was stretched around him and he could feel her pulse through the grip of her. Fast. The heat everywhere.

He pulled back. Pushed in. She gasped. He did it again. Slow. Then again.

"Ah. Ah. Ah." One per thrust. Rising in pitch. Her hands slid from his shoulders to his back and her nails raked lines down his spine and her hips started moving with him, meeting him, and the angle shifted as she figured out what worked.

Faster. Her voice climbed. "Ah- ah- ahh-" Louder with each one. The bed was moving under them, a faint creak from the frame that he'd never heard before because he'd never done this on it. Her legs tightened around his waist. Her back arched. Her horns caught the desk-lamp light, flushed dark pink now from base to tip, and the color was everywhere, across her chest and her stomach and her thighs and she was loud, she was so loud, and the neighbors could hear every sound and neither of them cared.

His chest hummed.

Low. Deep. Behind the sternum, where it always started. The engine. The Quirk absorbing, pulling from the heat, from everywhere they touched. New partner. First time. The stacked bonuses hitting like a second pulse underneath his actual one and his muscles tightened and his grip on her hip tightened and the gain was already starting and she couldn't feel it and she'd never know what her body was giving him.

He pushed deeper. She cried out.

"Ryo- god- right there, right- ahh-"

The rhythm built. Her voice on every thrust, filling the apartment. Gerald watched from the ceiling. The fridge hummed. Streetlight through the blinds cut lines across her body and the shadow on the wall was two people moving together and the creak of the bed underneath her voice and his breathing and the wet sound of him inside her.