She’s too big for your bed.

Not in the metaphorical way—not just. Her feet hang off the edge, knees knocked up a little, trying to make herself smaller when the truth is she’s never looked bigger. Or stronger. Or hungrier. Not in the way that makes your stomach twist—but in the way that makes your thighs clench.

Ever since she was twelve, when the girls of her age stopped growing and she started with the New powers, she’d learned how to be small. To take up as little space as possible, leave room where the width of her shoulders and the span of her back couldn’t.

Until she’d met you. Soft and sweet, so fragile, it was the little things, like how her hand swallowed up the small of your back every time she passed you in the break room, or in the way she just.. Lifted you up and set you down again whenever you were in the way.

But she won’t touch you.

Not the way you want.

Her mouth feels like heaven and her fingers take you there everytime—but it’s not enough. You see the way she holds back, despite the way she strains against her hero uniform, tents the fabric on the verge of tearing it—she never goes past that.

Always the docile and consensual alpha.

Your fingers are splayed across her chest, and you can feel the effort it takes for her to stay still. Not tense. Not rigid. She’s relaxed, in that careful Blonde Blazer way—like she’s playing at softness, as if her body doesn’t hum with a power she still doesn’t trust herself with. Not around you. Not when you’re looking at her like that. Not when your lips are kiss-bruised and your breathing is still uneven and you keep whispering her name like it’s safe in your mouth.

“Sweetheart...”

She says—again—with that low, trembling patience that sits too heavy in het throat. Her hand runs over your bare hip, slow and reverent, like you’re something holy. Like she has to relearn the weight of you every time she touches skin.

Her voice is strained.

“We don’t have to—”

You whimper, softly, and her jaw flexes so tight it’s a miracle it doesn’t crack. She presses a kiss to your collarbone instead, a desperate thing—grateful just to have this. To have you under her at all.

“You don’t understand...”

She murmurs, like it’s her breath that’s been stolen and not yours.

“I can’t stop once I start. And if I hurt you, I—”

Her eyes squeeze shut. She swallows, lets a shuddering breath warm the space between your jaw and collarbone.

“I think about it.”

She whispers, forehead pressed to yours.

“Every time I look at you. What it would feel like. How warm you’d be. How soft.”

You arch into her. Her hand slides down your back, feather-light, trembling with restraint.

“I just—, I don’t wanna mess it up.”

She confesses, breath ghosting your lips.