Work Text:
The knock comes at 3:47 PM on a Tuesday.
You almost drop your controller. No one ever knocks on your door. The only visitors you get are delivery drivers, and they don't knock—they just drop the food and leave like rational human beings.
Another knock. Sharper this time.
You mute your headset, tell the guys you'll be right back, and shuffle to the door in your socks. You crack it open, expecting a landlord complaint or maybe a religious solicitation.
Instead, you find yourself staring at Greta Thunberg.
Greta freakin’ Thunberg.
Standing in your hallway in an oversized hoodie and jeans, her dirty-blonde hair in those two braids, her pale blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach drop.
"Hi," she says flatly. "Can I come in?"
You stand there for a solid five seconds, your brain refusing to process what you're seeing. This has to be a fever dream.
"Uh," you manage. "Sure?"
She pushes past you without waiting for an invitation.
She stands in the middle of your apartment, her backpack still on her shoulder, surveying the chaos with an expression of pure disgust.
You don't apologize. It's your apartment. You'll live how you want.
"So," you say, crossing your arms over the stained and undersized t-shirt straining to contain your manboobs. "What brings the world's most famous climate activist to my humble abode?"
She turns to face you, her jaw tight. "You know why I'm here."
"I genuinely don't."
"Car batteries." She says the words like they're poison. "You posted about throwing car batteries into the ocean. Multiple batteries. You bragged about it."
You blink. Then you remember—the shitpost from like three weeks ago. Some Reddit thread on environmentalism about "proper battery disposal" where you'd jokingly claimed you tossed at least six car batteries into the Atlantic every year. It was obviously absurd. Obviously a joke.
You start to laugh, your jowls quivering with mirth.
"This is funny to you?" Her voice goes sharp. "Lead and acid leeching into marine ecosystems? Toxic metals accumulating in the food chain?"
"Okay, hold on." You hold up your Dorito-seasoned hands, still chuckling. "You think I'm actually throwing car batteries into the ocean? Like, physically? You think I have a supply of car batteries and a boat?"
"I think you posted about it. Multiple times."
"It was a joke." You lean against your desk, which groans in protest, amused despite yourself. "It was an obvious joke. Who even has six car batteries?"
Her expression flickers—confusion, maybe, or doubt. But she recovers quickly. "You also posted about deliberately not recycling. About throwing everything in the trash because you 'didn't care.' About ordering delivery every day specifically to generate more waste."
Okay. That part was true.
"So what if I did?" You shrug. "Last I checked, it wasn't illegal to be an asshole."
Her pale cheeks flush pink. "It should be."
"Well, it's not. So you drove all this way for nothing." You gesture toward the door. "Thanks for stopping by. Very dramatic. You can see yourself out."
She doesn't move. Instead, she pulls out her phone and starts reading from it in a flat monotone. "'I make sure to separate my plastics from my trash so I can throw them in the ocean separately. More surface area for decomposition.' That was you, yes?"
You snort. "That's pretty good, actually."
"'I leave every light on in my house twenty-four seven because the ice caps are going to melt anyway and I want to see it happen.' Also you."
"I stand by that one."
"'I ordered four extra meals from DoorDash just to throw them away. Purely for the carbon footprint.'" She looks up from the screen. "That's thirty dollars of food in a landfill because you wanted to spite strangers online."
You shrug again. "I was bored."
She stares at you. You stare back. Neither of you blinks.
"You're proud of this," she says finally. Not a question.
"I'm not ashamed." You gesture around the apartment. "It's my life. My choices. If the planet is dying, it's not because of me specifically. I'm one guy. One guy who likes convenience and doesn't give a shit about your lectures."
"Then why did you post about it?" She steps closer, her small frame tense with anger. "Why brag about it if you don't care?"
"Because people like you get so worked up about it." You smile, and it's not a nice smile. "It's entertaining. Watching you all spiral about plastic straws while corporations pump millions of tons of chemicals into the water. Like, you think my Mountain Dew cans are the problem? Really?"
Her mouth opens. Closes. She looks genuinely furious now, her pale face blotchy with color.
"You're disgusting," she says quietly.
"I've been called worse by better people."
You stand there in silence for a long moment. The hum of your gaming PC fills the space between you.
Then she takes a breath, visibly composing herself. Her expression shifts—still angry, but calculating now. Assessing.
"You're not going to change," she says. "Are you."
"Nope."
"Nothing I say will make a difference."
"Probably not."
She nods slowly. Then she does something unexpected—she reaches for her backpack and sets it down on your cluttered desk, right next to your keyboard.
"What if there was something in it for you?"
You frown. "What?"
"Something you want." She meets your eyes steadily. "Something I could give you. In exchange for changed behavior."
You laugh, but it comes out nervous. "What are you talking about?"
"You know what I'm talking about."
You don't. Not at first. But then she pulls her hoodie over her head in one smooth motion, dropping it on your desk, and you see her standing there in a plain white t-shirt, her small frame almost childlike in its slenderness, and something clicks.
"Wait," you say. "Are you—"
"I'm offering you a deal." Her voice is steady, businesslike. "You change your habits. You recycle. You reduce your waste. You become an actual responsible human being."
"..."
"And in exchange, you can have sex with me."
The words hang in the air. You stare at her, waiting for the punchline, the hidden camera, the gotcha moment.
It doesn't come.
"You're serious," you say slowly.
"Completely."
You look at her—really look at her. At her pale skin, her slight frame, her braids. At the way her small breasts press against her white t-shirt. At her slim legs in her loose jeans.
She's tiny. Probably barely five feet tall. And she's standing in your apartment offering herself if you start recycling.
"This is insane," you say.
"Yes."
"You're insane."
"Probably."
You laugh again, but it comes out strangled. Your heart is pounding now, your palms sweating. "Why would you—what kind of sex?"
"Whatever you want." She says it flatly, like she's negotiating a business contract. "Within reason."
Your mind races. You've thought about her before, obviously. You've seen the memes, the crude jokes. But you'd never imagined anything like this.
"Anal," you say before you can stop yourself. "I want to fuck your ass."
She doesn't flinch. "Fine."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." She reaches for the hem of her t-shirt. "Do you want to do this now, or—"
"Hold on." You begin to scratch your neckbeard in agitation. "You're just going to—right now? Just like that?"
"You said you wanted anal." She pulls the t-shirt over her head. "I'm agreeing to anal."
She's not wearing a bra. Her breasts are small, barely more than swells on her narrow chest, with tiny pink nipples that are already hard from the cool air. Her ribs show faintly beneath her pale skin.
You stare at her. Your mouth goes dry.
"You can touch them if you want," she says, her voice clinical. "But make it quick."
You reach out without thinking. Your hands are shaking as you cup her breasts, feeling their weight—almost nothing—and the softness of her skin. She's cool to the touch, smooth, her nipples hardening further under your palms.
You squeeze, gently at first, then harder. She doesn't react, just stands there watching you with those pale blue eyes.
"Okay," she says after a moment. "Enough."
You drop your hands.
She unbuttons her jeans and pushes them down, stepping out of them along with her worn sneakers. Her legs are slim and pale, dusted with fine blonde hair. Her underwear is simple white cotton, practical and slightly too big for her narrow hips.
"Where do you want me?" she asks.
You blink. "Uh. Desk?"
"Fine." She walks to your desk and bends over it, resting her forearms on the surface next to your keyboard. "Come get me ready."
You approach her like she might disappear. This has to be a dream. A hallucination. There's no way this is actually happening.
You reach for her underwear and pull it down to her thighs, exposing her pale, slim buttocks. The skin is smooth and flawless, almost translucent in the glow of your monitors.
She glances back at you, waiting.
You spread her cheeks apart, and there it is—her tight little asshole, a slightly darker ring of dusty rose against her pale skin. Below it, her pussy is visible between her thighs, covered in fine dark-blonde hair, her outer lips pressed together in a neat, modest line. Pink and untouched-looking. A regular vagina, small and compact like the rest of her.
You'd been right about one thing: she's natural. No waxing, no trimming. Just sparse hair and pale skin and that tight, forbidden opening.
"By the Emperor," you breathe.
"If you're going to stare, at least take pictures," she says dryly.
"Can I?"
"Fine. Whatever. Just hurry up."
You grab your phone from the desk and snap several photos of her bent over, her ass exposed, her tight hole on display. Your hands are shaking so badly the pictures come out blurry.
"Okay," she says after the fifth photo. "Now actually do something."
You set the phone down and reach for the bottle of lotion you keep by your keyboard—cheap stuff from the dollar store, meant for dry hands. You squirt a generous amount onto your fingers.
"This might be cold," you warn.
"I don't care."
You press your lotion-slicked fingers against her tight opening. She feels impossibly small, her ring of muscle barely yielding to your touch.
You push your finger inside.
She exhales slowly, her body relaxing slightly. You work your finger in and out, feeling her tight channel grip you, then add a second finger. She makes a small sound—almost a whimper—but doesn't protest.
"You're really tight," you say, your voice strained.
"Stop talking and get on with it."
You withdraw your fingers and push down your sweatpants. Your cock is already hard, straining against your boxers. You free it and position yourself behind her.
The head of your cock presses against her tight opening.
You push forward.
She makes a sound—a sharp intake of breath—and you feel her body resist for a moment before yielding. The head of your cock pops inside her, and the sensation is overwhelming. Tight. Hot. So fucking tight.
"Oh god," you groan. "Oh god, you're so—"
"Keep going."
You push deeper, slowly, inch by inch. Her ass grips you like a vice, her tight channel squeezing your cock from every angle. It's intense, almost painful, and you have to stop halfway to catch your breath.
Finally, your hips press against her ass. You're fully inside her.
"Okay," she says, her voice slightly breathless. "You can move now."
You start slowly, pulling back and pushing forward in gentle thrusts. Each movement sends waves of pleasure through your body, her tightness gripping you, massaging you.
Then you see her braids.
Her double braids hang down on either side of her head, dirty-blonde and neat. You reach out and grab one in each hand, wrapping them around your fists like reins.
"Is this okay?" you ask.
"Fine." She grips the sticky edge of the desk. "Just do it."
You tighten your grip and pull, using her braids as leverage as you start to thrust harder. Her head is pulled back, her neck arched, her face turned toward the ceiling.
"Ah—" The sound escapes her before she can stop it. A small, high-pitched yelp.
You thrust again, harder, and feel your cock drive deeper into her ass. The sensation is overwhelming—tight and hot and so fucking good.
"Mmph—" She bites her lip, trying to stay quiet.
But you're relentless now, using her braids to pull her back onto your cock with each thrust. The desk rattles beneath her. Warhammer figurines tip over. Your breathing is ragged, desperate.
"God, you feel so good," you groan. "So fucking tight—"
She makes another sound—a muted exclamation, somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. Her small body shakes with each impact.
You pull harder on her braids, and she makes a sound that's almost a sob. Her eyes are watering. Her mouth falls open, and tiny sounds spill out—gasps and yelps and muted exclamations that she can't control.
"Ah—ah—mm—please—"
"Please what?" you pant, not slowing down.
She doesn't answer. Her small hands scrabble at the desk, knocking aside a half eaten bag of corn chips, searching for purchase. Her thighs tremble.
"Ah—!" Her back arches as you hit a spot that makes her whole body jerk. "There—right there—"
You adjust your angle, driving into that spot over and over. Her small breasts bounce slightly with each impact, her nipples brushing against the wood of the desk.
"I'm close," you warn, your voice tight. "I'm going to—"
"Do it," she gasps. "Inside. Just do it."
You groan, long and low, and slam into her one final time. Your cock pulses inside her, pumping cum deep into her ass.
She makes a sound—a sharp, high cry—and her whole body tenses. Her thighs shake, her toes curling in her discarded socks.
You stay like that for a moment, both breathing hard. You're still inside her, softening slowly. Your grip on her braids loosens.
Finally, you pull out. The sensation is strange—almost painful—and you watch as your cum starts to leak from her stretched opening, dripping down toward her pussy.
She stays bent over the desk for a moment, breathing carefully. Then she pushes herself upright slowly, wincing. Her braids are disheveled now, loosened from your grip.
"Okay," she says, reaching for her clothes. "Get dressed. We need to talk about logistics."
You blink at her, still in a daze, your softening cock hanging out of your boxers. "Logistics?"
She pulls her underwear up, then her jeans, fastening them with quick movements. "I'm going to come back. Every week. Same time. You'll show me your recycling bins, your trash output, your utility bills if I ask for them."
You stare at her. "You're coming back?"
"Yes." She pulls her hoodie over her head. "Every single week. And if you've met your targets—if you've actually recycled everything properly, reduced your waste, made the changes you promised—then you get to do this again."
Your mouth opens. "I get to—"
"Sodomize me. Yes." She says the word clinically. "Every week that you comply, you'll be allowed to use me the way I just let you. Same terms. Same conditions."
You swallow hard. "And if I don't?"
Her expression hardens. "Then you don't get anything. I walk out, and I never come back."
She picks up her small backpack, slinging it over one shoulder.
She walks toward the door, stepping over a pile of old magazines. "I'll see you next Tuesday at four. Have your bins sorted by then. Glass, plastic, paper, compost. I'll be checking everything."
She pauses at the door, her hand on the knob.
"Oh, and clean yourself up," she adds without turning around. "You smell like sweat and cheap lotion."
She lets herself out.