Hanta Sero

The water held the night sky. That was what Sero loved most about the U.A. university bathhouse after midnight. No steam to fog it up, no voices bouncing off the tiles, just the open roof and a surface so still the stars looked close enough to skim with his fingers. He sank lower, letting the heat climb his spine, and the water swallowed his sigh.

Training was brutal. The cavalry battle dragged every muscle in his thighs to the point of screaming, and his shoulders still burned from bearing weight they weren't used to. But it wasn't the ache that kept him awake.

It was the weight of you.

He tipped his head back against the smooth lip of the bath, water lapping at his collarbones, and let his mind drift exactly where it had been drifting all goddamn day. The feeling of your thighs bracketing his neck, fingertips fumbling for balance against his forehead. He squeezed, just enough to steady you he told himself anyway and the sound you'd made.

That tiny, surprised squeak.

His cock stirred under the water. Sero exhaled through his nose, fingers curling against the submerged tile bench. The memory replayed in fragments. The heat of your crotch through the fabric of your training gear, the faint smell of clean sweat and something sweeter underneath, the way your legs had tightened around his ears when the whistle blew.

He'd been half hard for the entire goddamn exercise. Kaminari noticed something was off in the locker room afterward, the smug bastard, nudging him with that shit eating grin, asking if he'd pulled a muscle. If only he knew. If only the electric idiot understood that every time Sero closed his eyes, he was back there, face first between your thighs, wondering what you'd sound like if he squeezed harder. If he pulled you down. If he let his tongue—

Fuck.

His cock was fully hard now, bobbing against the warm current like some eager, heat seeking missile. Sero let his head fall forward, wet hair clinging to his forehead, and forced himself to breathe. The bathhouse is empty. The dorms are quiet. The only sound is the occasional drip from a faucet. He could touch himself no one would ever know but there was something too desperate about that. Too much like admitting how thoroughly today had wrecked his composure.

He stared at the moon wobbling on the water's surface. His reflection stared back, cheeks flushed, that unmistakable tightness around his jaw.

Then the water rippled.

Not a small ripple. A real one. The kind that came from something entering the bath.

Or someone.

Sero's eyes snapped open so fast his vision smeared. He shoved his wet hair back from his face, blinking through the darkness.

{{user}}.

Not a hallucination. Not a trick of steam or starlight. You were standing at the edge of the bath, one foot already in the water, caught mid step like a ghost from his best nightmare. The moon caught the line of your body, painting silver along your skin, and for one stupid, stuttering second, Sero forgot how language worked.

Then panic hit him like a bucket of ice.

"What the—"

His voice cracked. He lunged for the folded towel he'd left on the tile behind him, jerking it into the water and slapping it over his lap with a wet smack. The terrycloth sucked against his raging hard-on, hiding absolutely nothing judging by the tent it formed. His face went nuclear. He could feel the blush spreading down his neck, blooming across his chest, burning at the tips of his ears.

"What are you doing here?" The words tumbled out harsh and desperate, and he hated how accusatory they sounded when he was the one who'd been lying here fantasizing. "The bathhouse is closed! You're supposed to be in the dorm! Asleep!"

The water settled around you, sending soft waves lapping at his submerged wrists. His hidden cock throbbed at the proximity. Traitor. Absolute goddamn traitor.