Chapter 2: The Third Round - Unprotected Creampie
The city lights beyond the UA campus blurred into a constant, silent hum, like static on an old screen. In Deku and Ochaco’s shared apartment, the air was still and clean. Vanilla-scented from a plug-in diffuser. Tidy.Heroic.
Deku lay beside her, his breathing deep and even, one arm thrown across his chest in a gesture of unconscious exhaustion. His face, even in sleep, held a gentle, determined line. He’d saved forty-seven people that day. He’d smiled for the cameras, thanked his team, and come home to kiss his wife goodnight before collapsing into a dreamless, righteous sleep.
Ochaco stared at the ceiling, wide awake.
A phantom ache throbbed between her legs. It was a deep, internal pulse, a memory carved into muscle. It wasn’t pain, not exactly. It was a brand. A reminder. It whispered to her with every faint shift of her hips against the cool cotton sheets.
She could still smell him.
It was a trick of the mind, she knew. She’d showered twice, scrubbing her skin until it was pink and raw. She’d washed her hair three times. Yet, in the dark, the clean scent of their detergent couldn’t penetrate the ghost of sweat and sex and Mineta that seemed to cling to the inside of her nostrils. A musky, cheap-cologne echo.
Her body felt different.Used. Known in a way it never had been. The feeling of being stretched to a shattering fullness replayed on a loop behind her eyes. The hot, shocking rush of his release flooding her. Twice.
Her wedding ring was a cold, foreign circle on her finger.
She turned her head on the pillow, looking at Deku. Love for him was a solid, quiet thing in her chest, a familiar weight. But it felt… distant. Separate from the frantic, humming creature her body had become. That creature was coiled tight in her belly, starving again, already mourning the emptiness.
With careful, deliberate slowness, she slid out from under the duvet. The floorboards were cool under her bare feet. She padded to the bathroom, not turning on the light. In the green glow of the nightlight, she looked at her reflection. Her eyes looked huge, dark pools with something unfamiliar swirling in their depths. She pressed her thighs together, chasing the ghost of that ache. A soft, pathetic whimper escaped her lips.
This was insanity. This was betrayal of the deepest, most vile kind. She was a hero. He was a hero. They were friends. Izuku loved him, trusted him.
And she needed him again. Not tomorrow. Not later.Now.
The logic was animal, simple, and absolute.
She didn’t change out of her sleep shorts and thin tank top. She simply pulled on a dark hoodie, zipping it over her noticeable curves. She didn’t leave a note. She didn’t hesitate at the door. She was a ghost slipping out of her own life, drawn by a gravity more potent than her Quirk ever was.
The hallways of the pro-hero dormitory wing were silent, lit by dim security LEDs. Her footsteps were silent on the polished floor. Every sense was heightened. The muffled snore from Kirishima’s room. The faint glow of a television under Bakugo’s door. Her own heartbeat, a frantic drum in her ears.
She stopped in front of Mineta’s door. No light bled from underneath.
She didn’t knock.
She turned the handle. It was unlocked.
The room was dark, lit only by the faint neon glow of a vending machine sign flashing through a crack in the blinds. Blue and pink pulses washed over the familiar chaos: the unmade bed, the scattered clothes, the empty cans. The air was thick, layered with the same scent that haunted her.
He was awake.
She could see the faint silhouette of him sitting up in bed, his back against the headboard. A tiny, red dot glowed near his face—the ember of a cigarette. She didn’t know he smoked.
“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice was a dry rasp in the dark, no surprise in it.
“No,” she whispered, closing the door behind her. The click of the latch was deafening.
“Deku sleeping like a baby, I assume.”
“Yes.”
The red ember arced through the dark as he stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray on his nightstand. “And you’re here.”
She stood rooted to the spot, the distance between the door and the bed feeling like a chasm. All her desperate courage was bleeding away, replaced by a tidal wave of shame. What was she doing?
“I… I feel empty,” she blurted out, the confession raw and stupid.
A low chuckle came from the bed.“Already? I filled you up good. Twice.”
The crude words, spoken so matter-of-factly, sent a bolt of liquid heat straight to her core. The shame recoiled, burned away by the returning need.
“It didn’t take,” she said, her voice gaining strength. She shrugged off the hoodie, letting it fall to the floor. The neon light painted her curves in alternating stripes of blue and pink. “I need more.”
He was moving now. She heard the sheets rustle. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his small frame just visible. He was naked. His cock, even semi-erect in the dim light, was a daunting shadow against his thigh.
“Come here,” he said, not a command, but an invitation thick with promise.
She crossed the room. The air grew warmer with each step. When she was within arm’s reach, he reached out and hooked a finger in the waistband of her sleep shorts, pulling her closer. He looked up at her, his features sharp in the pulsing light.
“You’re addicted,” he stated, his thumb stroking her hip bone. “One taste and you’re hooked. Pathetic.”
The insult should have stung. Instead, it felt like a key turning in a lock. It was the truth. She nodded, a single, shaky dip of her chin.
“Get on the bed,” he said, his voice dropping. “On your hands and knees. Facing away from me.”
The order was specific, igniting a new kind of anticipation. She climbed onto the messy sheets, the fabric smelling intensely of him, of them. She got into position, her ass in the air, her face pressed into a pillow that carried his scent. She heard him move behind her, felt the dip of the mattress as he knelt.
His hands pushed her tank top up, baring her back, then slid her shorts and panties down her thighs in one rough motion. The cool air kissed her exposed skin, followed instantly by the heat of his gaze. He spread her cheeks apart with his thumbs, and she flinched, a wave of vulnerable exposure crashing over her.
“Look at you,” he breathed, his voice husky. “Still slick from me. Still open.”
A soft, wet sound. He was spitting. A glob of warm saliva landed directly on her entrance, and she jerked at the sudden sensation. His thumb, crude and insistent, smeared it around, mixing with her own lingering wetness, before pushing just inside.
“You want it like this?” he asked, circling that thumb. “From behind? Where you can’t even see me?”
“Yes,” she moaned into the pillow, the word muffled. She pushed back against his thumb, craving more.
He removed his hand. She heard the sound of him stroking himself, a wet, slick sound that made her mouth water. Then the blunt, heavy pressure was back, not his thumb this time, but the broad crown of his cock, nudging insistently against her.
He didn’t ask if she was ready. He knew she was. He pushed forward.
The initial penetration was a deep, burning stretch that stole her breath. It was more intense from this angle, hitting places inside her that made her see stars behind her closed eyelids. He sank in with a slow, relentless patience, stretching her open millimeter by millimeter until his hips were snug against the full curves of her ass.
A long, guttural groan tore from his throat. “Fuck. Even tighter this way.”
He began to move, short, testing thrusts that quickly grew longer, harder. Each one jolted her forward, making her breasts sway heavily beneath her bunched-up top. The sound was obscenely wet, a rhythmic, slapping cadence that filled the dark room.
“You like this, don’t you?” he grunted, his hands gripping the soft flesh of her hips, his fingers digging in. “You like being just a hole for me to fuck.No romance. No sweet words. Just this.”
“Yes!” she cried, the humiliation of the statement fueling her pleasure. That’s exactly what she was here for. She wasn’t Ochaco Uraraka, beloved hero and wife. She was just a body, built to take this specific, brutal cock.
His pace quickened, becoming punishing. The bed slammed against the wall with each powerful drive. The smack of his flesh against hers was loud, rhythmic, primal. He was hitting something deep, a spot that sparked white-hot with every impact, coiling a new tension in her gut, tighter and more severe than before.
“I’m gonna come,” she warned, her voice a ragged sob. “Mineta, I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” he snarled, his own rhythm faltering, growing frantic. “Squeeze my cock. Milk it dry. Show me how much you need it.”
His permission shattered her. The orgasm crashed over her, a violent, convulsing wave that ripped a scream from her throat, muffled by the pillow. Her inner muscles clenched around him in frantic, involuntary pulses, a tight, fluttering grip.
It was too much for him. With a choked, raw shout, he buried himself to the hilt and held. She felt the thick, hot pulses deep inside her, another flooding release that marked her just as thoroughly as the first two. The feeling of it, the sheer volume, the absolute lack of barrier, made her dizzy. She collapsed onto her elbows, her body trembling with aftershocks, his weight still pressing into her.
He stayed lodged inside her, softening slowly, both of them slick and heaving in the neon-tinted dark. His breathing was a ragged furnace against her spine. Her mind was a blank, buzzing hum.
Finally, he slid out with a wet, relinquishing sound.
The immediate emptiness was a profound, aching loss. A cool trickle traced a path down her inner thigh. She stayed on her knees, forehead pressed to the damp pillow, feeling hollowed out and remade in the worst, most perfect way.
“You’re leaking,” he said, his voice toneless.
She didn’t answer. She just listened to him move, the rustle of sheets, the click of his lighter, the slow inhale. The smoke was acrid, cutting through the scent of sex.
“You should go back.”
It wasn't a suggestion, but a detached observation. She pushed herself up, her limbs felt loose and unstrung. She found her shorts, pulled them up over the sticky evidence, the fabric chafing. The hoodie on the floor seemed like a costume from another life. She put it on, zipping it to her chin, a frail shield.
“I don’t want to go back.” The words left her before she could stop them.
He took another drag, the ember glowing brighter. She saw his silhouette shrug. “Suit yourself. Floor’s a mess, but the bed’s yours if you wanna stare at the ceiling here instead of there.”
She didn’t leave.
She walked to the other side of the narrow bed and slipped under the rumpled covers, her back to him. The sheets smelled overwhelmingly of their bodies. She stared at the blinking neon sign across the street, painting the room in a relentless, ten-second rhythm.Blue. Pink.Blue. Pink.
An hour, maybe two, passed in this suspended silence. Her body, traitorously, began to stir again. The soreness was a dull throb, a background note to the creeping, insistent itch. Her nipples tightened against the inside of her hoodie. She shifted her hips, a minute movement.
She felt his eyes on the back of her head.
“You’re thinking about it,” he said. Not a question.
She was. She was replaying the feeling of being pinned, split open from behind, the brutal ownership of it. The fantasy shifted. His face between her legs. His hands on her breasts. His mouth, everywhere.
“Yeah,” she whispered.The mattress shifted. He put his cigarette out. She felt him turn toward her. His hand, warm and surprisingly rough, landed on her hip over the hoodie. He tugged, rolling her onto her back. She didn’t resist.
“I’m tired of that position,” he said, his breath a mix of smoke and salt. He was already hard again, his cock a heavy, insistent line against her thigh through the covers. “My turn to see your face.”
He peeled the covers back. He pulled the hoodie’s zipper down, a slow, grating sound in the quiet. He pushed the fabric apart, then her tank top, baring her breasts to the flickering light. They felt heavy, sensitive, her nipples dark and peaked. He looked at them with a blunt, appreciative gaze.
“Fucking unreal,” he muttered, more to himself than her.
He dipped his head and took one into his mouth. Not a suckle, but a hungry, greedy pull. His tongue was rough, flicking aggressively against the peak. His other hand mauled its counterpart, squeezing with a possessiveness that bordered on pain. She arched, a choked gasp catching in her throat. It was so different from Deku’s tender worship. This was consumption.
He released her breast with a wet pop. “Take these off,” he ordered, tugging at her shorts.
She lifted her hips, helping him shove the shorts and her damp panties down her legs, kicking them off the side of the bed. She was completely exposed. He knelt between her legs, his gaze running from her face, down her body, to the apex of her thighs. She felt herself flush under the scrutiny.
“Open.”
She bent her knees, letting them fall apart. The air was cool on her swollen flesh.
He didn’t enter her. Instead, he leaned forward, placing his hands on the mattress by her shoulders, caging her in. His cock, thick and veiny and fully erect again, lay along her stomach, a searing brand. He lowered his head, his mouth inches from hers. She could taste the smoke on his breath.
“Tell me what you want.” His voice was a low thrum.
Her mind went blank, then filled with filth. “I want you to fuck my mouth,” she breathed, the words alien and hot on her tongue.
He blinked, a flicker of genuine surprise in his eyes, quickly replaced by a dark, gleaming approval. “Yeah? My slut wants to choke?”
He shifted back, kneeling up. He took his cock in hand, stroking it slowly, the head glistening, nudging against her lips. “Open wide, angel.”
She did, sticking her tongue out first to taste the salt and bitterness of herself and him. He guided himself in, not gently. The sheer girth stretched her jaws immediately, a deep, straining ache. He pushed past her tongue, the head hitting the back of her throat. She gagged, tears springing to her eyes.
“Relax your throat,” he instructed, watching her struggle with a fascinated intensity. He pushed further, a slow, inexorable invasion. She fought her reflexes, trying to breathe through her nose, tears tracking down her temples into her hair. He began a shallow, rhythmic pumping, the length of him sliding over her tongue, the head tapping her soft palate.
“Good girl,” he grunted, his hips starting to move with more purpose. “Take it. Just a hole. A warm, wet hole.”
She was drooling, a mess of spit and pre-cum, her throat working convulsively around him. The degradation was absolute, and it coiled the tension in her gut tighter than any thrust could. She reached between her own legs, fingers finding her clit, swollen and slick. She rubbed frantic circles as he fucked her face.
He saw her hand moving. “That’s it. Get yourself off while you suck me. You’re a natural at this.”
The dual sensations—the brutal fullness of her mouth, the frantic friction on her clit—pulled her to the edge with terrifying speed. Her thighs trembled. A high-pitched, muffled whine vibrated around his cock.
He felt it. He pulled out of her mouth with a slick, obscene sound, a string of saliva and precum connecting her lips to his tip. “Not yet,” he panted. He roughly turned her onto her stomach again, but this time pulled her hips up so she was on her knees, her upper body pressed down. He positioned himself and drove into her in one brutal stroke. She screamed into the mattress, the sudden, deep re-penetration triggering her orgasm instantly.
It tore through her, wave after wave of mindless convulsion as he pistoned into her, his balls slapping against her. “Fuck, yes, squeeze me just like that,” he groaned, his rhythm becoming erratically hard. “Take this fucking load. All of it.”
He buried himself and roared as he came, the hot rush another shocking flood inside her already-overflowing depths. She felt it, every thick pulse, a claiming that went all the way to her marrow. He collapsed half on top of her, both of them slick and shuddering.
He didn't pull out. He just lay there, his softening weight still inside her, his breathing harsh in her ear. Her skin was feverish. His was slippery with their combined sweat. Her exhaustion was total, a pleasant void.
Dawn was still hours away. The night was deep and black outside the windows. He shifted, finally sliding out of her with a slick, final sound. He rolled onto his side, his back to her.