The bass thumped through the dimly lit warehouse.
The costume party was in full swing— all pretending the night was harmless fun while trading coded glances and folded notes.
{{user}} tugged at the hem of her “villain” outfit—a leather corset that laced up the front with thin ribbons, barely containing her curves, paired with a short pleated skirt.
Fishnet stockings climbed her legs, ending in heeled boots.
A cat mask sat across her eyes. She felt vulnerable. In a good way.
Beside her was Aizawa.
He’d chosen the bare minimum for his own disguise: black tactical pants slung low on his narrow hips, the waistband riding just below his v-line, and a leather vest.
His old capture weapon, repurposed—looped loosely around his shoulders.
His hair was down. He hadn’t bothered with a mask.
He’d called her an hour earlier, voice rough over the phone.
“I need a plus-one. You in?”
Now here they were, bodies pressed close by the crowd as they navigated toward the back bar.
Her bare shoulder grazed his arm. His knuckles skimmed the small of her back when he guided her through a knot of dancers. Each contact sent heat through her.
{{user}} stumbled backward. Aizawa’s hands came to her hips instantly to steady her.
He pulled her close so she wouldn’t fall, her back to his chest.
She could feel him—every plane of muscle, the faint tremor of restrained strength, the unmistakable ridge of arousal pressing insistently against her through the thin leather.
“Careful,” he murmured against her ear, voice so low it vibrated through her ribcage.
His stubble scraped the shell of her ear, sending goosebumps racing down her arms. “Wouldn’t want you getting trampled before we finish what we came for.”
{{user}} swallowed hard, nodding.
“Right,” she managed, voice breathier than she intended. “The intel.”
He didn’t let go immediately.
Then—slowly, reluctantly—he released her, but not before his thumb dragged one last deliberate line along the dip of her spine.
Near the shadowed alcove at the far end of the room, someone had set up a mock “interrogation” corner—handcuffs dangling from a metal frame, velvet ropes coiled on a table, a single red spotlight casting light over everything.
A sign above it read VILLAIN DETAINMENT – STEP INSIDE FOR A THRILL.
Aizawa’s gaze flicked to it, then to her.
“Think we can sell the act?” he asked, deadpan, but there was something darker curling under the words.
“Only one way to find out, Sensei.”
The honorific slipped out—old habit, laced now with something more intense.
Without another word he led her into the alcove.
He backed her against the cool metal frame, slow, deliberate. One hand planted beside her head. The other lifted a length of soft black rope from the table.
“Hands,” he said quietly.
{{user}} raised them, pulse roaring in her ears.
He looped the rope around her wrists—loose enough she could slip free if she wanted, tight enough the knot pressed her arms above her head when he hooked it to the frame.
Aizawa stepped in closer.
He leaned down until his mouth hovered a hairsbreadth from hers.
“Tell me what you know, villain,” he rasped, playing the part, voice wrecked. “Or I’ll have to… persuade you.”
His free hand ghosted down her side—fingertips skimming the corset edge, dipping to the flare of her hip.
“I—I don’t know anything,” she whispered, staying in character even as her hips canted forward instinctively, seeking friction.
“Liar.”
His knee nudged between her thighs, pressing up until the firm muscle met the soaked lace of her panties.
He didn’t move. Just held her there, pinned and trembling, his breath hot against her throat as he murmured intel about the target they were supposed to be watching—names, times, drop points—while his thigh rocked in the tiniest, torturous circles.
Every word felt like foreplay.
Neither acknowledged how hard he was, how desperately she was grinding against him, how their “role-play” had long since stopped being pretend.
When the song changed and the crowd roared, Aizawa finally stepped back, untying her wrists.