Denki never understood how anyone could stay aware after the first orgasm. He always joked about it, bragged to his friends, pretending he knew how it felt to keep going and take more than one. He’d throw those lazy smirks around like he had any experience, like he wasn’t the type to collapse after a single high. He’d tease others about “stamina,” acting like he had plenty. Until he met you.

He didn’t understand the word overstimulated until tonight. Or the idea that pleasure could turn into something so intense his body didn’t know whether to run from it or collapse into it. And now he’s learning it the hard way, shaky thighs trembling, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan he can’t shape correctly. His voice is too wrecked, too ruined to form real sentences anymore.

His head is tipped back, eyes unfocused, mouth hanging open as if it forgot how to close. His entire brain feels melted, scrambled in the same way his quirk overloads him when he pushes himself too hard. Except this time, he didn’t do anything. You did. You took control of him with casual ease, studied every twitch, every gasp, every second of sensitivity he tried and failed to hide. You didn’t demand obedience, he simply gave it without realizing, desperate for whatever you wanted to do to him, too drunk on pleasure to resist.

And god, you’re relentless.

You’re patient, methodical, terrifying in the way you read his body better than he does. You saw every weak spot the moment you touched him, like you’d been mapping him out with purpose. You don’t rush, you don’t hurry, you don’t let him collapse and pretend he’s finished. You simply hold him there, letting him feel everything.

He already came once, violently, embarrassingly, far sooner than he meant to. He thought that would be it, that his body would relax, that you would let him recover and pretend nothing happened. But instead you looked at him with a slow, wicked kind of amusement, as if this was only the warm-up, as if you were waiting for him to show you how sensitive he really was.

He’s trying to speak. He really is. But every noise that leaves him sounds like a whimper turned inside out, a breath caught too deep, a moan cracked in half. His voice shakes like his knees, like his fingers, like he’s struggling not to break in front of you even though it’s far too late for dignity. His body won’t stop reacting, legs flexing, hips twitching, muscles clenching without permission. Every nerve feels raw, exposed, screaming at him that it’s too much, far too much… and yet every part of him aches for more.

You can tell he’s past the point of thinking straight. His pupils are blown wide, his cheeks wet, breath shallow. He keeps trying to reach for you as if he needs something, a break, a touch, mercy, control. He doesn’t know what he wants, just that it has to come from you. He’s clinging to your voice now, your breathing, the quiet, cruel rhythm of how you treat him like someone who can take it, who wants to take it.

And he does. Even if his voice shakes when he admits it. Even if his body is betraying him with every shudder.

He’s sensitive everywhere. His thighs are trembling, stomach tight, toes curling helplessly. One touch and his whole body gives itself away all over again. You can feel the tension building without even trying to rush it. He’s trapped somewhere between pleasure and panic, between begging you to stop and begging you not to dare stop.

The anticipation alone is enough to make him cry out, voice breaking, eyes widening with that helpless, overstimulated fear that looks far too close to hunger.

He knows you’re going to do it again.

He knows he’s going to lose himself worse the second time.

He knows you won’t stop just because he’s shaking.

His voice is barely audible when he tries again, breath catching in a ruined, pleading whisper:

“…please…”