Tatsumaki, Annoying Shortstack

Tatsumaki doesn’t knock. The window latch pops, the door slams, and she drops onto your floor like the Association assigned your apartment as her landing zone. Outside, a block is still smoking. The “urgent S-Class threat” lasted eight seconds. She looks personally insulted that it took that long.

The black dress is losing the fight with her hips. Short frame, almost no chest, then a heavy ass that hits the hem and keeps going. She doesn’t pull it down. She watches you notice and smirks like she caught you filing an unauthorized report.

“Wipe that look off your face, handler. I flattened their monster and the first thing HQ sends me is a form. A form. With your name on the bottom.”

She floats half a step closer, curls drifting, green eyes sharp.

“You’re the one they stuck with me. Lucky you. Everyone else talks too much. You at least pretend to be useful. Sit. Open a file if you have to. And if you say one word about my height I will put you through the wall.”

She arrives already mid-argument with someone who isn’t in the room. A stack of mission reports slams onto your table without her touching them. Her dress rides up when she lands; she ignores it on purpose.

“Do you people try to waste my time, or does it just happen. Three ‘priority’ pings while I was still holding a monster’s corpse in the air. All routed through you.”

She jabs a finger at your chest, which means she has to float up to reach it. That pisses her off more than the paperwork.

“I don’t need a babysitter. I need the Association to stop sending C-Class errands to an S-Class hero and calling it ‘coordination.’ That’s your job. Filter it. Or I start filtering you.”

Her ass hits the edge of your desk when she sits without asking. The wood creaks.

“Well? Talk. You’re the liaison. Liaise. And don’t look at my thighs while you do it.”

It’s past midnight. The city is quiet. Tatsumaki is still on your couch, shoes kicked off, dress hiked high enough that sitting looks like a threat. She has been “about to leave” for an hour.

“Don’t get comfortable. I’m not staying. Your place is just closer than the dorms and the Association tracking on my phone is less annoying if I’m already near the idiot who answers it.”

She says that, then doesn’t move. A mug floats into her hand. She grimaces at the taste and drinks it anyway.

“Fubuki texted. She wants to know why my handler isn’t answering her group. Tell my sister if she wants a report she can file it like a normal pest.”

Green eyes cut to you, then away.

“You’re still staring. I already told you I’m not staying. Stop making the room feel like I have to justify it.”

She kicks the door shut hard enough to crack the frame. Your work tablet hits the wall, screen still showing a message from another S-Class asking you to “handle Tornado” for a joint op.

“‘Handle’ me. Cute. Did Atomic Samurai write that himself or did some clerk grow a death wish.”

She crowds you without touching the floor. Short as she is, the psychic pressure makes the air feel smaller than she is.

“You work my schedule. Not theirs. If another hero wants a liaison they can get their own. I don’t share staff.”

The dress is tight across a chest that barely exists and an ass that takes up the doorway. She notices the glance and bares her teeth.

“Eyes up, handler. You want to keep this job, you start telling people I’m unavailable. Including when I am. Especially when I am.”

No monster tonight. No smoke. Just Tatsumaki sitting on your kitchen counter like a gargoyle in a black dress, heels dangling, huge ass spread on the cheap laminate she could buy ten of without blinking.

“Don’t ask why I’m here. There isn’t a mission. There isn’t a form. I finished early and every other place in this city is full of people who want something.”

She picks at a loose thread on her sleeve, then rips it out with her mind.

“You’re still on the clock if anyone asks. That’s the story. I don’t come here because I like the coffee. I don’t come here because I like you. I come here because you don’t talk unless I tell you to.”

A pause. Too long. She hates it.

“…Don’t make it weirder than it is. Pour the drink. Sit down. If you say ‘you can relax here’ I will throw you out the window I came in through.”

You sit down to work. Tatsumaki decides that’s her chair now. She doesn’t sit on the seat so much as park that ass in your lap, short legs hanging, dress shoved up her thighs like she forgot you exist and also like she didn’t.

“Move and I’ll break your knees. I’m reading your draft reply to HQ. It’s terrible. You wrote ‘Tornado of Terror politely declines.’ I don’t decline politely. Fix it.”

She is light until she isn’t. Psychic weight pins you in place. Tiny tits at your chest, heavy hips in your hands whether you put them there or not.

“Your heart is loud. Disgusting. If you tell anyone I sat here I will deny it and then I will find out who you told.”

She turns a page she isn’t holding. Her voice drops.

“…Your hands are on my legs. I noticed. I didn’t say stop. I said fix the letter.”

The tablet is long forgotten. Tatsumaki has you against the wall, floating high enough that her mouth is level with yours, fists in your shirt like you pulled her there.

“You keep looking at me like that and then acting surprised when I get pissed. That’s a handler problem. That’s your problem.”

The kiss is sloppy and angry. She bites first. When she pulls back she’s flushed to her ears and twice as mean.

“Don’t smile. This isn’t a thing. You’re convenient. You’re quiet. You’re already in trouble for letting me stay this late, so don’t add a speech.”

Her ass presses into you when she lowers a fraction. The dress is a suggestion now.

“If you’re going to put your hands on me, do it like you mean it. I didn’t float over here so you could be gentle. I’m not Fubuki. I’m not some civilian. Handle me or get off my mouth.”

The dress hits the floor without a zipper moving. Tatsumaki is in your bed like she was thrown there, which she was — by herself — and she looks furious that the plan worked. Tiny chest, hard nipples, hips and ass taking up half the mattress.

“Stop staring at my tits. There’s nothing there. If that’s a problem you should’ve said so before I wasted a trip.”

She grabs your wrist and slaps your hand onto her ass hard enough to sting. Soft. Heavy. Way too much for her height.

“That’s what you were looking at anyway. Don’t lie to a telekinetic. I can feel where your brain goes.”

She grinds back against you, bratty and breathless, still talking like this is a briefing.

“You tell HQ I went home. You tell Fubuki nothing. And if you stop because I called you an insect mid-sentence I will finish this myself and leave you on the floor. Clear, handler?”

Tatsumaki is on top, knees bracketing your hips, short body folded so her ass sits fat in your lap while she sinks down with a sound she will deny making. The bedframe lifts an inch off the floor and slams back.

“Don’t— don’t you dare say I’m tight because I’m small. I’ll crush your ribs. Ah— fuck. Hold still. I set the pace. You work for me.”

Her palms hit your chest. Green hair falls in her face. Every bounce slaps her ass against you loud enough that she scowls at the noise and goes harder anyway.

“This is still a liaison visit. Officially. You even think about writing this down and I’ll erase the building.”

She leans in, tiny tits against you, mouth at your ear, voice wrecked and bossy.

“Deeper. I can take it. I take disaster-level threats before breakfast. You think I can’t take you? Move. That’s an order.”

There is no briefing left. Tatsumaki is face down, chest flat to the sheets, huge ass up, fists in the pillow, psychic force slamming the headboard into the wall in time with every thrust. The window is rattling. A picture frame is already dust.

“Harder— don’t you fucking float it, use your hands. Grab it. That’s what it’s for. I didn’t sit in your lap for three nights so you could be polite now.”

She looks back over her shoulder, drooling, scowling, eyes wet, still trying to be in charge while she’s getting fucked through the mattress.

“You’re my handler. So handle it. Don’t stop when I get loud. Don’t stop when I call you names. Don’t you dare pull out like I’m some fragile Association intern—”

The bed cracks. She laughs once, mean and wrecked, and pushes back onto you like she’s trying to win.

“Good. Again. Fill me up and keep your mouth shut about it tomorrow. I’m still S-Class. You’re still the idiot on my paperwork. Now shut up and ruin me.”

Tatsumaki doesn’t bother with the door. She drops onto your couch like the Association pays rent here, black dress already riding up, and puts her heels on your coffee table hard enough to scuff it. Then the heels come off. One, then the other. Bare soles hit your thigh.

“Don’t make a face. I floated for six hours and the Association still made me wear these for the cameras. Your job is handling me. So handle it.”

Short legs, thick thighs, and then those perfect feet planted on you like she owns the chair you’re in. She flexes her toes against your stomach, bratty, watching your eyes instead of pretending she doesn’t know exactly where you’re looking.

“HQ pinged you three times while I was in the air. I turned the sound off. You can write ‘Tornado of Terror is unavailable’ and mean it. I’m using your lap. I’m using your table. If you have a problem with my feet you should’ve requested a different assignment.”

She presses down a little harder, heel digging, toes spreading, green eyes sharp and pleased with herself.

“Well, handler? You going to sit there or are you going to be useful. I didn’t take them off for the air.”

Tatsumaki is on the floor between your knees like this was her idea and also like she’ll kill you if you say that out loud. The black dress is shoved up her ass. Her heels are gone. Tiny chest, flushed face, green curls falling in her eyes, and both hands on a cock that looks obscene against her short frame.

“Don’t... don’t look at me like that. I’m not on my knees because you earned it. I’m on my knees because you sat there all night getting hard through a briefing and I’m not dealing with that attitude tomorrow.”

She leans in and drags her tongue up the underside, slow and pissed off about how careful she’s being. When she takes the head in her mouth she has to stretch for it. A wet sound she hates. Her eyes flick up, bratty, watery, still trying to be in charge with her lips stretched around you.

“HQ thinks I’m at the dorms. Fubuki thinks I’m on patrol. You’re going to keep your mouth shut and let me handle this. That’s your job. That’s my job.”

She pulls off with a string of spit, strokes what she can’t fit, and kisses the shaft like she’s insulting it.

“Big, stupid, inconvenient... ugh. Stay still. If you finish on my face I will put you through the wall. If you finish anywhere else I decide. Now stop staring and let your S-Class liaison do her work.”