A scrap I recovered from the archives.
The way her lips press together in that sumptuous pout is agonizing, and the words that follow are nothing short of malevolent.
"Hiruma-kun," her voice is like melting chocolate; warm, sensuous, irresistible, "let me help you polish your gun." And then the world bends, tilting dizzyingly as the scene skips forward like a movie with missing footage, and then her thighs are crushing the air out of him as she straddles him, the elegant bow of her spine arching sharply while her head tips gradually backward, exposing the porcelain-pale line of her throat, her breasts heaving rhythmically into his chest through the barely-there apron as his name staggers brokenly out of her mouth, again and again and—
"Hiruma-kun?" And there's Anezaki, leaning over him, cool hand pressed to his forehead, bright eyes betraying anxiety and concern. He glares at her absently, mostly out of sheer force of habit, and opens his mouth to snap at her when it dawns on him quite suddenly that she's wearing that damnable yellow apron. Now there's a buffering layer of clothing beneath it, of course, but his mind can't seem to move past the ochre fabric and the way it had just been clinging to the shapely curves of her body, lithe contours the Deimon High uniform are softening or obscuring entirely.
"You were tossing in your sleep; I was just checking on you." Her fingers pull carefully away from his face, and the phantom chill that follows in the wake of her touch annoys him. "You're a little warm, you know. Maybe you should call it a night…?"
"I'm fine, fucking manager. Stop fussing like a fucking mother hen." She frowns at him reprovingly, clearly irked, but she appears to understand his curt dismissal for what it is and flounces angrily away from him without another word, gracefully vacating the space of his personal bubble.
"Anyway, I'm just gonna finish up here and then head out." She tells him crossly.
"The hell do I care?" He sneers, deliberately crass, anticipating the explosion of her inner-livewire. (He's counting on it, actually.)
She doesn't disappoint: half a heated diatribe later, she's wielding her broom in challenge and jerking the apron away from her body, casting it between them like a gauntlet, daring him to cross her further.
He doesn't disappoint her, either: he lobs a series of callous deprecations at her, all variations on a truly malicious theme, edging slowly toward her while her lip begins to curl enticingly.
By the time he's looming over her, Anezaki's cheeks are fully flushed and her chest is definitely heaving, and that's all the permission he needs, really, to bat the broom out of his way and grab her.
I'd planned for this to be a great deal more raunchy, but this works, too, I suppose.