MHA: Lust Quirk

Her whole body seized.

Her fingers crushed mine. Her back came off the bed and her thighs clamped against my hips and the gravity in the room lurched sideways for a full second, the sheet pulling toward the ceiling, my weight going wrong, her Quirk spilling out of her fingertips while her pussy clenched around me in hard rhythmic pulses and her mouth was open and no sound was coming out. Her eyes were on my face. Wet. Wide. The brown was almost gone behind her pupils.

The gravity came back. The sheet dropped. My weight settled. Her grip loosened one finger at a time and her body went slack under me and her chest was heaving. Flushed from her cheeks to her collarbones, hair stuck to her temple, a tear track running from the corner of her right eye into her hair.

I was still inside her. She was still clenching in small aftershock pulses and each one pulled at me and I hadn't finished. Hot. Slick. Her thighs were trembling against my sides.

I kissed her forehead. Salt. She made a sound that was mostly exhale.

I pulled out slowly. She winced at the withdrawal and her hips twitched and she bit her lower lip and the empty sound, the wet slide of me leaving her, was loud in the quiet room. I was hard and slick and the air was cold on my cock after the heat of her.

She lay there. Her arms at her sides, her fingers uncurling, her chest rising and falling. Her eyes closed. They'd been open the whole time. Her thighs fell open and she didn't close them. The wet between her legs caught the light from the window.

I lay down next to her. On my side. She was on her back, staring at the ceiling now, her breathing slowing in stages. Her hand found mine between us. She didn't lace her fingers through. She just held. Her palm was damp and warm and her pads were softer than the rest of her skin, slightly swollen.

"That was..." She didn't finish.

I waited.

Her other hand came up. She pressed her own fingertips together, pad to pad. The release gesture. She stared at her fingers, spreading them apart, pressing them together again. Her brow furrowed.

"They're still tingling," she said.

I turned my head on the pillow. She was looking at her hands like she'd never seen them before.

"Nobody's ever paid attention to my hands," she said. Quiet. To the ceiling.

"Your hands are the most important part of your Quirk. Why wouldn't I pay attention?"

She laughed. Small and wet and startled. The laugh shook her chest and she winced because her body was still sensitive and it turned into a gasp and she pressed her lips together.

She rolled toward me. On her side, facing me, her knee sliding across the sheet. Her hair was a mess. Her face was blotchy. The tear track had dried. She looked at me from six inches away and her brown eyes were clear again, the pupils shrinking back, and the permanent pink in her cheeks was buried under a deeper flush that was still fading.

Her hand went to my chest. Palm flat. Her fingertip pads pressed into my skin. Cooler than the rest of her hand. She watched her own fingers move.

"Can I be on top?"

My cock twitched. She felt it against her thigh and her eyes dropped and came back up.

"Yeah."

She pushed my shoulder. I went onto my back and she swung her leg over and she was straddling me, knees on either side of my hips, her weight settling on my stomach. Her hands on my chest. Her hair hanging forward.

The gym floor. Two weeks ago. Her wrists pinning mine, her weight over me, both of us in training clothes and sweating from sparring and she'd kissed me with her hair curtaining our faces. Same position. No clothes. No pretending.

She knew it too. The corner of her mouth pulled and her chin dipped and she looked at me through her lashes.

"No pin this time," she said.

"You can if you want."

She shifted her weight back. Her ass pressed against my cock, still hard, and the wetness between her thighs was slick against my skin. She lifted up on her knees. Reached between us. Her hand wrapped around me and her fingers were shaking but her grip was sure and she lined me up and the heat of her was there before she took any of me in.

She sank down.

The first inch was easy. Wet and open from the first round, her body taking me without the resistance from before. She went slow anyway. Her eyes on mine the entire time. Her lips parted as she slid lower and I watched her face change as the angle opened her differently. Deeper from this direction. Her eyebrows drew together and her mouth rounded and she took a breath through her teeth.

She bottomed out. My cock buried in her and her weight on my hips and the heat was everywhere. She sat for a second with her hands on my chest, adjusting. Her fingers curled against my skin. She shifted her hips, just a fraction, finding the angle, and when she found it her jaw dropped and her eyes went half-lidded.

"Oh."

She moved. Slow. Rolling her hips forward and back, figuring it out. Each roll was a test, a question, and when she found the motion that made her breath catch she stayed on it. Her hands pressed into my chest for leverage. Her nails dug in. The wet sounds were different from this angle, louder, gravity pulling everything down.

My hands went to her hips. I didn't guide her. Just held. My thumbs on the bones of her pelvis, my fingers spread across the curve of her ass. She was warm and slick with sweat and her muscles were working under her skin. Core engaged, hips controlled. The Gunhead training was there in every movement.

She moved faster. Each downstroke pushed me deeper and each upstroke dragged her pussy along my length and the friction was different, wetter, less resistance, the second round sliding where the first round had gripped. Her breasts bounced with the motion, heavy, the nipples hard, and her stomach flexed and released with each roll.

Her fingertip pads pressed into my chest.

Her Quirk flickered.

My weight vanished for half a second. My back lifted off the mattress an inch before the gravity snapped back and I dropped and the bed creaked.

"Sorry-" Her hands flew off my chest. "Sorry, I can't- it keeps-"

I grabbed her wrists. Pulled her hands back to my chest. Pressed her palms flat against me, her pads against my skin.

"It's fine."

"But I almost-"

"Let it."

She stared at me. Her hands on my chest, my hands over hers, her hips still. Her pussy clenched around me, a single involuntary squeeze, and her face flushed darker.

She started moving again. Her hands stayed on my chest. Her pads pressing into me. She was riding me and her Quirk was leaking at the edges, little flickers where the gravity wobbled under her palms. My body went light and came back, light and came back, and each flicker made her gasp and clench and the gasps were getting louder.

I thrust up into her. Her eyes flew wide and her mouth opened and the sound she made was lower than anything from the first round, a groan that started in her chest.

"Ah- right- right there-"

I did it again. Her head dropped forward and her hair fell around our faces. Her breath was hot on my mouth. Her forehead almost touching mine, her eyes on mine, huge and brown and wet.

Her hips ground down and I thrust up and the angle was hitting her somewhere deep and her rhythm was falling apart, losing the controlled roll, becoming shorter, harder. Desperate. Her fingertip pads were pressing into me and the gravity was flickering constantly now, tiny stutters, the sheet lifting and falling, the pillow shifting.

"I'm not going to be second," she said.

Her voice cracked on the last word. Her hips grinding, her pussy tight and slick, her face six inches above mine.

"You're not."

Her fingers curled against my chest. Her pads pressed in. Her eyes stayed on mine.

She came.

Her mouth opened and her whole body went rigid on top of me. Her thighs clamped against my sides and her pussy clenched in long, hard waves and her eyes were open, on my face, watching me while she came. No sound. Her lips shaping my name without breath behind it. Her Quirk surged. The gravity in the room tilted hard enough that the pillow slid off the bed and my body went weightless for a full two seconds and the only thing holding me to the mattress was her weight on my hips and the clench of her body around me.

I came. Her eyes on my face. The pulse starting at the base of my cock and her walls squeezing and the heat of it. My hips drove up into her one last time and held and I came inside her and she felt it, her eyes going wider, her mouth opening, a small "oh" on a breath that was barely there.

The gravity came back. Everything settled. The pillow was on the floor.

She collapsed onto my chest. Her cheek against my shoulder, her hair in my face, her breath hot and fast against my neck. Her heartbeat was hammering through her ribs into mine. Her pads were pressing softly against my chest, the touch gentle now, almost absent. Little aftershock squeezes from her pussy, each one smaller, each one pulling a twitch out of me.

I put my arms around her. Her back was slick with sweat. Her spine was a ridge under my forearms and the muscles on either side of it were defined and solid. Brawny. Horikoshi's word.

Her breathing slowed. Her body relaxed in increments. Her thighs loosened against my hips. She turned her face into my neck and her eyelashes brushed my skin.

We lay there.

The apartment was quiet. The fridge hummed. The ceiling stain looked like a bird from this angle. Gerald was in his spot. My body was warm, uncomfortably warm, hotter than the room should have made me. Pulse up. Muscles tighter under my skin. The gain was happening. A sunburn setting in, except the burn was in my tendons, my grip strength, the sharpness behind my eyes.

She was still on me when I fell asleep.

I woke up alone in the bed.

Light through the window. Morning. The apartment smelled like rice.

She was in the kitchen. My kitchen, which was a counter and a hot plate and a rice cooker she'd found in the back of the cabinet. She was wearing my shirt, black, too big, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. Her legs were bare and her feet were bare on the cold floor and her hair was pushed behind her ears and she was humming.

She'd been making rice in my kitchen for hours and she looked like she'd been doing it for months.

I watched from the bed. Her shoulders under my shirt. The curve of her hip where the hem rode up when she reached for the bowls on the shelf above the counter. Her calves, muscled, the skin prickling from the cold tiles. Five days ago she'd pinned my wrists to a gym floor. She was humming.

Two girls. One of them was going to find out about the other.

I wasn't dreading the conversation. I'd handle it the same way I handled Ochaco's questions at the door. Honest and direct. Mina would have feelings about it and those feelings would be loud and pink and justified. The timing mattered. Which one heard it first mattered.

Ochaco turned. Saw me watching. Her cheeks went pink, the permanent blush deepening.

"I made rice," she said. "Your fridge is depressing."

"I know."

She brought two bowls. Sat on the bed cross-legged, the shirt riding up her thighs. She handed me a bowl and our fingers touched on the ceramic and neither of us pulled away for a second.

We ate. The rice was simple, plain, good. She ate methodically, focused, her chopsticks precise. I watched her and she knew I was watching and she didn't tell me to stop.

"You're stronger again," she said.

I didn't move. Externally.

She put her bowl down. Reached over. Her hand closed around my upper arm, fingers pressing into the bicep. The muscle was harder than it had been yesterday. Denser. She squeezed and her fingertips didn't sink in.

"You keep getting stronger. After the festival, after the internship, and now..." She looked at my arm, then at my face. "You're different from yesterday. Your arms are bigger."

"Is your Quirk still developing?" she said.

"Something like that."

The same half-truth. The same careful understatement. She didn't know what she was looking at and I couldn't tell her. Two middle school girlfriends had built the baseline. Mina had bumped me up to 1-A competitive. Ochaco had just pushed me past it.

My grip on the chopsticks was too tight. The morning sunlight through the window was sharper than it should have been, the edges of shadows clearer. My pulse was running fast, three or four beats above normal, and the rice tasted like every individual grain.

Low pro. Sidekick territory. Two new-partner bonuses in less than a month and I was climbing past people who'd trained for years.

Ochaco picked up her rice. Ate another bite. She didn't push.

We finished eating in the quiet. She washed the bowls at the counter, my shirt shifting on her shoulders while she scrubbed. She put them on the drying rack. She found her clothes in a pile by the bed and she dressed while I sat on the mattress and didn't look away and she blushed and didn't tell me to turn around. Jeans first. Then her own shirt, my shirt coming off, her bra, her T-shirt. She folded my shirt and put it on the desk.

At the door she put her shoes on. Toes pointed out. The same way she'd lined them up last night.

"I'm telling Ashido," she said.

I looked at her.

"Not that we had sex." She straightened. Her face was composed, the blush faded, her jaw set. "That I like you. She should hear it from me, not through Jiro's lie-detector earlobes."

"That's probably the most mature thing anyone has done recently," I said.

She blushed. Hard. "Shut up."

She opened the door. Stepped into the hallway. Turned back. Her brown eyes were bright and her cheeks were pink and she was wearing the same jeans and T-shirt she'd arrived in and she didn't look any different than she had walking in last night except she was.

She left. Her footsteps went down the hall, steady, even.

I closed the door.

I opened my hand.

Five finger-shaped dents in the doorframe. My grip had left impressions in the wood, half an inch deep, the grain splintered where my fingers had been. I hadn't felt the resistance. My hand had closed and the wood had given and I hadn't noticed.

Two new-partner bonuses. Mina and Ochaco. My baseline had jumped twice in less than a month. The body was running hotter and harder. My senses were sharp enough that the hallway noise through the closed door was separating into individual sounds: someone's TV two floors up, the elevator cable humming, a bird on the fire escape.

I pressed my thumb into the doorframe dent. The wood crumbled inward like wet paper.

Pro territory. Someone was going to notice.

Gerald looked at me from the ceiling. The ceiling stain shaped like a bird was behind him, unchanged. The apartment was empty and warm and the bed was a wreck. The rice cooker was clean. The only evidence anyone had been here was the dents in the doorframe and the shirt folded on the desk.

My shirt. She'd folded my shirt.

Mina steals them.

I sat on the bed. The sheets were damp. The pillow was still on the floor from where her Quirk had knocked it off. The room smelled like sex and rice and the strawberry-scented shampoo that, now that I thought about it, was the same brand Mina used.

Two girls. Same shampoo. Different everything.

The phone on my desk had no messages. She hadn't texted from the elevator. She wasn't going to. She'd said what she was going to do and she was going to do it and Mina was going to hear it from Ochaco Uraraka's mouth because that was who Ochaco was.

I lay back on the damp sheets. The sun was too bright through the window and my body was too warm and the doorframe had five new holes in it.

Pro territory. And climbing.