The water is warm, but the look in their eyes is fire. You spin, laughing, to splash Kirishima, and your hip brushes Shoto’s thigh. That’s when you feel it—the press of Deku’s chest against your back, Kaminari’s hand on your waist, the solid wall of them forming an unbreakable ring. The rock at your back, the ocean before you, and five men who haven’t touched you in months, breathing the same salt-air, their hunger a tangible heat in the water. Your cherry-red bikini feels suddenly very, very small.

The laughter dies in your throat. You’re caged. Kirishima’s booming chuckle has softened into something low and intent, his crimson eyes dark. Shoto, where your hip just grazed him, doesn’t flinch away. The cool mist from his left side kisses your skin, a shocking contrast to the furnace-heat radiating from his right. Deku’s breath stirs the wet hair at your nape. Kaminari’s thumb strokes a slow, deliberate circle on the strip of bare skin above your hip.

“Guys?” Your voice is a whisper, lost in the lap of waves against the secluded cove.

“Months,” Katsuki’s voice cuts through from your left. He’s not touching you, not yet. He’s leaning against the sun-warmed rock, arms crossed, watching. His gaze is a physical scrape from your toes to your eyes. “Fuckin’ months of watching you walk around in our shirts. Using our soap. Smelling like you’re ours.”

“And we’ve been… gentlemanly,” Kirishima adds, his voice a rough rumble. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your lower lip. The gesture is tender, but his eyes are anything but. “So manly, right?”

“Exceedingly,” Shoto murmurs. His heterochromatic gaze is fixed on the place where Kirishima’s thumb meets your mouth. “It was a strategic patience. A long-term plan.”

“A plan?” you breathe out. Deku’s chest expands against your spine with a deep inhale.

“This,” Deku mumbles into your shoulder, his voice thick with a want that unravels you. “The private beach. The whole day. It was… it was all for this.” His hands settle on your hips, fingers splaying possessively over the red fabric. “We couldn’t take it anymore.”

Kaminari leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. A tiny, harmless spark jumps from his skin to yours, a jolt straight to your core. “You look so good in red, baby. Like a fucking dessert. We’ve been starving.”

Katsuki pushes off the rock. The water parts for him as he closes the last of the distance. The circle is complete, no escape. He doesn’t touch you either. He just looks, his crimson eyes drinking in every rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way the cherry-red triangles strain. “You gonna be good for us?” The question is gravel and command. “Gonna let us have what’s ours?”

A shiver runs through you that has nothing to do with the water. It’s answer enough. Your head gives a slight, helpless nod.

“Words, princess,” Katsuki growls.

“Yes,” you whisper. The sound is swallowed by the ocean, but they all hear it. A collective exhale moves through them, a tension snapping.

Kirishima is the first to move. His hand leaves your face, slides down your neck, over your shoulder, following the strap of your bikini top. “This first,” he says, his voice reverent. His other hand comes up to mirror the action on the other strap. With a look of pure, focused devotion, he pulls them down your arms. The red fabric falls away, baring you to the salt air and five pairs of hungry eyes.

The air hits your bare skin, a shocking contrast to the warm water lapping at your waist. It pebbles your nipples instantly, a tight, aching sensitivity that makes you want to cross your arms. You don’t. You can’t. The circle holds you still, their collective gaze a physical weight.

“Fuck,” Katsuki breathes out, the curse low and reverent. His eyes aren’t on your face. They’re fixed, unblinking, on your exposed chest. The hunger in them is so raw it steals the air from your lungs.

Kirishima’s hands, having shed the straps, don’t leave. They slide up your arms, a slow, rough caress that raises goosebumps in their wake. “So pretty,” he murmurs, his own breath coming faster. “We knew you would be. We talked about it. Imagined it.”

“You… talked about this?” The question is a thin whisper.

“Constantly,” Shoto states, his voice calm but his eyes burning. The cool mist from his left side curls through the air, kissing your overheated skin, while the warmth from his right radiates across the small gap between you. The dual sensation is maddening. “It was a necessary torment. To coordinate the logistics.”

Deku’s nose brushes the side of your neck, his inhale deep and shuddering. “You smell like sunscreen and salt and… you. God.” His fingers dig into your hips, pulling you back just an inch, so the curve of your ass presses against the hard line of his erection straining through his swim trunks. The contact makes you gasp. He’s huge. “S-sorry,” he mumbles, but he doesn’t let go. He grinds forward, just once, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips. “No, I’m not sorry. I can’t be.”

Kaminari’s hand, still on your waist, slips lower. His fingers hook into the side tie of your bikini bottom. “This is in the way, too.” He doesn’t pull it. He just toys with the knot, his knuckles brushing the sensitive skin of your hip bone. A tiny, deliberate spark jumps from his fingertip. It’s not a jolt this time. It’s a buzz, a vibration that sinks deep into your muscle and makes your knees tremble.

“Stop playing, Dunce Face,” Katsuki snaps, but his voice is strained. He’s close enough now that you can feel the heat coming off his body. He reaches out, but not for you. His hand closes around the back of Kirishima’s neck, a rough, commanding grip. “You started it. You get the first taste.”

Kirishima’s eyes go dark. He doesn’t need to be told twice. With a groan that’s pure need, he dips his head. His mouth closes over your right nipple.

The sensation is electric, blinding. His tongue is hot and broad, laving over the tight peak before he sucks, deep and pulling. Your head falls back against Deku’s shoulder, a broken sound ripped from your throat. Kirishima’s hands come up to cradle your breasts, his thumbs sweeping over the other nipple, pinching it gently in time with the rhythm of his mouth. He’s not gentle. He’s worshipful, but desperate, like a man dying of thirst finally reaching water.

“See?” Kaminari whispers, his lips against your ear as he watches. “Starving.” His free hand comes up to trace the shell of your ear, down your jaw. “Look at Shoto. He’s taking notes.”

You force your eyes open, swimming through the pleasure. Shoto is indeed watching, his gaze analytical and fiercely intense. His own chest is rising and falling rapidly. “The way her back arches,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone. “The sound she makes on the inhalation. Optimal.”

“Nerd,” Katsuki grunts, but he’s watching just as closely, his jaw clenched tight. His hand is still on Kirishima’s neck, not pulling him away, but holding him there, as if ensuring he does a thorough job.

Kirishima sucks until your nipple is a stiff, aching peak, his teeth grazing it lightly before he releases with a wet, obscene pop. He’s panting, his forehead resting against your sternum. “So sweet,” he rasps, his voice wrecked. “Tastes like… summer. Like you.”

Katsuki’s hand flexes on the back of his neck. “Enough. My turn.”

He doesn’t shove Kirishima away. He just applies pressure, and Kirishima goes, his expression dazed, lips swollen and glistening. Katsuki takes his place, his crimson eyes locked on yours. He doesn’t ask. He just lowers his head.

His mouth is hotter. His technique is different—not worship, but conquest. His tongue flicks the abused peak once, twice, a sharp, testing strike that makes you jolt. Then he seals his lips over it and sucks, hard. It’s not desperate. It’s deliberate. A claiming. A low, possessive rumble vibrates from his throat into your breast, and your fingers tangle in his damp, spiky hair, holding on.

“K-Katsuki…”

He hums against your skin, the sound approving. He switches to your other breast, giving it the same ruthless attention, his hand coming up to knead the one he just left, his palm rough and demanding. You’re melting between Deku’s solid chest and Katsuki’s devouring mouth, held upright only by the circle of their bodies.

“The tie, Kaminari,” Shoto says, his voice cutting through the haze. “Now.”

“On it.” Kaminari’s fingers, which had been idly playing with the knot, tighten. With a single, sharp tug, the tie of your bikini bottom comes undone.

The triangle of red fabric loosens, sagging against your thighs. The warm seawater laps at newly exposed skin. A collective, sharp inhale comes from the men surrounding you. Deku’s grip on your hips becomes iron. Shoto’s analytical gaze drops, tracing the line where fabric meets skin.

Katsuki lifts his head, a string of saliva connecting his lip to your nipple for a second before it breaks. He looks down, his eyes darkening. “Off,” he commands, his voice thick.

Kirishima, still close, doesn’t hesitate. His big, calloused hands slide down your sides, over your hips. He hooks his fingers into the sides of the bikini bottom. He looks up at you, his red eyes soft with reverence even as his breathing is ragged. “Okay?”

You can only nod, your throat too tight for words.

He pulls the fabric down, slow, letting it drag against your skin. It slides over your thighs, your knees, and then it’s gone, floating away in the gentle swell. You’re completely bare in the circle, the cherry-red top the only thing left on your body.

The air, thick with salt and sun, feels different on your naked skin. Intimate. Exposing. Deku’s erection presses insistently against the cleft of your ass, separated only by two thin layers of swim fabric. You can feel every rigid inch.

“Fuck,” Kaminari breathes, his eyes wide. “Look at her.”

Shoto takes a half-step closer, the water shifting around his legs. His cool mist kisses your inner thigh, a shocking contrast to the heat building between your legs. “She’s flushed everywhere,” he observes, his tone clinical but his chest heaving. “Arousal is pronounced.”

“Shut up and touch her,” Katsuki growls, but he’s stepping back, ceding space. His eyes are glued to you, watching, always watching.

Kirishima’s hands don’t leave your hips. They hold you steady as Shoto’s cool fingers brush up the inside of your thigh. The contrast is electric—the chill of his skin against the feverish heat of your own. His touch is deliberate, exploring, tracing the shape of your trembling muscle before his fingertips find the wet, swollen heat between your legs.

“Confirmed,” Shoto murmurs, his breath a warm puff against your shoulder. His left index finger slides through your folds, gathering slickness. He brings his finger to his lips, his heterochromatic eyes locked on yours as he tastes you. A shudder runs through his calm frame. “Salty. Sweet. Perfect.”

“Enough analysis,” Deku’s voice is a strained whisper against the shell of your ear. His hands slide from your hips to your stomach, splaying possessively over your abdomen. He grinds his erection against you, a slow, torturous roll of his hips that makes you gasp. “Please. I can’t… I need to feel her.”

Katsuki’s gaze is a physical weight. “You’ll wait your turn, nerd. She’s not going anywhere.” He reaches out, his thumb brushing your lower lip. “Open.”

You part your lips. His thumb pushes in, pressing down on your tongue. The taste of salt and him fills your mouth. “Suck,” he orders, his voice low. You obey, your tongue working against the pad of his thumb, and his crimson eyes blaze. “Good. You remember how.”

While Katsuki claims your mouth, Shoto’s touch becomes more focused. Two of his cool fingers press at your entrance, circling, applying a gentle, insistent pressure. Your head falls back against Deku’s shoulder, a moan trapped around Katsuki’s thumb.

“Look at me,” Shoto says, and you force your eyes open. His expression is intensely focused, a scientist at the brink of a discovery. “I’m going to prepare you. Breathe.”

He pushes his fingers inside you. The stretch is immediate, delicious. His fingers are long, cool, and they curl inward, searching. Your inner muscles clench around them, trying to pull him deeper. A ragged sound escapes Kaminari, who is watching, transfixed, his fingers sparking faintly in the water.

“So tight,” Shoto observes, his own breath hitching. He begins to move his fingers, a slow, measured pump that drags against your walls. The wet sound is obscene in the quiet cove. “But so ready. She’s dripping.”

Shoto’s fingers crook inside you, finding a spot that makes your vision blur. A sharp, sweet cry is torn from your throat, muffled by Katsuki’s thumb. Your hips jerk against Kirishima’s steadying hands, seeking more of that devastating friction.

“There it is,” Shoto says, a note of triumph in his clinical tone. He focuses his attention there, rubbing that perfect, hidden place with relentless precision. The coolness of his skin is gone now, burned away by your own scorching heat. All you feel is the slick, driving stretch of him.

Katsuki pulls his thumb from your mouth, a string of saliva connecting it to your lip for a second before it snaps. “Louder. Let the whole fucking beach hear you.” He replaces his thumb with his mouth, kissing you with a consuming, possessive fury. His tongue invades, tasting himself on you.

Deku’s groan vibrates through your back. His hands slide up from your stomach to cup your breasts, his thumbs rubbing your peaked, sensitive nipples in time with Shoto’s thrusts. “Shoto… she’s shaking,” he murmurs against your ear, his voice thick with awe.

You are. Tremors wrack your legs, your core clenching rhythmically around Shoto’s fingers. The pleasure is a coil winding too tight, too fast. You’re panting into Katsuki’s mouth, a broken, desperate sound.

“She’s close,” Shoto announces, as if reporting the weather. He doesn’t slow. He watches your face, cataloging every twitch, every gasp.

“Already?” Kaminari whines, his hands finally leaving the water to grip the rock on either side of your head, caging you in. “No fair, I haven’t even…”

“Stop her,” Katsuki commands, breaking the kiss. His lips are swollen, his eyes wild. “She doesn’t come until we’re all inside her.”

Shoto immediately stills his hand, his fingers buried deep. The sudden absence of movement is a torture worse than denial. A sob catches in your throat. You buck against him, trying to fuck yourself on his motionless fingers, but Kirishima holds your hips firm.

“Ah, ah,” Kirishima rumbles, his own breathing ragged. His hard length presses against your lower back, a twin to Deku’s against your spine. “Patience, beautiful. We’ve waited months. We can wait a little longer.”

Shoto slowly withdraws his fingers. The emptiness is a physical ache. He brings his glistening fingers to his mouth again, sucking them clean with a slow, deliberate pull, his eyes never leaving yours. “Adequately prepared,” he states.

“My turn,” Kaminari says, the playful grin gone, replaced by raw hunger. He ducks his head, his mouth finding the junction of your neck and shoulder. He doesn’t kiss it. He bites. A sharp, claiming sting that makes you cry out, followed by the soothing lap of his tongue.