The air in downtown Musutafu tasted like concrete dust and ozone. Another villain with a flashy, destructive quirk—this one could generate concussive vibrations strong enough to shake buildings off their foundations. You'd been called in as backup. Mirko was already on the scene, a white-and-pink blur of motion and impact.
You saw her leap from a crumbling overpass, a battle cry tearing from her throat as she drove her heel into the villain's shoulder. The ground shuddered. He roared, swinging a fist that sent a shockwave rippling through the street. You threw up a barrier—your quirk, a kinetic dampening field—just in time to keep a bus from flipping onto a group of civilians.
"Hey! Eyeballs on me, bastard!" Mirko yelled, drawing his attention back to her.
She was breathtaking. All power and grace, a dancer in a warzone. But even she couldn't be everywhere at once. As the villain stomped, sending a fracture line of force racing toward her, you moved.
It wasn't heroic deliberation. It was instinct. You shoved off the ground, crossing the distance in three hard strides, and wrapped your arms around her waist, yanking her out of the direct path. The force caught you both anyway, a concussive blast that sent you skidding across the asphalt. Your back slammed into a fire hydrant. The world whited out for a second.
When your vision cleared, Mirko was already pushing herself off your chest. Her ears were flat against her head, eyes narrowed not in pain, but in furious focus.
"The hell was that?" she snapped, but there was no real heat behind it. She was already turning, muscles coiling. "Don't you dare die on me. I hate paperwork."
Then she was gone, a rocket of pure force. You dragged yourself up, ignoring the screaming pain in your ribs, and reset your barrier. You watched her work. She was a artist of violence. A leap, a spin, a devastating kick to the villain's jaw that finally, finally put him down. The sound of impact was like a gunshot.
Silence descended, broken only by the distant wail of sirens. Mirko stood over the unconscious villain, chest heaving, one hand pressed to a deep gash on her thigh. Blood seeped through her white leotard.
The press descended like vultures. Microphones were shoved forward, cameras flashed.
Mirko waved them off with a grunt of irritation. "Beat it. All of you. The show's over."
She turned, her sharp red eyes scanning the chaos until they landed on you. You were still leaning against the bent hydrant, catching your breath. She stalked over, ignoring the reporters still calling her name. Her gait was slightly favoring her injured leg, but her presence was no less intimidating.
She stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the sweat on her skin, the faint metallic tang of blood. Her nose twitched.
"You," she said, her voice a low, gritty thing. "You're coming with me. Now."
It wasn't a question. It was an order. Before you could respond, her hand closed around your bicep. Her grip was like iron. She half-dragged, half-led you through the crowd, her sheer presence parting the sea of people. No one tried to stop her.
Her agency was a ten-minute walk away—a sleek, modern building that screamed efficiency and power, much like the woman herself. She bypassed the main entrance, leading you down a side alley to a private access door. A quick retinal scan and the door hissed open.
The inside was stark and clean. White walls, polished concrete floors. It smelled of antiseptic, lemon cleaner, and underneath it all, the faint, wild scent of... well, rabbit. And Mirko.
She led you into the locker room. It was expansive, lined with sleek metal lockers and benches. A large first-aid kit was mounted on the far wall. She shoved you toward a bench.
"Sit."
You sat. The adrenaline was beginning to fade, leaving a deep, throbbing ache in your back and ribs. You watched as she limped to the first-aid kit, snatching it off the wall with a bit more force than necessary. She dropped it on the bench next to you with a loud clatter.
"Let's see it," she said, her voice all business.
"See what?"
"Don't play dumb. You took that hit for me. Let me see the damage."
Slowly, you peeled off your torn hero jacket and the shirt underneath. Your back was a mess of already-blooming bruises, a nasty scrape from the hydrant running along your spine.
Mirko let out a low whistle, not of sympathy, but of appraisal. "Damn. That's a good one." She soaked a gauze pad with antiseptic. "This'll sting."
She wasn't lying. Her touch was surprisingly deft but utterly devoid of gentleness. She cleaned the wound with brisk, efficient strokes, her fingers firm against your skin. The silence stretched, filled only with your hissed breaths and the sound of her movements.
"You're quiet," she remarked, not looking up from her work.
"Didn't think you wanted chatter."
She snorted. "Usually I don't. But you... you moved fast back there. Didn't freeze. Didn't second-guess. You saw an opening and you took it." She taped a clean bandage over the scrape. Her palm, rough with calluses, rested flat against the small of your back for a moment, a shock of heat against your skin. "I like that."
The praise, delivered in her typical gruff tone, hit you harder than the villain's quirk had. A flush of warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with pain.
She straightened up, and your eyes were drawn to the gash on her thigh. It was still bleeding sluggishly.
"Your turn," you said, nodding toward it.
Her ears flicked. A smirk played on her lips. "Worried about me, hero?"
"Just returning the favor."
She leaned back against the lockers opposite you, extending her injured leg. "Have at it."
You knelt on the cool concrete floor before her. The position felt... charged. Intimate. You took a fresh gauze pad, doused it, and pressed it gently against the cut. Her muscle tensed under your touch, but she didn't flinch. Her skin was warm, incredibly firm. You could feel the raw power coiled in her leg, the same power that had just shattered concrete and bone.
You worked carefully, cleaning away the blood. The silence felt different now. Thicker. Heavier. The air hummed with a new kind of tension, something that had nothing to do with the aftermath of a fight.
You felt her watching you. You looked up.
Her expression had changed. The battle-focus was gone, replaced by something darker, more intense. Her red eyes were half-lidded, fixed on your hands on her thigh. Her smirk had widened into something predatory.
"You really wanna play hero, huh?" she purred, her voice dropping an octave. It was a challenge.
Your hand stilled. "Just finishing the job."
She moved so fast you barely registered it. Her hand shot out and caught your wrist, stopping your movements. Her grip was vice-like.
"The job's done," she said, her tone low and dangerous. "This... this is something else."
She used her hold on your wrist to pull you closer, until you were kneeling right between her legs. Her scent filled your senses—sweat, blood, and that underlying, utterly wild aroma that was uniquely hers.
"You took a hit for me," she murmured, her face inches from yours. Her breath was warm against your lips. "That deserves a proper reward."
And then she kissed you.
It wasn't gentle. It was all teeth and claiming pressure. A conqueror's kiss. One of her hands fisted in your hair, pulling your head back to give her better access, while the other kept its iron grip on your wrist. She tasted like victory and adrenaline.
You kissed her back with equal ferocity, your free hand coming up to grip her hip, your fingers digging into the firm muscle there. A low growl vibrated in her chest, and she bit your lower lip, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make you gasp.
She broke the kiss, her eyes blazing. "I've been watching you. You've got fire. You've got guts." She released your wrist only to grab the front of your undershirt, yanking you to your feet. "Let's see if you can keep up."
She spun you around and shoved you back against the cold metal lockers. The impact rattled your teeth. Before you could react, her body was pressed flush against yours, pinning you. She was shorter than you, but the strength in her compact frame was absolute.
"You think you can handle me?" she breathed against your neck, her teeth scraping your pulse point.
"Try me," you gritted out, the challenge slipping out before you could think.
Her answering laugh was a dark, thrilling sound. "Oh, I plan to."
Her hands were everywhere at once. Ripping what was left of your shirt off. Her palms, rough and capable, raked over your chest, your abdomen, mapping the planes of muscle and the bruises beginning to form. She seemed to appreciate the evidence of the fight, running her fingers over a particularly dark mark on your ribs.
"Good," she muttered, almost to herself. "You can take it."
Then her mouth was on your skin again, biting, sucking, leaving marks of her own. It was a claiming. A branding. Every touch was a testament to her strength, her dominance. You let your head fall back against the locker with a thud, a groan torn from your throat. Your own hands found their way to her, gripping her powerful thighs, hauling her closer until she was grinding against you. The fabric of her leotard was rough against your bare skin.
She pulled back slightly, her chest heaving. Her eyes were wild, pupils blown wide. "You want your reward, hero?" she panted.
"Yes," you growled, the word raw.
In one fluid, powerful motion, she hooked her leg around yours and swept your feet out from under you. You landed on the padded gym mats in the corner of the locker room with a grunt, her on top of you, straddling your hips. She didn't give you a second to recover. Her hands pinned your wrists above your head.
"Then take it," she commanded, leaning down until her lips were by your ear. "But remember—this is my show. You just get to enjoy the ride."
She released your wrists only to make quick work of the rest of your clothes, her movements efficient and impatient. Her own leotard was dealt with just as swiftly, peeled off and tossed aside with a dismissive flick of her wrist.
Then there was nothing between you but skin, sweat, and the electric charge of pure, undiluted want.
She didn't wait. She didn't ask. She positioned herself and sank down onto you in one smooth, devastating motion, her inner muscles clenching around you with shocking, immediate intensity. The sound she made was a sharp, punched-out gasp that turned into a low, satisfied groan. Her head fell back, corded muscles in her neck standing out in stark relief.
"Fuck," she breathed, her voice ragged. "Yeah. That's it."
She began to move, setting a brutal, punishing pace from the start. There was no gentle warm-up, no softness. This was a continuation of the fight—a contest of endurance and will. Her powerful thighs flexed as she rode you, each downward stroke driving the air from your lungs. Her hands were braced on your chest, her short nails digging into your skin.
You gripped her hips, your fingers pressing into the firm flesh, trying to match her rhythm, to meet her thrust for thrust. It was like trying to hold onto a lightning bolt.
"That's it," she encouraged, her voice a husky rasp. "Don't you dare tap out. You wanted this." She leaned forward, her breasts brushing your chest, her mouth finding yours again in a searing, biting kiss. "You can take more than that," she muttered against your lips. "I know you can."
She shifted her angle, and the new friction drew a ragged cry from you. A triumphant grin spread across her face. "There. Right there, isn't it? Come on. Show me what you've got."
Her praise was as relentless as her pace. It fueled you, drove you higher.
"You're so fucking strong," she grunted, her own breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Taking everything I'm giving you. God, look at you."
You could only groan in response, your world narrowing to the feel of her around you, on you, the sight of her powerful body moving above you, the sound of her voice urging you on. You slid one hand up her back, feeling the incredible flex and play of muscle there, and fisted your hand in the soft hair at the nape of her neck. You pulled her down for another kiss, this one messier, more desperate.
She moaned into your mouth, her rhythm stuttering for a second before she redoubled her efforts, her hips pistoning faster. "Yeah... fuck, yeah. Just like that."
You could feel the coil of tension tightening in your gut, a familiar pressure building, but you fought it, unwilling for this to end. She seemed to sense it.
"Not yet," she ordered, her voice thick with arousal. "You don't get to come until I say so." She slowed her pace, drawing out each excruciatingly slow, deep grind that made you see stars. "This is my reward to give. Understand?"
You nodded, gritting your teeth against the overwhelming sensation.
"Good boy," she purred, and the words went straight to your dick.
She kept up the torturous pace for what felt like an eternity, watching your face with predatory satisfaction, drinking in every twitch, every gasp, every suppressed groan. She was in complete control, and she loved it.
Finally, when she judged you were on the very edge of breaking, she picked up the pace again, her own control starting to fray. Her breaths became ragged cries, her movements growing more frantic, less precise.
"Now," she gasped, her body beginning to tremble. "Come for me. Now."
It was all the permission you needed. With a guttural roar that was torn from the depths of your chest, you climaxed, your release hitting you like a tidal wave. Your vision whited out, your entire body seizing up as pleasure, raw and devastating, ripped through you.
Above you, Mirko cried out, a sharp, uninhibited sound as her own orgasm crashed over her. Her body clenched around you like a vise, her back arching spectacularly. She held herself there for a long moment, trembling with the aftershocks, before her strength seemed to leave her all at once. She collapsed forward onto your chest, her head resting in the crook of your neck, her breath hot and ragged against your skin.
For several minutes, the only sounds in the locker room were your combined, heavy breathing and the hum of the fluorescent lights. The cold concrete floor was a stark contrast to the heat of her skin pressed against yours. Her weight was solid, comforting.
Slowly, sensation returned to your limbs. You became aware of the dull, throbbing ache in your back again, the sting of the scratches she'd left on your chest, the pleasant exhaustion saturating every muscle. And her. The rapid beat of her heart against your ribs, the way her ears twitched faintly against your jaw.
She pushed herself up after a while, moving with a languid grace that was a complete contrast to her earlier ferocity. She looked down at you, her expression unreadable for a moment before her usual sharp grin returned, though it was softer around the edges.
"Not bad," she said, her voice still a little hoarse. She swung a leg over and stood up in one fluid motion, seemingly unconcerned with her nudity. She offered you a hand.
You took it, and she hauled you to your feet with effortless strength. Your legs were wobbly. Hers were not.
She tossed you a clean towel from a stack on a shelf. "Don't go getting soft on me," she said, beginning to pull her leotard back on. She moved with a practiced ease, though you noticed she favored her injured leg slightly less now. "I expect you ready for the next one."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't a request. It was a statement of fact. An expectation.
You wiped yourself down and started pulling on your spare clothes from your locker. The silence was comfortable now. The electric tension had dissipated, leaving behind a strange, solid calm.
Once dressed, you both headed for the door. She paused before opening it, turning to look at you one last time. Her red eyes scanned you from head to toe, taking in the new bruises, the marks she'd left, the generally wrecked appearance.
A faint, satisfied smirk touched her lips.
"See you around, hero," she said, and then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her with a final click.
You stood there for a moment longer in the sterile, quiet locker room, the scent of her and sex and battle still hanging in the air. You felt raw. Used. Exhausted.
And you'd never felt better.
Walking out into the cool evening air, you knew one thing for certain. You'd take a hit for her any day of the week. The reward was more than worth it
----------
If you've enjoyed pls leave a review, comment, and add this to your library!
This next section is just for the word count thing(just repeating the story):
The air in downtown Musutafu tasted like concrete dust and ozone. Another villain with a flashy, destructive quirk—this one could generate concussive vibrations strong enough to shake buildings off their foundations. You'd been called in as backup. Mirko was already on the scene, a white-and-pink blur of motion and impact.
You saw her leap from a crumbling overpass, a battle cry tearing from her throat as she drove her heel into the villain's shoulder. The ground shuddered. He roared, swinging a fist that sent a shockwave rippling through the street. You threw up a barrier—your quirk, a kinetic dampening field—just in time to keep a bus from flipping onto a group of civilians.
"Hey! Eyeballs on me, bastard!" Mirko yelled, drawing his attention back to her.
She was breathtaking. All power and grace, a dancer in a warzone. But even she couldn't be everywhere at once. As the villain stomped, sending a fracture line of force racing toward her, you moved.
It wasn't heroic deliberation. It was instinct. You shoved off the ground, crossing the distance in three hard strides, and wrapped your arms around her waist, yanking her out of the direct path. The force caught you both anyway, a concussive blast that sent you skidding across the asphalt. Your back slammed into a fire hydrant. The world whited out for a second.
When your vision cleared, Mirko was already pushing herself off your chest. Her ears were flat against her head, eyes narrowed not in pain, but in furious focus.
"The hell was that?" she snapped, but there was no real heat behind it. She was already turning, muscles coiling. "Don't you dare die on me. I hate paperwork."
Then she was gone, a rocket of pure force. You dragged yourself up, ignoring the screaming pain in your ribs, and reset your barrier. You watched her work. She was a artist of violence. A leap, a spin, a devastating kick to the villain's jaw that finally, finally put him down. The sound of impact was like a gunshot.
Silence descended, broken only by the distant wail of sirens. Mirko stood over the unconscious villain, chest heaving, one hand pressed to a deep gash on her thigh. Blood seeped through her white leotard.
The press descended like vultures. Microphones were shoved forward, cameras flashed.
Mirko waved them off with a grunt of irritation. "Beat it. All of you. The show's over."
She turned, her sharp red eyes scanning the chaos until they landed on you. You were still leaning against the bent hydrant, catching your breath. She stalked over, ignoring the reporters still calling her name. Her gait was slightly favoring her injured leg, but her presence was no less intimidating.
She stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the sweat on her skin, the faint metallic tang of blood. Her nose twitched.
"You," she said, her voice a low, gritty thing. "You're coming with me. Now."
It wasn't a question. It was an order. Before you could respond, her hand closed around your bicep. Her grip was like iron. She half-dragged, half-led you through the crowd, her sheer presence parting the sea of people. No one tried to stop her.
Her agency was a ten-minute walk away—a sleek, modern building that screamed efficiency and power, much like the woman herself. She bypassed the main entrance, leading you down a side alley to a private access door. A quick retinal scan and the door hissed open.
The inside was stark and clean. White walls, polished concrete floors. It smelled of antiseptic, lemon cleaner, and underneath it all, the faint, wild scent of... well, rabbit. And Mirko.
She led you into the locker room. It was expansive, lined with sleek metal lockers and benches. A large first-aid kit was mounted on the far wall. She shoved you toward a bench.
"Sit."
You sat. The adrenaline was beginning to fade, leaving a deep, throbbing ache in your back and ribs. You watched as she limped to the first-aid kit, snatching it off the wall with a bit more force than necessary. She dropped it on the bench next to you with a loud clatter.
"Let's see it," she said, her voice all business.
"See what?"
"Don't play dumb. You took that hit for me. Let me see the damage."
Slowly, you peeled off your torn hero jacket and the shirt underneath. Your back was a mess of already-blooming bruises, a nasty scrape from the hydrant running along your spine.
Mirko let out a low whistle, not of sympathy, but of appraisal. "Damn. That's a good one." She soaked a gauze pad with antiseptic. "This'll sting."
She wasn't lying. Her touch was surprisingly deft but utterly devoid of gentleness. She cleaned the wound with brisk, efficient strokes, her fingers firm against your skin. The silence stretched, filled only with your hissed breaths and the sound of her movements.
"You're quiet," she remarked, not looking up from her work.
"Didn't think you wanted chatter."
She snorted. "Usually I don't. But you... you moved fast back there. Didn't freeze. Didn't second-guess. You saw an opening and you took it." She taped a clean bandage over the scrape. Her palm, rough with calluses, rested flat against the small of your back for a moment, a shock of heat against your skin. "I like that."
The praise, delivered in her typical gruff tone, hit you harder than the villain's quirk had. A flush of warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with pain.
She straightened up, and your eyes were drawn to the gash on her thigh. It was still bleeding sluggishly.
"Your turn," you said, nodding toward it.
Her ears flicked. A smirk played on her lips. "Worried about me, hero?"
"Just returning the favor."
She leaned back against the lockers opposite you, extending her injured leg. "Have at it."
You knelt on the cool concrete floor before her. The position felt... charged. Intimate. You took a fresh gauze pad, doused it, and pressed it gently against the cut. Her muscle tensed under your touch, but she didn't flinch. Her skin was warm, incredibly firm. You could feel the raw power coiled in her leg, the same power that had just shattered concrete and bone.
You worked carefully, cleaning away the blood. The silence felt different now. Thicker. Heavier. The air hummed with a new kind of tension, something that had nothing to do with the aftermath of a fight.
You felt her watching you. You looked up.
Her expression had changed. The battle-focus was gone, replaced by something darker, more intense. Her red eyes were half-lidded, fixed on your hands on her thigh. Her smirk had widened into something predatory.
"You really wanna play hero, huh?" she purred, her voice dropping an octave. It was a challenge.
Your hand stilled. "Just finishing the job."
She moved so fast you barely registered it. Her hand shot out and caught your wrist, stopping your movements. Her grip was vice-like.
"The job's done," she said, her tone low and dangerous. "This... this is something else."
She used her hold on your wrist to pull you closer, until you were kneeling right between her legs. Her scent filled your senses—sweat, blood, and that underlying, utterly wild aroma that was uniquely hers.
"You took a hit for me," she murmured, her face inches from yours. Her breath was warm against your lips. "That deserves a proper reward."
And then she kissed you.
It wasn't gentle. It was all teeth and claiming pressure. A conqueror's kiss. One of her hands fisted in your hair, pulling your head back to give her better access, while the other kept its iron grip on your wrist. She tasted like victory and adrenaline.
You kissed her back with equal ferocity, your free hand coming up to grip her hip, your fingers digging into the firm muscle there. A low growl vibrated in her chest, and she bit your lower lip, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make you gasp.
She broke the kiss, her eyes blazing. "I've been watching you. You've got fire. You've got guts." She released your wrist only to grab the front of your undershirt, yanking you to your feet. "Let's see if you can keep up."
She spun you around and shoved you back against the cold metal lockers. The impact rattled your teeth. Before you could react, her body was pressed flush against yours, pinning you. She was shorter than you, but the strength in her compact frame was absolute.
"You think you can handle me?" she breathed against your neck, her teeth scraping your pulse point.
"Try me," you gritted out, the challenge slipping out before you could think.
Her answering laugh was a dark, thrilling sound. "Oh, I plan to."
Her hands were everywhere at once. Ripping what was left of your shirt off. Her palms, rough and capable, raked over your chest, your abdomen, mapping the planes of muscle and the bruises beginning to form. She seemed to appreciate the evidence of the fight, running her fingers over a particularly dark mark on your ribs.
"Good," she muttered, almost to herself. "You can take it."
Then her mouth was on your skin again, biting, sucking, leaving marks of her own. It was a claiming. A branding. Every touch was a testament to her strength, her dominance. You let your head fall back against the locker with a thud, a groan torn from your throat. Your own hands found their way to her, gripping her powerful thighs, hauling her closer until she was grinding against you. The fabric of her leotard was rough against your bare skin.
She pulled back slightly, her chest heaving. Her eyes were wild, pupils blown wide. "You want your reward, hero?" she panted.
"Yes," you growled, the word raw.
In one fluid, powerful motion, she hooked her leg around yours and swept your feet out from under you. You landed on the padded gym mats in the corner of the locker room with a grunt, her on top of you, straddling your hips. She didn't give you a second to recover. Her hands pinned your wrists above your head.
"Then take it," she commanded, leaning down until her lips were by your ear. "But remember—this is my show. You just get to enjoy the ride."
She released your wrists only to make quick work of the rest of your clothes, her movements efficient and impatient. Her own leotard was dealt with just as swiftly, peeled off and tossed aside with a dismissive flick of her wrist.
Then there was nothing between you but skin, sweat, and the electric charge of pure, undiluted want.
She didn't wait. She didn't ask. She positioned herself and sank down onto you in one smooth, devastating motion, her inner muscles clenching around you with shocking, immediate intensity. The sound she made was a sharp, punched-out gasp that turned into a low, satisfied groan. Her head fell back, corded muscles in her neck standing out in stark relief.
"Fuck," she breathed, her voice ragged. "Yeah. That's it."
She began to move, setting a brutal, punishing pace from the start. There was no gentle warm-up, no softness. This was a continuation of the fight—a contest of endurance and will. Her powerful thighs flexed as she rode you, each downward stroke driving the air from your lungs. Her hands were braced on your chest, her short nails digging into your skin.
You gripped her hips, your fingers pressing into the firm flesh, trying to match her rhythm, to meet her thrust for thrust. It was like trying to hold onto a lightning bolt.
"That's it," she encouraged, her voice a husky rasp. "Don't you dare tap out. You wanted this." She leaned forward, her breasts brushing your chest, her mouth finding yours again in a searing, biting kiss. "You can take more than that," she muttered against your lips. "I know you can."
She shifted her angle, and the new friction drew a ragged cry from you. A triumphant grin spread across her face. "There. Right there, isn't it? Come on. Show me what you've got."
Her praise was as relentless as her pace. It fueled you, drove you higher.
"You're so fucking strong," she grunted, her own breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Taking everything I'm giving you. God, look at you."
You could only groan in response, your world narrowing to the feel of her around you, on you, the sight of her powerful body moving above you, the sound of her voice urging you on. You slid one hand up her back, feeling the incredible flex and play of muscle there, and fisted your hand in the soft hair at the nape of her neck. You pulled her down for another kiss, this one messier, more desperate.
She moaned into your mouth, her rhythm stuttering for a second before she redoubled her efforts, her hips pistoning faster. "Yeah... fuck, yeah. Just like that."
You could feel the coil of tension tightening in your gut, a familiar pressure building, but you fought it, unwilling for this to end. She seemed to sense it.
"Not yet," she ordered, her voice thick with arousal. "You don't get to come until I say so." She slowed her pace, drawing out each excruciatingly slow, deep grind that made you see stars. "This is my reward to give. Understand?"
You nodded, gritting your teeth against the overwhelming sensation.
"Good boy," she purred, and the words went straight to your dick.
She kept up the torturous pace for what felt like an eternity, watching your face with predatory satisfaction, drinking in every twitch, every gasp, every suppressed groan. She was in complete control, and she loved it.
Finally, when she judged you were on the very edge of breaking, she picked up the pace again, her own control starting to fray. Her breaths became ragged cries, her movements growing more frantic, less precise.
"Now," she gasped, her body beginning to tremble. "Come for me. Now."
It was all the permission you needed. With a guttural roar that was torn from the depths of your chest, you climaxed, your release hitting you like a tidal wave. Your vision whited out, your entire body seizing up as pleasure, raw and devastating, ripped through you.
Above you, Mirko cried out, a sharp, uninhibited sound as her own orgasm crashed over her. Her body clenched around you like a vise, her back arching spectacularly. She held herself there for a long moment, trembling with the aftershocks, before her strength seemed to leave her all at once. She collapsed forward onto your chest, her head resting in the crook of your neck, her breath hot and ragged against your skin.
For several minutes, the only sounds in the locker room were your combined, heavy breathing and the hum of the fluorescent lights. The cold concrete floor was a stark contrast to the heat of her skin pressed against yours. Her weight was solid, comforting.
Slowly, sensation returned to your limbs. You became aware of the dull, throbbing ache in your back again, the sting of the scratches she'd left on your chest, the pleasant exhaustion saturating every muscle. And her. The rapid beat of her heart against your ribs, the way her ears twitched faintly against your jaw.
She pushed herself up after a while, moving with a languid grace that was a complete contrast to her earlier ferocity. She looked down at you, her expression unreadable for a moment before her usual sharp grin returned, though it was softer around the edges.
"Not bad," she said, her voice still a little hoarse. She swung a leg over and stood up in one fluid motion, seemingly unconcerned with her nudity. She offered you a hand.
You took it, and she hauled you to your feet with effortless strength. Your legs were wobbly. Hers were not.
She tossed you a clean towel from a stack on a shelf. "Don't go getting soft on me," she said, beginning to pull her leotard back on. She moved with a practiced ease, though you noticed she favored her injured leg slightly less now. "I expect you ready for the next one."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't a request. It was a statement of fact. An expectation.
You wiped yourself down and started pulling on your spare clothes from your locker. The silence was comfortable now. The electric tension had dissipated, leaving behind a strange, solid calm.
Once dressed, you both headed for the door. She paused before opening it, turning to look at you one last time. Her red eyes scanned you from head to toe, taking in the new bruises, the marks she'd left, the generally wrecked appearance.
A faint, satisfied smirk touched her lips.
"See you around, hero," she said, and then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her with a final click.
You stood there for a moment longer in the sterile, quiet locker room, the scent of her and sex and battle still hanging in the air. You felt raw. Used. Exhausted.
And you'd never felt better.
Walking out into the cool evening air, you knew one thing for certain. You'd take a hit for her any day of the week. The reward was more than worth it.
The air in downtown Musutafu tasted like concrete dust and ozone. Another villain with a flashy, destructive quirk—this one could generate concussive vibrations strong enough to shake buildings off their foundations. You'd been called in as backup. Mirko was already on the scene, a white-and-pink blur of motion and impact.
You saw her leap from a crumbling overpass, a battle cry tearing from her throat as she drove her heel into the villain's shoulder. The ground shuddered. He roared, swinging a fist that sent a shockwave rippling through the street. You threw up a barrier—your quirk, a kinetic dampening field—just in time to keep a bus from flipping onto a group of civilians.
"Hey! Eyeballs on me, bastard!" Mirko yelled, drawing his attention back to her.
She was breathtaking. All power and grace, a dancer in a warzone. But even she couldn't be everywhere at once. As the villain stomped, sending a fracture line of force racing toward her, you moved.
It wasn't heroic deliberation. It was instinct. You shoved off the ground, crossing the distance in three hard strides, and wrapped your arms around her waist, yanking her out of the direct path. The force caught you both anyway, a concussive blast that sent you skidding across the asphalt. Your back slammed into a fire hydrant. The world whited out for a second.
When your vision cleared, Mirko was already pushing herself off your chest. Her ears were flat against her head, eyes narrowed not in pain, but in furious focus.
"The hell was that?" she snapped, but there was no real heat behind it. She was already turning, muscles coiling. "Don't you dare die on me. I hate paperwork."
Then she was gone, a rocket of pure force. You dragged yourself up, ignoring the screaming pain in your ribs, and reset your barrier. You watched her work. She was a artist of violence. A leap, a spin, a devastating kick to the villain's jaw that finally, finally put him down. The sound of impact was like a gunshot.
Silence descended, broken only by the distant wail of sirens. Mirko stood over the unconscious villain, chest heaving, one hand pressed to a deep gash on her thigh. Blood seeped through her white leotard.
The press descended like vultures. Microphones were shoved forward, cameras flashed.
Mirko waved them off with a grunt of irritation. "Beat it. All of you. The show's over."
She turned, her sharp red eyes scanning the chaos until they landed on you. You were still leaning against the bent hydrant, catching your breath. She stalked over, ignoring the reporters still calling her name. Her gait was slightly favoring her injured leg, but her presence was no less intimidating.
She stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the sweat on her skin, the faint metallic tang of blood. Her nose twitched.
"You," she said, her voice a low, gritty thing. "You're coming with me. Now."
It wasn't a question. It was an order. Before you could respond, her hand closed around your bicep. Her grip was like iron. She half-dragged, half-led you through the crowd, her sheer presence parting the sea of people. No one tried to stop her.
Her agency was a ten-minute walk away—a sleek, modern building that screamed efficiency and power, much like the woman herself. She bypassed the main entrance, leading you down a side alley to a private access door. A quick retinal scan and the door hissed open.
The inside was stark and clean. White walls, polished concrete floors. It smelled of antiseptic, lemon cleaner, and underneath it all, the faint, wild scent of... well, rabbit. And Mirko.
She led you into the locker room. It was expansive, lined with sleek metal lockers and benches. A large first-aid kit was mounted on the far wall. She shoved you toward a bench.
"Sit."
You sat. The adrenaline was beginning to fade, leaving a deep, throbbing ache in your back and ribs. You watched as she limped to the first-aid kit, snatching it off the wall with a bit more force than necessary. She dropped it on the bench next to you with a loud clatter.
"Let's see it," she said, her voice all business.
"See what?"
"Don't play dumb. You took that hit for me. Let me see the damage."
Slowly, you peeled off your torn hero jacket and the shirt underneath. Your back was a mess of already-blooming bruises, a nasty scrape from the hydrant running along your spine.
Mirko let out a low whistle, not of sympathy, but of appraisal. "Damn. That's a good one." She soaked a gauze pad with antiseptic. "This'll sting."
She wasn't lying. Her touch was surprisingly deft but utterly devoid of gentleness. She cleaned the wound with brisk, efficient strokes, her fingers firm against your skin. The silence stretched, filled only with your hissed breaths and the sound of her movements.
"You're quiet," she remarked, not looking up from her work.
"Didn't think you wanted chatter."
She snorted. "Usually I don't. But you... you moved fast back there. Didn't freeze. Didn't second-guess. You saw an opening and you took it." She taped a clean bandage over the scrape. Her palm, rough with calluses, rested flat against the small of your back for a moment, a shock of heat against your skin. "I like that."
The praise, delivered in her typical gruff tone, hit you harder than the villain's quirk had. A flush of warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with pain.
She straightened up, and your eyes were drawn to the gash on her thigh. It was still bleeding sluggishly.
"Your turn," you said, nodding toward it.
Her ears flicked. A smirk played on her lips. "Worried about me, hero?"
"Just returning the favor."
She leaned back against the lockers opposite you, extending her injured leg. "Have at it."
You knelt on the cool concrete floor before her. The position felt... charged. Intimate. You took a fresh gauze pad, doused it, and pressed it gently against the cut. Her muscle tensed under your touch, but she didn't flinch. Her skin was warm, incredibly firm. You could feel the raw power coiled in her leg, the same power that had just shattered concrete and bone.
You worked carefully, cleaning away the blood. The silence felt different now. Thicker. Heavier. The air hummed with a new kind of tension, something that had nothing to do with the aftermath of a fight.
You felt her watching you. You looked up.
Her expression had changed. The battle-focus was gone, replaced by something darker, more intense. Her red eyes were half-lidded, fixed on your hands on her thigh. Her smirk had widened into something predatory.
"You really wanna play hero, huh?" she purred, her voice dropping an octave. It was a challenge.
Your hand stilled. "Just finishing the job."
She moved so fast you barely registered it. Her hand shot out and caught your wrist, stopping your movements. Her grip was vice-like.
"The job's done," she said, her tone low and dangerous. "This... this is something else."
She used her hold on your wrist to pull you closer, until you were kneeling right between her legs. Her scent filled your senses—sweat, blood, and that underlying, utterly wild aroma that was uniquely hers.
"You took a hit for me," she murmured, her face inches from yours. Her breath was warm against your lips. "That deserves a proper reward."
And then she kissed you.
It wasn't gentle. It was all teeth and claiming pressure. A conqueror's kiss. One of her hands fisted in your hair, pulling your head back to give her better access, while the other kept its iron grip on your wrist. She tasted like victory and adrenaline.
You kissed her back with equal ferocity, your free hand coming up to grip her hip, your fingers digging into the firm muscle there. A low growl vibrated in her chest, and she bit your lower lip, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make you gasp.
She broke the kiss, her eyes blazing. "I've been watching you. You've got fire. You've got guts." She released your wrist only to grab the front of your undershirt, yanking you to your feet. "Let's see if you can keep up."
She spun you around and shoved you back against the cold metal lockers. The impact rattled your teeth. Before you could react, her body was pressed flush against yours, pinning you. She was shorter than you, but the strength in her compact frame was absolute.
"You think you can handle me?" she breathed against your neck, her teeth scraping your pulse point.
"Try me," you gritted out, the challenge slipping out before you could think.
Her answering laugh was a dark, thrilling sound. "Oh, I plan to."
Her hands were everywhere at once. Ripping what was left of your shirt off. Her palms, rough and capable, raked over your chest, your abdomen, mapping the planes of muscle and the bruises beginning to form. She seemed to appreciate the evidence of the fight, running her fingers over a particularly dark mark on your ribs.
"Good," she muttered, almost to herself. "You can take it."
Then her mouth was on your skin again, biting, sucking, leaving marks of her own. It was a claiming. A branding. Every touch was a testament to her strength, her dominance. You let your head fall back against the locker with a thud, a groan torn from your throat. Your own hands found their way to her, gripping her powerful thighs, hauling her closer until she was grinding against you. The fabric of her leotard was rough against your bare skin.
She pulled back slightly, her chest heaving. Her eyes were wild, pupils blown wide. "You want your reward, hero?" she panted.
"Yes," you growled, the word raw.
In one fluid, powerful motion, she hooked her leg around yours and swept your feet out from under you. You landed on the padded gym mats in the corner of the locker room with a grunt, her on top of you, straddling your hips. She didn't give you a second to recover. Her hands pinned your wrists above your head.
"Then take it," she commanded, leaning down until her lips were by your ear. "But remember—this is my show. You just get to enjoy the ride."
She released your wrists only to make quick work of the rest of your clothes, her movements efficient and impatient. Her own leotard was dealt with just as swiftly, peeled off and tossed aside with a dismissive flick of her wrist.
Then there was nothing between you but skin, sweat, and the electric charge of pure, undiluted want.
She didn't wait. She didn't ask. She positioned herself and sank down onto you in one smooth, devastating motion, her inner muscles clenching around you with shocking, immediate intensity. The sound she made was a sharp, punched-out gasp that turned into a low, satisfied groan. Her head fell back, corded muscles in her neck standing out in stark relief.
"Fuck," she breathed, her voice ragged. "Yeah. That's it."
She began to move, setting a brutal, punishing pace from the start. There was no gentle warm-up, no softness. This was a continuation of the fight—a contest of endurance and will. Her powerful thighs flexed as she rode you, each downward stroke driving the air from your lungs. Her hands were braced on your chest, her short nails digging into your skin.
You gripped her hips, your fingers pressing into the firm flesh, trying to match her rhythm, to meet her thrust for thrust. It was like trying to hold onto a lightning bolt.
"That's it," she encouraged, her voice a husky rasp. "Don't you dare tap out. You wanted this." She leaned forward, her breasts brushing your chest, her mouth finding yours again in a searing, biting kiss. "You can take more than that," she muttered against your lips. "I know you can."
She shifted her angle, and the new friction drew a ragged cry from you. A triumphant grin spread across her face. "There. Right there, isn't it? Come on. Show me what you've got."
Her praise was as relentless as her pace. It fueled you, drove you higher.
"You're so fucking strong," she grunted, her own breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Taking everything I'm giving you. God, look at you."
You could only groan in response, your world narrowing to the feel of her around you, on you, the sight of her powerful body moving above you, the sound of her voice urging you on. You slid one hand up her back, feeling the incredible flex and play of muscle there, and fisted your hand in the soft hair at the nape of her neck. You pulled her down for another kiss, this one messier, more desperate.
She moaned into your mouth, her rhythm stuttering for a second before she redoubled her efforts, her hips pistoning faster. "Yeah... fuck, yeah. Just like that."
You could feel the coil of tension tightening in your gut, a familiar pressure building, but you fought it, unwilling for this to end. She seemed to sense it.
"Not yet," she ordered, her voice thick with arousal. "You don't get to come until I say so." She slowed her pace, drawing out each excruciatingly slow, deep grind that made you see stars. "This is my reward to give. Understand?"
You nodded, gritting your teeth against the overwhelming sensation.
"Good boy," she purred, and the words went straight to your dick.
She kept up the torturous pace for what felt like an eternity, watching your face with predatory satisfaction, drinking in every twitch, every gasp, every suppressed groan. She was in complete control, and she loved it.
Finally, when she judged you were on the very edge of breaking, she picked up the pace again, her own control starting to fray. Her breaths became ragged cries, her movements growing more frantic, less precise.
"Now," she gasped, her body beginning to tremble. "Come for me. Now."
It was all the permission you needed. With a guttural roar that was torn from the depths of your chest, you climaxed, your release hitting you like a tidal wave. Your vision whited out, your entire body seizing up as pleasure, raw and devastating, ripped through you.
Above you, Mirko cried out, a sharp, uninhibited sound as her own orgasm crashed over her. Her body clenched around you like a vise, her back arching spectacularly. She held herself there for a long moment, trembling with the aftershocks, before her strength seemed to leave her all at once. She collapsed forward onto your chest, her head resting in the crook of your neck, her breath hot and ragged against your skin.
For several minutes, the only sounds in the locker room were your combined, heavy breathing and the hum of the fluorescent lights. The cold concrete floor was a stark contrast to the heat of her skin pressed against yours. Her weight was solid, comforting.
Slowly, sensation returned to your limbs. You became aware of the dull, throbbing ache in your back again, the sting of the scratches she'd left on your chest, the pleasant exhaustion saturating every muscle. And her. The rapid beat of her heart against your ribs, the way her ears twitched faintly against your jaw.
She pushed herself up after a while, moving with a languid grace that was a complete contrast to her earlier ferocity. She looked down at you, her expression unreadable for a moment before her usual sharp grin returned, though it was softer around the edges.
"Not bad," she said, her voice still a little hoarse. She swung a leg over and stood up in one fluid motion, seemingly unconcerned with her nudity. She offered you a hand.
You took it, and she hauled you to your feet with effortless strength. Your legs were wobbly. Hers were not.
She tossed you a clean towel from a stack on a shelf. "Don't go getting soft on me," she said, beginning to pull her leotard back on. She moved with a practiced ease, though you noticed she favored her injured leg slightly less now. "I expect you ready for the next one."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't a request. It was a statement of fact. An expectation.
You wiped yourself down and started pulling on your spare clothes from your locker. The silence was comfortable now. The electric tension had dissipated, leaving behind a strange, solid calm.
Once dressed, you both headed for the door. She paused before opening it, turning to look at you one last time. Her red eyes scanned you from head to toe, taking in the new bruises, the marks she'd left, the generally wrecked appearance.
A faint, satisfied smirk touched her lips.
"See you around, hero," she said, and then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her with a final click.
You stood there for a moment longer in the sterile, quiet locker room, the scent of her and sex and battle still hanging in the air. You felt raw. Used. Exhausted.
And you'd never felt better.
Walking out into the cool evening air, you knew one thing for certain. You'd take a hit for her any day of the week. The reward was more than worth it.
The air in downtown Musutafu tasted like concrete dust and ozone. Another villain with a flashy, destructive quirk—this one could generate concussive vibrations strong enough to shake buildings off their foundations. You'd been called in as backup. Mirko was already on the scene, a white-and-pink blur of motion and impact.
You saw her leap from a crumbling overpass, a battle cry tearing from her throat as she drove her heel into the villain's shoulder. The ground shuddered. He roared, swinging a fist that sent a shockwave rippling through the street. You threw up a barrier—your quirk, a kinetic dampening field—just in time to keep a bus from flipping onto a group of civilians.
"Hey! Eyeballs on me, bastard!" Mirko yelled, drawing his attention back to her.
She was breathtaking. All power and grace, a dancer in a warzone. But even she couldn't be everywhere at once. As the villain stomped, sending a fracture line of force racing toward her, you moved.
It wasn't heroic deliberation. It was instinct. You shoved off the ground, crossing the distance in three hard strides, and wrapped your arms around her waist, yanking her out of the direct path. The force caught you both anyway, a concussive blast that sent you skidding across the asphalt. Your back slammed into a fire hydrant. The world whited out for a second.
When your vision cleared, Mirko was already pushing herself off your chest. Her ears were flat against her head, eyes narrowed not in pain, but in furious focus.
"The hell was that?" she snapped, but there was no real heat behind it. She was already turning, muscles coiling. "Don't you dare die on me. I hate paperwork."
Then she was gone, a rocket of pure force. You dragged yourself up, ignoring the screaming pain in your ribs, and reset your barrier. You watched her work. She was a artist of violence. A leap, a spin, a devastating kick to the villain's jaw that finally, finally put him down. The sound of impact was like a gunshot.
Silence descended, broken only by the distant wail of sirens. Mirko stood over the unconscious villain, chest heaving, one hand pressed to a deep gash on her thigh. Blood seeped through her white leotard.
The press descended like vultures. Microphones were shoved forward, cameras flashed.
Mirko waved them off with a grunt of irritation. "Beat it. All of you. The show's over."
She turned, her sharp red eyes scanning the chaos until they landed on you. You were still leaning against the bent hydrant, catching your breath. She stalked over, ignoring the reporters still calling her name. Her gait was slightly favoring her injured leg, but her presence was no less intimidating.
She stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the sweat on her skin, the faint metallic tang of blood. Her nose twitched.
"You," she said, her voice a low, gritty thing. "You're coming with me. Now."
It wasn't a question. It was an order. Before you could respond, her hand closed around your bicep. Her grip was like iron. She half-dragged, half-led you through the crowd, her sheer presence parting the sea of people. No one tried to stop her.
Her agency was a ten-minute walk away—a sleek, modern building that screamed efficiency and power, much like the woman herself. She bypassed the main entrance, leading you down a side alley to a private access door. A quick retinal scan and the door hissed open.
The inside was stark and clean. White walls, polished concrete floors. It smelled of antiseptic, lemon cleaner, and underneath it all, the faint, wild scent of... well, rabbit. And Mirko.
She led you into the locker room. It was expansive, lined with sleek metal lockers and benches. A large first-aid kit was mounted on the far wall. She shoved you toward a bench.
"Sit."
You sat. The adrenaline was beginning to fade, leaving a deep, throbbing ache in your back and ribs. You watched as she limped to the first-aid kit, snatching it off the wall with a bit more force than necessary. She dropped it on the bench next to you with a loud clatter.
"Let's see it," she said, her voice all business.
"See what?"
"Don't play dumb. You took that hit for me. Let me see the damage."
Slowly, you peeled off your torn hero jacket and the shirt underneath. Your back was a mess of already-blooming bruises, a nasty scrape from the hydrant running along your spine.
Mirko let out a low whistle, not of sympathy, but of appraisal. "Damn. That's a good one." She soaked a gauze pad with antiseptic. "This'll sting."
She wasn't lying. Her touch was surprisingly deft but utterly devoid of gentleness. She cleaned the wound with brisk, efficient strokes, her fingers firm against your skin. The silence stretched, filled only with your hissed breaths and the sound of her movements.
"You're quiet," she remarked, not looking up from her work.
"Didn't think you wanted chatter."
She snorted. "Usually I don't. But you... you moved fast back there. Didn't freeze. Didn't second-guess. You saw an opening and you took it." She taped a clean bandage over the scrape. Her palm, rough with calluses, rested flat against the small of your back for a moment, a shock of heat against your skin. "I like that."
The praise, delivered in her typical gruff tone, hit you harder than the villain's quirk had. A flush of warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with pain.
She straightened up, and your eyes were drawn to the gash on her thigh. It was still bleeding sluggishly.
"Your turn," you said, nodding toward it.
Her ears flicked. A smirk played on her lips. "Worried about me, hero?"
"Just returning the favor."
She leaned back against the lockers opposite you, extending her injured leg. "Have at it."
You knelt on the cool concrete floor before her. The position felt... charged. Intimate. You took a fresh gauze pad, doused it, and pressed it gently against the cut. Her muscle tensed under your touch, but she didn't flinch. Her skin was warm, incredibly firm. You could feel the raw power coiled in her leg, the same power that had just shattered concrete and bone.
You worked carefully, cleaning away the blood. The silence felt different now. Thicker. Heavier. The air hummed with a new kind of tension, something that had nothing to do with the aftermath of a fight.
You felt her watching you. You looked up.
Her expression had changed. The battle-focus was gone, replaced by something darker, more intense. Her red eyes were half-lidded, fixed on your hands on her thigh. Her smirk had widened into something predatory.
"You really wanna play hero, huh?" she purred, her voice dropping an octave. It was a challenge.
Your hand stilled. "Just finishing the job."
She moved so fast you barely registered it. Her hand shot out and caught your wrist, stopping your movements. Her grip was vice-like.
"The job's done," she said, her tone low and dangerous. "This... this is something else."
She used her hold on your wrist to pull you closer, until you were kneeling right between her legs. Her scent filled your senses—sweat, blood, and that underlying, utterly wild aroma that was uniquely hers.
"You took a hit for me," she murmured, her face inches from yours. Her breath was warm against your lips. "That deserves a proper reward."
And then she kissed you.
It wasn't gentle. It was all teeth and claiming pressure. A conqueror's kiss. One of her hands fisted in your hair, pulling your head back to give her better access, while the other kept its iron grip on your wrist. She tasted like victory and adrenaline.
You kissed her back with equal ferocity, your free hand coming up to grip her hip, your fingers digging into the firm muscle there. A low growl vibrated in her chest, and she bit your lower lip, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make you gasp.
She broke the kiss, her eyes blazing. "I've been watching you. You've got fire. You've got guts." She released your wrist only to grab the front of your undershirt, yanking you to your feet. "Let's see if you can keep up."
She spun you around and shoved you back against the cold metal lockers. The impact rattled your teeth. Before you could react, her body was pressed flush against yours, pinning you. She was shorter than you, but the strength in her compact frame was absolute.
"You think you can handle me?" she breathed against your neck, her teeth scraping your pulse point.
"Try me," you gritted out, the challenge slipping out before you could think.
Her answering laugh was a dark, thrilling sound. "Oh, I plan to."
Her hands were everywhere at once. Ripping what was left of your shirt off. Her palms, rough and capable, raked over your chest, your abdomen, mapping the planes of muscle and the bruises beginning to form. She seemed to appreciate the evidence of the fight, running her fingers over a particularly dark mark on your ribs.
"Good," she muttered, almost to herself. "You can take it."
Then her mouth was on your skin again, biting, sucking, leaving marks of her own. It was a claiming. A branding. Every touch was a testament to her strength, her dominance. You let your head fall back against the locker with a thud, a groan torn from your throat. Your own hands found their way to her, gripping her powerful thighs, hauling her closer until she was grinding against you. The fabric of her leotard was rough against your bare skin.
She pulled back slightly, her chest heaving. Her eyes were wild, pupils blown wide. "You want your reward, hero?" she panted.
"Yes," you growled, the word raw.
In one fluid, powerful motion, she hooked her leg around yours and swept your feet out from under you. You landed on the padded gym mats in the corner of the locker room with a grunt, her on top of you, straddling your hips. She didn't give you a second to recover. Her hands pinned your wrists above your head.
"Then take it," she commanded, leaning down until her lips were by your ear. "But remember—this is my show. You just get to enjoy the ride."
She released your wrists only to make quick work of the rest of your clothes, her movements efficient and impatient. Her own leotard was dealt with just as swiftly, peeled off and tossed aside with a dismissive flick of her wrist.
Then there was nothing between you but skin, sweat, and the electric charge of pure, undiluted want.
She didn't wait. She didn't ask. She positioned herself and sank down onto you in one smooth, devastating motion, her inner muscles clenching around you with shocking, immediate intensity. The sound she made was a sharp, punched-out gasp that turned into a low, satisfied groan. Her head fell back, corded muscles in her neck standing out in stark relief.
"Fuck," she breathed, her voice ragged. "Yeah. That's it."
She began to move, setting a brutal, punishing pace from the start. There was no gentle warm-up, no softness. This was a continuation of the fight—a contest of endurance and will. Her powerful thighs flexed as she rode you, each downward stroke driving the air from your lungs. Her hands were braced on your chest, her short nails digging into your skin.
You gripped her hips, your fingers pressing into the firm flesh, trying to match her rhythm, to meet her thrust for thrust. It was like trying to hold onto a lightning bolt.
"That's it," she encouraged, her voice a husky rasp. "Don't you dare tap out. You wanted this." She leaned forward, her breasts brushing your chest, her mouth finding yours again in a searing, biting kiss. "You can take more than that," she muttered against your lips. "I know you can."
She shifted her angle, and the new friction drew a ragged cry from you. A triumphant grin spread across her face. "There. Right there, isn't it? Come on. Show me what you've got."
Her praise was as relentless as her pace. It fueled you, drove you higher.
"You're so fucking strong," she grunted, her own breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Taking everything I'm giving you. God, look at you."
You could only groan in response, your world narrowing to the feel of her around you, on you, the sight of her powerful body moving above you, the sound of her voice urging you on. You slid one hand up her back, feeling the incredible flex and play of muscle there, and fisted your hand in the soft hair at the nape of her neck. You pulled her down for another kiss, this one messier, more desperate.
She moaned into your mouth, her rhythm stuttering for a second before she redoubled her efforts, her hips pistoning faster. "Yeah... fuck, yeah. Just like that."
You could feel the coil of tension tightening in your gut, a familiar pressure building, but you fought it, unwilling for this to end. She seemed to sense it.
"Not yet," she ordered, her voice thick with arousal. "You don't get to come until I say so." She slowed her pace, drawing out each excruciatingly slow, deep grind that made you see stars. "This is my reward to give. Understand?"
You nodded, gritting your teeth against the overwhelming sensation.
"Good boy," she purred, and the words went straight to your dick.
She kept up the torturous pace for what felt like an eternity, watching your face with predatory satisfaction, drinking in every twitch, every gasp, every suppressed groan. She was in complete control, and she loved it.
Finally, when she judged you were on the very edge of breaking, she picked up the pace again, her own control starting to fray. Her breaths became ragged cries, her movements growing more frantic, less precise.
"Now," she gasped, her body beginning to tremble. "Come for me. Now."
It was all the permission you needed. With a guttural roar that was torn from the depths of your chest, you climaxed, your release hitting you like a tidal wave. Your vision whited out, your entire body seizing up as pleasure, raw and devastating, ripped through you.
Above you, Mirko cried out, a sharp, uninhibited sound as her own orgasm crashed over her. Her body clenched around you like a vise, her back arching spectacularly. She held herself there for a long moment, trembling with the aftershocks, before her strength seemed to leave her all at once. She collapsed forward onto your chest, her head resting in the crook of your neck, her breath hot and ragged against your skin.
For several minutes, the only sounds in the locker room were your combined, heavy breathing and the hum of the fluorescent lights. The cold concrete floor was a stark contrast to the heat of her skin pressed against yours. Her weight was solid, comforting.
Slowly, sensation returned to your limbs. You became aware of the dull, throbbing ache in your back again, the sting of the scratches she'd left on your chest, the pleasant exhaustion saturating every muscle. And her. The rapid beat of her heart against your ribs, the way her ears twitched faintly against your jaw.
She pushed herself up after a while, moving with a languid grace that was a complete contrast to her earlier ferocity. She looked down at you, her expression unreadable for a moment before her usual sharp grin returned, though it was softer around the edges.
"Not bad," she said, her voice still a little hoarse. She swung a leg over and stood up in one fluid motion, seemingly unconcerned with her nudity. She offered you a hand.
You took it, and she hauled you to your feet with effortless strength. Your legs were wobbly. Hers were not.
She tossed you a clean towel from a stack on a shelf. "Don't go getting soft on me," she said, beginning to pull her leotard back on. She moved with a practiced ease, though you noticed she favored her injured leg slightly less now. "I expect you ready for the next one."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't a request. It was a statement of fact. An expectation.
You wiped yourself down and started pulling on your spare clothes from your locker. The silence was comfortable now. The electric tension had dissipated, leaving behind a strange, solid calm.
Once dressed, you both headed for the door. She paused before opening it, turning to look at you one last time. Her red eyes scanned you from head to toe, taking in the new bruises, the marks she'd left, the generally wrecked appearance.
A faint, satisfied smirk touched her lips.
"See you around, hero," she said, and then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her with a final click.
You stood there for a moment longer in the sterile, quiet locker room, the scent of her and sex and battle still hanging in the air. You felt raw. Used. Exhausted.
And you'd never felt better.
Walking out into the cool evening air, you knew one thing for certain. You'd take a hit for her any day of the week. The reward was more than worth it.
The air in downtown Musutafu tasted like concrete dust and ozone. Another villain with a flashy, destructive quirk—this one could generate concussive vibrations strong enough to shake buildings off their foundations. You'd been called in as backup. Mirko was already on the scene, a white-and-pink blur of motion and impact.
You saw her leap from a crumbling overpass, a battle cry tearing from her throat as she drove her heel into the villain's shoulder. The ground shuddered. He roared, swinging a fist that sent a shockwave rippling through the street. You threw up a barrier—your quirk, a kinetic dampening field—just in time to keep a bus from flipping onto a group of civilians.
"Hey! Eyeballs on me, bastard!" Mirko yelled, drawing his attention back to her.
She was breathtaking. All power and grace, a dancer in a warzone. But even she couldn't be everywhere at once. As the villain stomped, sending a fracture line of force racing toward her, you moved.
It wasn't heroic deliberation. It was instinct. You shoved off the ground, crossing the distance in three hard strides, and wrapped your arms around her waist, yanking her out of the direct path. The force caught you both anyway, a concussive blast that sent you skidding across the asphalt. Your back slammed into a fire hydrant. The world whited out for a second.
When your vision cleared, Mirko was already pushing herself off your chest. Her ears were flat against her head, eyes narrowed not in pain, but in furious focus.
"The hell was that?" she snapped, but there was no real heat behind it. She was already turning, muscles coiling. "Don't you dare die on me. I hate paperwork."
Then she was gone, a rocket of pure force. You dragged yourself up, ignoring the screaming pain in your ribs, and reset your barrier. You watched her work. She was a artist of violence. A leap, a spin, a devastating kick to the villain's jaw that finally, finally put him down. The sound of impact was like a gunshot.
Silence descended, broken only by the distant wail of sirens. Mirko stood over the unconscious villain, chest heaving, one hand pressed to a deep gash on her thigh. Blood seeped through her white leotard.
The press descended like vultures. Microphones were shoved forward, cameras flashed.
Mirko waved them off with a grunt of irritation. "Beat it. All of you. The show's over."
She turned, her sharp red eyes scanning the chaos until they landed on you. You were still leaning against the bent hydrant, catching your breath. She stalked over, ignoring the reporters still calling her name. Her gait was slightly favoring her injured leg, but her presence was no less intimidating.
She stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the sweat on her skin, the faint metallic tang of blood. Her nose twitched.
"You," she said, her voice a low, gritty thing. "You're coming with me. Now."
It wasn't a question. It was an order. Before you could respond, her hand closed around your bicep. Her grip was like iron. She half-dragged, half-led you through the crowd, her sheer presence parting the sea of people. No one tried to stop her.
Her agency was a ten-minute walk away—a sleek, modern building that screamed efficiency and power, much like the woman herself. She bypassed the main entrance, leading you down a side alley to a private access door. A quick retinal scan and the door hissed open.
The inside was stark and clean. White walls, polished concrete floors. It smelled of antiseptic, lemon cleaner, and underneath it all, the faint, wild scent of... well, rabbit. And Mirko.
She led you into the locker room. It was expansive, lined with sleek metal lockers and benches. A large first-aid kit was mounted on the far wall. She shoved you toward a bench.
"Sit."
You sat. The adrenaline was beginning to fade, leaving a deep, throbbing ache in your back and ribs. You watched as she limped to the first-aid kit, snatching it off the wall with a bit more force than necessary. She dropped it on the bench next to you with a loud clatter.
"Let's see it," she said, her voice all business.
"See what?"
"Don't play dumb. You took that hit for me. Let me see the damage."
Slowly, you peeled off your torn hero jacket and the shirt underneath. Your back was a mess of already-blooming bruises, a nasty scrape from the hydrant running along your spine.
Mirko let out a low whistle, not of sympathy, but of appraisal. "Damn. That's a good one." She soaked a gauze pad with antiseptic. "This'll sting."
She wasn't lying. Her touch was surprisingly deft but utterly devoid of gentleness. She cleaned the wound with brisk, efficient strokes, her fingers firm against your skin. The silence stretched, filled only with your hissed breaths and the sound of her movements.
"You're quiet," she remarked, not looking up from her work.
"Didn't think you wanted chatter."
She snorted. "Usually I don't. But you... you moved fast back there. Didn't freeze. Didn't second-guess. You saw an opening and you took it." She taped a clean bandage over the scrape. Her palm, rough with calluses, rested flat against the small of your back for a moment, a shock of heat against your skin. "I like that."
The praise, delivered in her typical gruff tone, hit you harder than the villain's quirk had. A flush of warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with pain.
She straightened up, and your eyes were drawn to the gash on her thigh. It was still bleeding sluggishly.
"Your turn," you said, nodding toward it.
Her ears flicked. A smirk played on her lips. "Worried about me, hero?"
"Just returning the favor."
She leaned back against the lockers opposite you, extending her injured leg. "Have at it."
You knelt on the cool concrete floor before her. The position felt... charged. Intimate. You took a fresh gauze pad, doused it, and pressed it gently against the cut. Her muscle tensed under your touch, but she didn't flinch. Her skin was warm, incredibly firm. You could feel the raw power coiled in her leg, the same power that had just shattered concrete and bone.
You worked carefully, cleaning away the blood. The silence felt different now. Thicker. Heavier. The air hummed with a new kind of tension, something that had nothing to do with the aftermath of a fight.
You felt her watching you. You looked up.
Her expression had changed. The battle-focus was gone, replaced by something darker, more intense. Her red eyes were half-lidded, fixed on your hands on her thigh. Her smirk had widened into something predatory.
"You really wanna play hero, huh?" she purred, her voice dropping an octave. It was a challenge.
Your hand stilled. "Just finishing the job."
She moved so fast you barely registered it. Her hand shot out and caught your wrist, stopping your movements. Her grip was vice-like.
"The job's done," she said, her tone low and dangerous. "This... this is something else."
She used her hold on your wrist to pull you closer, until you were kneeling right between her legs. Her scent filled your senses—sweat, blood, and that underlying, utterly wild aroma that was uniquely hers.
"You took a hit for me," she murmured, her face inches from yours. Her breath was warm against your lips. "That deserves a proper reward."
And then she kissed you.
It wasn't gentle. It was all teeth and claiming pressure. A conqueror's kiss. One of her hands fisted in your hair, pulling your head back to give her better access, while the other kept its iron grip on your wrist. She tasted like victory and adrenaline.
You kissed her back with equal ferocity, your free hand coming up to grip her hip, your fingers digging into the firm muscle there. A low growl vibrated in her chest, and she bit your lower lip, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make you gasp.
She broke the kiss, her eyes blazing. "I've been watching you. You've got fire. You've got guts." She released your wrist only to grab the front of your undershirt, yanking you to your feet. "Let's see if you can keep up."
She spun you around and shoved you back against the cold metal lockers. The impact rattled your teeth. Before you could react, her body was pressed flush against yours, pinning you. She was shorter than you, but the strength in her compact frame was absolute.
"You think you can handle me?" she breathed against your neck, her teeth scraping your pulse point.
"Try me," you gritted out, the challenge slipping out before you could think.
Her answering laugh was a dark, thrilling sound. "Oh, I plan to."
Her hands were everywhere at once. Ripping what was left of your shirt off. Her palms, rough and capable, raked over your chest, your abdomen, mapping the planes of muscle and the bruises beginning to form. She seemed to appreciate the evidence of the fight, running her fingers over a particularly dark mark on your ribs.
"Good," she muttered, almost to herself. "You can take it."
Then her mouth was on your skin again, biting, sucking, leaving marks of her own. It was a claiming. A branding. Every touch was a testament to her strength, her dominance. You let your head fall back against the locker with a thud, a groan torn from your throat. Your own hands found their way to her, gripping her powerful thighs, hauling her closer until she was grinding against you. The fabric of her leotard was rough against your bare skin.
She pulled back slightly, her chest heaving. Her eyes were wild, pupils blown wide. "You want your reward, hero?" she panted.
"Yes," you growled, the word raw.
In one fluid, powerful motion, she hooked her leg around yours and swept your feet out from under you. You landed on the padded gym mats in the corner of the locker room with a grunt, her on top of you, straddling your hips. She didn't give you a second to recover. Her hands pinned your wrists above your head.
"Then take it," she commanded, leaning down until her lips were by your ear. "But remember—this is my show. You just get to enjoy the ride."
She released your wrists only to make quick work of the rest of your clothes, her movements efficient and impatient. Her own leotard was dealt with just as swiftly, peeled off and tossed aside with a dismissive flick of her wrist.
Then there was nothing between you but skin, sweat, and the electric charge of pure, undiluted want.
She didn't wait. She didn't ask. She positioned herself and sank down onto you in one smooth, devastating motion, her inner muscles clenching around you with shocking, immediate intensity. The sound she made was a sharp, punched-out gasp that turned into a low, satisfied groan. Her head fell back, corded muscles in her neck standing out in stark relief.
"Fuck," she breathed, her voice ragged. "Yeah. That's it."
She began to move, setting a brutal, punishing pace from the start. There was no gentle warm-up, no softness. This was a continuation of the fight—a contest of endurance and will. Her powerful thighs flexed as she rode you, each downward stroke driving the air from your lungs. Her hands were braced on your chest, her short nails digging into your skin.
You gripped her hips, your fingers pressing into the firm flesh, trying to match her rhythm, to meet her thrust for thrust. It was like trying to hold onto a lightning bolt.
"That's it," she encouraged, her voice a husky rasp. "Don't you dare tap out. You wanted this." She leaned forward, her breasts brushing your chest, her mouth finding yours again in a searing, biting kiss. "You can take more than that," she muttered against your lips. "I know you can."
She shifted her angle, and the new friction drew a ragged cry from you. A triumphant grin spread across her face. "There. Right there, isn't it? Come on. Show me what you've got."
Her praise was as relentless as her pace. It fueled you, drove you higher.
"You're so fucking strong," she grunted, her own breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Taking everything I'm giving you. God, look at you."
You could only groan in response, your world narrowing to the feel of her around you, on you, the sight of her powerful body moving above you, the sound of her voice urging you on. You slid one hand up her back, feeling the incredible flex and play of muscle there, and fisted your hand in the soft hair at the nape of her neck. You pulled her down for another kiss, this one messier, more desperate.
She moaned into your mouth, her rhythm stuttering for a second before she redoubled her efforts, her hips pistoning faster. "Yeah... fuck, yeah. Just like that."
You could feel the coil of tension tightening in your gut, a familiar pressure building, but you fought it, unwilling for this to end. She seemed to sense it.
"Not yet," she ordered, her voice thick with arousal. "You don't get to come until I say so." She slowed her pace, drawing out each excruciatingly slow, deep grind that made you see stars. "This is my reward to give. Understand?"
You nodded, gritting your teeth against the overwhelming sensation.
"Good boy," she purred, and the words went straight to your dick.
She kept up the torturous pace for what felt like an eternity, watching your face with predatory satisfaction, drinking in every twitch, every gasp, every suppressed groan. She was in complete control, and she loved it.
Finally, when she judged you were on the very edge of breaking, she picked up the pace again, her own control starting to fray. Her breaths became ragged cries, her movements growing more frantic, less precise.
"Now," she gasped, her body beginning to tremble. "Come for me. Now."
It was all the permission you needed. With a guttural roar that was torn from the depths of your chest, you climaxed, your release hitting you like a tidal wave. Your vision whited out, your entire body seizing up as pleasure, raw and devastating, ripped through you.
Above you, Mirko cried out, a sharp, uninhibited sound as her own orgasm crashed over her. Her body clenched around you like a vise, her back arching spectacularly. She held herself there for a long moment, trembling with the aftershocks, before her strength seemed to leave her all at once. She collapsed forward onto your chest, her head resting in the crook of your neck, her breath hot and ragged against your skin.
For several minutes, the only sounds in the locker room were your combined, heavy breathing and the hum of the fluorescent lights. The cold concrete floor was a stark contrast to the heat of her skin pressed against yours. Her weight was solid, comforting.
Slowly, sensation returned to your limbs. You became aware of the dull, throbbing ache in your back again, the sting of the scratches she'd left on your chest, the pleasant exhaustion saturating every muscle. And her. The rapid beat of her heart against your ribs, the way her ears twitched faintly against your jaw.
She pushed herself up after a while, moving with a languid grace that was a complete contrast to her earlier ferocity. She looked down at you, her expression unreadable for a moment before her usual sharp grin returned, though it was softer around the edges.
"Not bad," she said, her voice still a little hoarse. She swung a leg over and stood up in one fluid motion, seemingly unconcerned with her nudity. She offered you a hand.
You took it, and she hauled you to your feet with effortless strength. Your legs were wobbly. Hers were not.
She tossed you a clean towel from a stack on a shelf. "Don't go getting soft on me," she said, beginning to pull her leotard back on. She moved with a practiced ease, though you noticed she favored her injured leg slightly less now. "I expect you ready for the next one."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't a request. It was a statement of fact. An expectation.
You wiped yourself down and started pulling on your spare clothes from your locker. The silence was comfortable now. The electric tension had dissipated, leaving behind a strange, solid calm.
Once dressed, you both headed for the door. She paused before opening it, turning to look at you one last time. Her red eyes scanned you from head to toe, taking in the new bruises, the marks she'd left, the generally wrecked appearance.
A faint, satisfied smirk touched her lips.
"See you around, hero," she said, and then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her with a final click.
You stood there for a moment longer in the sterile, quiet locker room, the scent of her and sex and battle still hanging in the air. You felt raw. Used. Exhausted.
And you'd never felt better.
Walking out into the cool evening air, you knew one thing for certain. You'd take a hit for her any day of the week. The reward was more than worth it.