𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫 ◞ 𝐬 vanilla ⧽ chocolate
𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞 7.8k
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 izuku midoriya 〆 black fem reader
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐥 porn with some plot , i suppose . established relationship . hero izuku . spoiled , bratty reader . black fem reader . pet name usage . izuku gets mean 4 a litl bit . . . pussie smacks ! breathplay . oral sex ꒰ r -> i ꒱ . dirty talk . p in v . creampie .
꣖ 🥛 MILK DELIVERY ! ꣓ s m BIRFDAY 🎂⭐️ ! ! ! ! ! hehe :333 hope u guyz like . dis iz jus smthn sweet n cute . minors do not interact !
Birthdays have always made you a little bit mean.
Not intentionally though, you swear.
Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself in efforts to make yourself feel better.
It all starts off small — a tiny pout when you realized you’d been the one to wake your own self up rather than the expected gentle kisses pecked all over your face. There aren’t any strong, warm arms burrowing you deeper within his chest. No soft, groggy “happy birthday, darling girl” whispered against your ear. Therefore, you simply lay there for a bit, adorned in a tiny, bubblegum pink babydoll slip, body framed by the soft, ivory folds of Egyptian comforters. Your bonnet covered head sinks deeper into a pillow case of over five hundred thread count.
The room is quiet. Entirely too quiet.
Your brown eyed gaze flows over to the empty spot beside you. The mattress still bears the dent where Izuku’s heavy, muscled body had been lying — the sheets are wrinkled.
You reach an arm out to rub your hand over the area. Cold. Your pout deepens into a frown. How long has he been gone? Ten minutes? Fifty?
The irritation of having not know settles over you more thickly than expected. Where is he? Certainly there are rules about this sort of thing. Birthday girls aren’t supposed to wake up alone . . confused . . already feeling neglected. It’s written in the Birthday Girl Handbook, you’re sure.
In chapter one, probably. Never leave the Birthday Girl unattended. The Birthday girl should never wake up without kisses. Never make the Birthday Girl wonder where her doting boyfriend has disappeared to. Simple. She could possibly die of heartbreak.
Dragging the covers up to your chin, you stare up at the high ceilings above with all the wounded dignity of a prissy house cat who’s been denied her favorite treat as a scary, distant thought drifts along the back of your brain. It feels ridiculous in a way . . . to think that Izuku has forgotten your birthday. It’d be more shocking than the sun refusing to rise. He remembers everything about you.
Your favorite flowers, the exact shade of pink you prefer, the name of your imaginary friend your tiny brain conjured up between the ages of six and nine, your first kiss anniversary, doctor appointments, sweet treat orders, clothing sizes — he couldn’t have forgotten. Not by a long shot. Which means, he’s downstairs . . planning something. Getting stuff ready. The simple thought is enough to keep your brain from spiraling and mood from souring . . . for about eight seconds.
Because, in that case, what’s taking so long?
The beginning of your birthday began the millisecond you fluttered your eyes open yet, nothing. You look towards the double, bedroom doors. Nothing. Back up at the ceiling, still nothing.
You can hear movement downstairs. The door opening and closing, shoe soles squeaking against polished calacatta gold, and soft mumbles from multiple people, as if they’d been told to keep their voices down.
Regardless . . . still no Izuku.
By the time one of those silver knobs to the bedroom twists open and he makes himself known, you’ve already managed to work yourself up into a mood entirely of your own creation. Which makes the sight of Izuku’s terribly handsome, freckled face looking much too pleased with himself frustrating. He balances a large, golden lap tray upon one of his palms while the other holds something behind his back. A big, bright grin pulls at his lips the second he sees you sit up.
“Good morning, birthday girl.”
He pulls whatever he’s hiding behind himself to the forefront. A bouquet of twenty four peonies and lilies, all beautifully crafted into an arrangement of creamy pinks and whites with pops of green and a specific variety you’d casually pointed out last year while the two of you strolled by a florist shop downtown. Upon the tray he holds are two plates — one toppled with pancakes, buttermilk. Crispy edges, fluffy middle, and strawberries and bananas meticulously arranged upon them like careful decoration. The other plate holds hash browns and a couple poached eggs.
Everything looks perfect.
Which makes having to be upset with him feel harder than what it should be. Still — principles are principles. Your gaze slightly narrows, “I’ve been awake.”
Carefully, he settles the tray above your lap. You take the flowers with a huff yet can’t help hugging them to your chest. The fresh, earthy scent of them is even perfect. Expensive somehow, too. “Mhm. You left.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Something bright wades within the dark juniper of his eyes. “I did.”
“Didn’t realize I needed permission.”
Your eyes narrow in closer. Somehow, his grin widens.
“Izuku, I woke up alone.”
“Mm, yeah. That’s usually how waking up works.”
The gasp you heave is immediate. You’re offended. Horrified, actually. And he laughs . . . he actually laughs. The sound low and warm, entirely too delighted with itself as his chest strains against the tight, black muscle tee he wears. “Good morning to you too, trouble.” His scarred hand reaches for your chin before you can attempt to turn your face away. Large fingers curl around your jaw and you’re frowning when you return the delicate, sweet peck he presses against your lips. Rude. He’s an absolute terror when he decides to be, nevertheless, he swears up and down that somehow you’re worse.
“How long have you been up?”
Liar. It’s obvious that the flowers had to have been picked up only about an hour ago, the petals are much too dewy and vibrant to have been sitting in his car or a linen closet all night and preparing breakfast surely had to have required some time.
You’re reminded of the shushing you heard downstairs . . . “Are people here?”
Somehow, the word feels like a bomb’s been dropped. Your mouth pops open, “Everyone?”
“—As in the people in your life that you like. Yes, everyone.”
His expression remains relaxed. You’re staring at him as he busies himself with making your coffee — long pour of your favorite raspberry - white chocolate creamer, dash of sugar . . then another because he knows that you always seem to claim that you don’t want too much then proceed to grumble when it isn’t sweet enough. “You’re having people over before I’ve even brushed my teeth?”
A smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. “You’re really worried about that?”
He’s trying not to laugh again. Your eyes zero in on the quiver of his chin. “Don’t.”
It tumbles out of his mouth — bright and loud. And disgustingly attractive. Which only deepens your annoyance. “So grumpy,” he murmurs as he hands over your mug. A white one with ‘princess’ curled across the ceramic in looping, pink script. A gift from him, clearly. You watch him settle upon the mattress and take a seat right beside your outstretched legs, all broad shoulders and messy, forest green hair. “Most people would’ve started this entire conversation off with a thank you . . you know that?”
With a shrug, you murmur, “Well, most people aren’t the birthday girl,” while lifting the rim of your mug up to your lips, eyes locked directly on his.
He studies you quietly for a second, soft smirk still playing along his lips. It’s not a casual stare . . more lingering. Intense. You take another sip of your coffee as your fingers tighten around the mug and he notices — eyes quickly flick downward before back up into yours. It’s only after such when he asks, “How long were you awake before I came upstairs?”
The question stumps you for a beat. “. . What?”
His shoulder lifts then falls, “Just wondering.”
Your answer never truly arrives which seems to tell him something. Avowal glints within his eyes. “Mmm . .” His smile returns, easy and charming. “So you’ve been up long enough to get yourself all worked up, hm?”
You hate that. You absolutely loathe when he does that. A curt, simple reply like such always somehow feels more insulting than if he were to just argue back. Because arguing means he’s taken the bait. ‘Okay’ simply means he’s already silently made up his mind on something and he’s not interested in debating on it.
Before you can formulate a reply, the mattress dips beneath the sudden shift in weight as he stands. “Anyway.”
The black tee he wears clings to his chest in a way that’s much too distracting. His stature blocks out the entirety of the morning sun shining in through the arched windows and it pours over the edges of his hair, turning green into gold. “All of your gifts are downstairs.”
How quick the annoyance that previously resided in your body seems to leave is embarrassing. “Gifts?” The swift change in your expression changes amuses Izuku. What were once furrowed eyebrows, stubborn pouts, and large huffs have now all been smoothed over into a pretty face full of wonder and want. He feels victorious.
“Mhm. I want you to eat first though, yeah?”
“You’ll get your gifts,” he nods, fists in his sweats’ pockets as he heads towards the door. “After you eat.”
Hours pass when you find yourself promenading through the middle of a luxurious shopping district hand and hand with Izuku, wearing an outfit that surely wasn’t hanging in your closet last night. The tiny, white skirt acts as a perfect compliment to your vintage, denim blue, J’adore Dior top and cute, little Louis Vuitton mule heels. With each step you take, the gold bangles hanging from your wrist prettily jingle. They match with the jewelry studded within your ears and hanging from your neck, too. New shoulder bag, twinkling anklets, even the gloss coating your lips had been pulled from one of your gift sets from this morning — all flawlessly coordinated and put together by Izuku.
You are, in a million ways, his doll.
Never in a thousand years would you have imagined yourself to be allowing your boyfriend, let alone a man period, to assemble your outfits and yet . . Izuku has been doing so since around the time he’d asked you if he could become your boyfriend — two and a half years ago.
You think that he knows your closet better than you do.
Your pajamas, hot yoga outfits, brunch dresses, date night tops, beach cover ups.
In some way, he knows what silhouettes fit you best while also making sure you feel your prettiest. And which fabrics you seem to adore more than others. Near the beginning, it’d just been suggestions.
“I think you should go with the other bag, baby. The one with the silver buckle.”
“No wrist jewelry. Just your charm bracelet.”
“Try the ivory one on instead for me?”
“Think it’ll look best with your braids pulled up with the claw clip.”
Then at some point, his suggestions stopped being just suggestions. They became your way of life. Catching your reflection in the storefront window as you walk past it, you can’t help but find yourself disgustingly cute. “Do I look pretty?” You don’t ask because you need the assurance, you have to ask because hearing him say it means the most.
Izuku turns his head and lower his chin to settle dark green eyes on you come the question. Not the outfit, the jewelry, or even the dark brown shadow that’s been buffed and smoked out upon your eyelids but, you. It’s only after staring at you for a second when he takes a more attentive look at your outfit, thoughtful as always. Then he smiles, earnest and sweet, “You look beautiful.”
The statement comes so easy yet full of so much adoration that it completely catches you off guard for a moment. Your lips twitch as you fight to keep a grin from spreading too wide across your burning face. Squeezing his hand to release some of your own sudden, nervous jitters, you quickly turn your head away with a small huff, “Oh, shush.” . . Then more quietly, “. . Thanks.”
But of course, he hears it.
You feel the rough pad of his thumb drag along the small knuckles upon the back of your hand and for a few minutes, that’s all it is — comfortable silence beneath the distant mumble of passing conversations and pop tunes spilling out onto the sidewalks from other stores, until he hears your soft gasp. Your hand tenses up within his as your feet suddenly stop moving which forces Izuku to turn and face you, brows pushed in close, before following your line of sight.
“. . . Oh,” he soon murmurs.
Your arm lifts and with it, you point one manicured finger in the direction of a shoppe. “There. I want to go.”
The store window has four posing mannequins, all of them draped in either lace, ribbons, bows, silk, or pearls. Everything’s soft and pretty. Izuku thinks that the soft, dreamy music pouring in from the inside of it is like your siren call. “You don’t wanna maybe—“
Your eyes never pull away from those mannequins, “—It’s my birthday. I wanna go in there, Izu’.”
No fuss, no muss. He won’t deny you of something you want. He’ll never do that. “Alright, baby,” he squeezes your hand. “Alright, come on.”
Disregarding the already near dozen of bags he carries upon one arm, Izuku leads you towards the entry of the shoppe, not surprised to feel almost the immediate power exchange the second both your feet cross the threshold. Outside? He’d been the one leading you — maneuvering you both throw clusters of people, clearing a path and making sure you didn’t accidentally step on a glob of gum stuck to the pavement. In here, you’re the one pulling him here and there, “Ooh, Izuku. Look at this one.” You’re an unstoppable force as you tug him from display to display, “Oh my gosh, I need this.” “What do you think?” “I’m getting both.”
Within only ten minutes, you’ve accumulated an arm full of dresses, tops, and skirts and naturally drift towards the hall of fitting rooms to try them all on. You can hear Izuku take a seat upon one of the lone, cushioned, waiting benches directly outside your door and get comfortable due to the fact that he already knows your process. You refuse to leave a clothing store without trying every thing on, it just makes sense to.
He looks up from either staring at his phone screen or gazing about the bustling crowds outside the store’s glass windows to take you in come each article of clothing you try on . . . every single one, without fail. His attention parts from whatever he may be doing and settles fully on you. Izuku has always been able to read the minuscule ticks in your expression to know if you like how you feel in whatever you’re wearing, he knows to hum, “Very pretty,” when you shuffle out past the door with a big smile on your face or give a soft, “Mm, maybe not that one,” when the corners of your lips are pulled down.
Back behind the curtain you go, each time, separating the yays from the nays. And this continues for nearly twenty minutes. Not once does Izuku complain or huff for you to hurry up or even showcase a smidge of boredom. Each time the door to your fitting room swings open, he’s locking his glowing, heart thumping attention on you like it’s always belonged there.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Because after two and a half years together, you’ve grown accustomed to it — some can say utterly spoiled by it. You’re used to having those twinkling, mossy green eyes on you, used to always being the first thing he looks at. He’ll always notice everything and respond to you in just the way you need, disregarding the situation or day.
Especially today. It’s your birthday.
And his attention should belong to you and only you today. Selfish, you know how you come across sometimes yet you can’t find it in you to necessarily care too much about that particular word. You’d never say these thoughts out loud, but these thoughts exist, quietly, within the back of your mind and deep inside your chest.
You’re back within the dressing room, standing in front of the mirror and fiddling with a strap along your hip when you hear voices unfamiliar to you. Initially, you don’t think too much of it, coming to a realization that they may just be trying on things as well . . then,
The voice comes from a girl, coated in jittery nerves and disbelief.
You completely stop whatever it is you’re doing . . . not shocked to hear a familiar laugh, warm and polite.
You can’t stop your eyes from rolling.
As they carry into a conversation, you continue to stand there, ears tuned in for anything out of the ordinary. The fan honestly sounds sweet and genuinely excited. You think you hear Izuku sign something of hers, take a picture, then answer something she shyly asks. They part after he thanks her for her encouragements and with that, the interaction is done — piece of cake. Clearly a rhythm he’s been settled into for a couple years now.
Still, disregarding just how easy the conversation between them was, you can’t help but feel the slightest bit annoyed. It settles somewhere directly beneath your ribs, thick and nasty. Realistically, you’re aware that the girl hadn’t done anything wrong. She was sweet and respectful. Izuku hadn’t done anything neither.
Yet, your mood has gone sour even so. Maybe it’s because the second someone recognized him, his attention, that same attention something in you horribly craves all the time, shifted. Maybe it’s because you feel as though you’ve been waiting in this fitting room too long for him to see your outfit. Maybe it’s because it’s your birthday . . . maybe you’re just greedy.
The thought makes your nose wrinkle.
You don’t like that answer however, find it impossible to not realize that it’s the correct one.
When you emerge from the fitting room, Izuku’s eyes are on you immediately. You huff.
The dress you wear’s soft material brushes along your upper thighs.
Narrowing your eyes, you soon breathe out an obnoxious, little ‘hmph’ through your nose while sauntering over to a full length mirror to take a look yourself . . . Yeah. You do look good, delicious even. The dress cinches at your waist from its built in corset — makes your boobs look amazing, however . . you can’t help but notice Izuku’s slowly widening grin in your peripheral.
“You fishin’ for compliments, baby?”
Your answer is immediate, “No.”
Dramatically, you turn back on your heels to walk back to from which you came, nose stuck in the air and hips swaying with each purposeful step. Izuku finds it difficult to not find you entirely too cute . . even harder to keep from smoothly calling out behind you, “You are impossible. Birthday girl.” By the time the two of you leave the boutique, though his bank account is three grand lighter from the previous hour and across his arm dangle enough shopping bags to possibly fill a small supply store, he’s happy that you’re happy. The bright, golden disc of the sun dangles lower in the sky now, shining over the busier streets and thicker crowd that engulfs the span of them. With your fingers intertwined within the spaces of Izuku’s, you’re halfway through explaining why a particular brand of ice cream is far much superior than another when the both of you hear it,
The sound of someone’s deep baritone cleanly cuts through your words and immediately, the edges of your smile goes a little frayed.
A group of three teenage boys this time — they all stare up at Izuku, bright eyed and breathless, looking almost two seconds away from passing out where they stand, and then you feel it . . Izuku giving your hand one, slight apologetic squeeze before releasing it. The action is harmless enough yet something in your chest burns like it’s been ignited by lighter fluid and a flaming match. Stepping off to the side, you lift your phone up chest level, type in your passcode, check the weather app, answer a few ‘happy birthday’ texts, scroll through the photos you’ve taken so far today . . just to do something with yourself while the boys take pictures with Izuku and ask him questions.
You watch something on your boyfriend’s face absolutely soften when one of them tells him that he’s the reason that he wants to become a hero, how great an inspiration he is.
Normally, you’d find the interaction far too sweet. However today, you simply stare at the pavement while picking imaginary lint off of your skirt. Every second he spends with his attention elsewhere, you find it irritating.
And when the boys are gone with their phone cases signed by Izuku and about a dozen new pics featuring him in their camera roll, you feel familiar eyes settle upon you, looking at you, closely reading you . . and taking only about two seconds to take in your demeanor. One slight tilt of his head and you’re positive that he’s already gotten you all figured out. A distant thought shoots out from the back of your brain, Don’t let him see it! Snapping yours away quickly, you expectantly hold out your hand, “C’mon,” your fingers wriggle. “I wanna go now.”
A fond smirk pulls at the corners of his lips, not . . entertained — he looks at you like he can see right through you and into your brain and heart specifically to read every single emotion you’re currently experiencing. “Alright, baby,” he eventually says while taking your hand. “Let’s go.”
Throughout the rest of the day, Izuku begins to notice something of a pattern. It’s . . . It’s funny, in a way, too. How he takes heed of it almost immediately and how you pretend that you don’t. When he spends too long checking out at a register, you’re impatiently huffing and folding your arms. Come him answering a five minute work call, you heave an exasperated sigh. You get so agitated with him at one point that when he offers to carry the bags holding your new acquired purchases, you deny letting him touch them with a mean swat to his hand . . . only to give them over five minutes later with a small complaint that your wrists were beginning to hurt.
There comes a time where he buys you a drink — a virgin pina colada with strawberry syrup lining the cup.
“It’s too sweet, Izu’,” you gripe with a swift turn of your head while pushing it back into his hands after one sip. “No. I don’t want it.”
“Sorry ‘bout that, baby.”
He buys another . . this one a frozen virgin mojito.
“Yuck. ‘s not sweet enough. Too tart.”
Eventually, he buys a third drink . . that you end up pouring half out to pour half of his into and declare it perfect. The entire time, Izuku remains patient . . sweet and receptive. It’s your day. You deserve whatever it is you want and more. He understands that . . . however, he’s watching you closely. Filing all of these little eye rolls and huffs and jealousies away. The way your mood visibly improves when he’s doting on you nearly hand and foot and how badly it sours when he isn’t.
By evening, your feet and shoulders ache. The two of you had gone home after an entire day spent out on the town near six pm to shower and get ready for your birthday dinner at one of the finest restaurants the country has to offer — Tower 86. Izuku had been the one to select it, of course. Dim, romantic lighting dances across crystal glasses, there’s soft music, and fresh flowers decorating each and every table. Below the building, through massive floor to ceiling windows, are the city lights, brilliant and extensive. It’s the kind of place people spend months trying to get a reservation for.
Nevertheless, here you sit, worked up into another mood because they don’t have your favorite drink in stock at the moment.
Izuku murmurs it beneath his breath while flopping his lap napkin out to settle it over his thighs. He’s looking handsome tonight in an all black fit — tailored pants and blazer, first two buttons of his shirt undone, and a gorgeous, silver watch wrapped around his wrist.
“. . What?” You find yourself biting out through your glossed lips come you hearing the tail end of his words.
To top the allegorical cake off with a plump, bright red cherry, your waitress recognizes him some time around her bringing appetizers to you both. You pay close attention to her fingers beginning to tremble and how wide her eyes get . . and you watch Izuku give a warm, polite smile because he knows now, too. You roll your eyes when she eventually walks away after the third time and push your fork into your pile of piping hot, short rib pasta. “. . . You wanna invite her to my birthday next year, too?”
There’s silence for a long while after the question is smoothly asked.
Not particularly awkward or confused silence . . . more tensed. Through your peripheral, you watch Izuku slowly set his fork down against his own plate with a soft clink then lean back in his seat, real slow and controlled. How quiet he is forces your eyes up to really get a better look at him and reflexively, your heart stutters on a beat upon finding his expression entirely neutral. One wouldn’t think he was glad or mad as he just . . . stares at you for a while — not smiling, barely even blinking, just watching. The only thing visible on him is just his focus . . a frightening amount of it. Steady and unwavering.
For the first time today, there isn’t an immediate response from him. He wants you to sit with your question, bask in it.
Is all he eventually says — quietly, slipped in like it was just a natural part of the conversation.
You can’t help but giggle . . somewhat out of defensiveness, more out of disbelief, “Excuse me?”
His eyes never part from yours, brewing fire within juniper, “I said careful.”
Suddenly, the table feels smaller. He feels bigger somehow . . broadness of his shoulders already be damned and you know that you should stop. One skim of his body language and you’re aware that you’re currently walking a thin line that only you know how to find within Izuku. ‘Careful’ had been him warning you, not arguing with you, not even threatening you. A warning.
You’d honestly prefer him threatening you.
You’re aware of his tells — when he’s annoyed versus amused, frustrated versus tired. This one you’re currently sitting across from is neither. He’s . . patient. Dangerously so. It’s the kind of patience someone arrives at when they’ve already reached a conclusion.
When the waitress returns to refill your glasses, you’re softly thanking her, nice and polite. He notices and yet, nothing changes. Because suddenly behaving doesn’t magically make his irritation with you disappear — it remains there, small and persistent, beating beneath his ribs. You find yourself glaring down at your plate, fingers balled into fists on your lap. Why do you feel so dissatisfied after an objectively perfect day? Flowers, breakfast, gifts, shopping, everything and yet . . nothing feels like enough.
Instead of thinking too much about it, you let your lips part open and words to fall out, “. . . It feels like I’ve been sharing you all day,” you murmur while never looking up from your finger tracing along the edges of a dessert menu. “You didn’t wake me up this morning . . people kept stopping you . . you took phone calls . . . None of it’s fair, Izuku.”
The silence that follows simply feels just . . . wrong.
Slowly, very slowly, you lift your eyes to peer up at him beneath your wispy lash extensions without moving your head. He’s already staring at you, not the slightest bit surprised or even agitated. His expression tells you that he’s been aware of everything, this entire time. Jaw moving, he looks at you, then out towards the windows, the untouched dessert menu laid upon his plate, then at the waitress walking nearby.
Just like that . . a decision’s been made.
He lifts a few fingers and catches her attention, “Can we get the check, please? . . Thank you.”
Instantly, your stomach drops. “What?”
You watch her leave and find yourself gripping the armrests of your seat, “But . . my dessert — I haven’t gotten it yet.”
“No dessert,” his voice remains quiet and terrifyingly calm. “We’re leaving.”
“Because I wanted dessert?”
“No,” his head slowly shakes. “You know that’s not why, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”
A knot in your stomach tightens. You’re left to watch Izuku pay with his card, add a generous tip to the tab, then he’s pushing his seat out to stand and hold his hand out towards you. For a few seconds, you simply stare at it. The way he’s looking at you proves that he knows exactly what’s waiting for you when the two of you find yourselves alone. Carefully, you place yours within it, feeling his close around your fingers — not tight or possessive but, just enough.
The ride in the elevator down to ground level is painfully quiet. The entire thing is a mirrored box, therefore you can clearly see how Izuku stands beside you, one hand in his pocket, the other holding yours as you descend floor by floor. Taking a look at yourself — the perfect curls of your sew in, birthday make up you spent nearly an hour and a half perfecting, the flowing dress you wear, you can’t help but sigh out, “You’re bein’ dramatic.”
Not even a glance your way.
Your irritation rises, “. . I only said what I felt.”
You realize that he isn’t just ignoring you, he’s consciously choosing not to engage with you . . . which is worse. When the doors finally open, a fresh, summer breeze sends your curls fanning out to frame your face and takes the hem of your dress back to reveal your soft legs and pretty, diamond dusted heels. He walks you to his car, an all black Ferrari Purosangue, stride unhurried, steps measured and opens the passenger door first, waiting patiently for you to slide inside. A perfect gentleman, as always.
The minute he climbs into his side and the door shuts, you’re surprised to watch him simply sit there for a while, engine off, eyes pinned somewhere outside the windshield.
“You know what your problem is?” Your pulse pounds as you hiss out your words. “Everyone thinks you’re so nice, but you’re not. You’re freakin’ mean, Izuku. I wanted my dessert. Who denies someone of dessert on their birthday? How is that fair?”
Eventually, he slowly turns his head your way. The look he gives you is enough to run your blood cold. Not angry, just . . . done. “. . You finished?”
You barely even finish your words by the time one rough, scarred hand suddenly palms your face with enough pressure to have brown foundation and silky contour smearing against his palm. Your breath catches in your chest as he slowly slides it down, from forehead to chin . . blurring powders, blush, mascara, and lip gloss — hours of work and effort ruined by one hand.
You’re wrecked with disbelief as you find yourself sitting there as he squeezes your cheeks between his fingers, worsening it all. To top it off, his expression never changes as he does so.
“There,” he finally mumbles when he lets go, voice low and horrifyingly calm. “Now you finally look how you’ve been acting all fuckin’ day.”
The words hit harder than they truly should. Humiliation, shock, and embarrassment all come crashing on you which sends a hot wave of tears to bubble at your waterline. A small breath is huffed out of his nose when he sees them, not quite a laugh but . . close.
“T-Take me home.” Your voice cracks as you fold your arms and turn away from him.
“No,” though he reaches for the ignition and the engine roars to life, he continues to sit there, arm on the center console, the other’s hand rested in his lap. “You’ve spent the entire day being an absolute fucking terror. You can sit with this for five minutes.”
His words shove the air out of your lungs. You feel so many emotions that they make your entire body feel hot. Hiccupy, you silently sit there as he continues to stare out the windshield, handsome face completely devoid of emotion.
“Y-You jus’ embarrassed me.”
Your accusation forces him to look at you move he eventually starts backing out of the parking spot. “No,” he hums. “No, that was all you, angel. You’ve been embarrassing yourself all day.”
The entire ride home is quiet. No music or hum to break it. The car’s interior is only filled with your shuddery breaths and congested sniffles. By the time he pulls within the driveway, you’ve made up your mind. Fine. You’re going to go upstairs, take the rest of your ruined make up off, lock yourself in the bedroom, cry if you need to, and order your dessert instead. Whatever.
Albeit, the minute both your feet cross the front door’s threshold, you hear it again . . Izuku’s voice, somehow darker this time around, “Ah, ah, ah.”
It forces you to halt, right there between the distance of the door and the staircase.
You hear his footsteps behind you, suddenly quick and purposeful. They’re so quick that you barely even realize what’s happening by the time his strong arms are wrapped around your waist which only awaken you to burst into another fit of bratty sobs as you kick your feet and squirm within them. “N-No, Izu’. No!”
But somehow he’s forcing you down. You’re left crying as he forces your head back with a fist gathered in your curls while his other hand works on unbuckling his belt and undoing the button to his slacks. “Think you don’t deserve this?” he grits out. “Huh? . . Think you’ve been a good girl today, baby? Nah . . open your mouth.”
His cock is only half hard when he forces your jaw open to push the thick, veiny shaft within the warm, small orifice of your mouth. Your eyebrows furrow as he forces you in by the grip of your hair til your nose is nestled in a thick thatch of forest green pubes, then back off, nice and steady. Thick pools of drool immediately gather upon your tongue from his tip beginning to incessantly knock at the sensitive ridge of your gag reflex. He tastes like soap and musk . . you hate that your clit begins to thump against the lacy gusset of your panties.
“Yeah,” he groans quietly, jaw flexed as he scowls down at you through the mop of messy, green curls that flop over his freckled forehead. “There you go. Swallow my fuckin’ cock.”
Your fingers dig into the meat of his thighs as you cough and gag around him. And it’s as you’re staring up at him with those big, almond shaped eyes, glistening with tears of both humiliation and strenuous work from his dick pushing in and out of your throat when Izuku thinks about the entire day. He’s used to you being a little bit of a brat, it’s in your nature . . also kind of why he fell in love with you in the first place. Where you push, it’s natural for him to pull. He’ll deal with the rolled eyes and pouts and whining, he will . . . but only for so long.
You need correction sometimes. And he’ll always give it as long as you remain this way.
“Lemme in,” licking his lips, he adopts a wider stance, gives a slight bend to his knees and pushes his cock in deeper within the passage of your throat. “Let Izu’ inside, baby — fuuuuck, there y’go.”
Your eyes roll back into your skull . . . the first sign of your give. It’s what he’s been looking for all day. Pulling his shaft free from your mouth, Izuku watches you gasp and heave as the mix of your drool and his precum comes dripping from his tip and across your swollen lips. Meanly, he takes himself by the base and slaps it against them and the chub of your cheek, further dirtying your already messy face as he holds his bottom lip captive beneath his perfect, top row of teeth.
It’s while you’re staring up at him, brown eyes completely darkened over and nearly flooding with fervor when it finally clicks . . when he finally understands. “. . . ‘s what you been wantin’ . . . ? . .” His head tilts as his face smoothens over with awe. “You serious right now?”
You loll the pad of your soft, pink tongue out across the slope of your chin in reply.
Plaplaplap. He taps his cock on it then rubs the underside of his tip from left to right across it. “God, you’re such a fucking . . .”
He pulls you right back down — wouldn’t be surprised if your pussy was dripping puddles on the floor he just paid to have buffed last night. Disgusting.
“ ‘ve had it up to here with you.”
The sensation of cool, leather being wrapped around the column of your throat makes you give a small sound full of curiosity. The clatter of a buckle and soft swish! is heard as the belt gets pulled through the silver hardware and adjusted tight until each breath you take has your skin straining against the material makes a chill run down your spine. Once more, he’s pulling his cock free from your mouth while grabbing the longer end of his belt to then tug you in the direction of his moving feet.
That first one makes you squeak and stumble clumsily to land on your hands and knees, yet Izuku keeps walking without even sparing you a glance, pulling you in the direction of the living room.
It’s jarring just how much you love and hate this.
“Fuckin’ blame myself,” you hear him muttering to himself as he plops down on the couch. “Put up with this shit for too long . . should’ve gotten you together this morning . . maybe today could have ended better.”
All said while he forces your dress off of your body, lugs you up onto his lap, back to his chest, then lifts your legs high within the air, held back by his arms behind the backs of your knees. The warm, dimmed lighting of your home catches on the thick webs of slick that connect your panties to the fat folds of your pussy as he snatches them to the side. Neither of you can see much past your mound however that doesn’t stop Izuku from getting comfortable, leaning back against the couch cushions, man spreading with you on his lap and reaching down to slide his fingers along the short length of your slit.
You make a whimpery, broken sound, toes curling in your heels once the coarse pads of his fingers find the little button of your clit. “I still haven’t heard a single thank you from you all today,” he mumbles while caressing the bud with painfully slow circles. “So, you know what? . . . This is what we’re gonna do . .”
Suddenly, the flat of his palm is falling onto the meat of your pussy, forcing the flesh to bounce with a mean ricochet as you squeal and naturally fight to shut your thighs closed.
“Gonna count these out for me . . and tell me thank you, Izu with each one.”
Another slap and you wail as your feet jerk.
“I’ll stop early if you be good and count.”
“Okay,” you mewl, letting your head fall back onto his shoulder. “O-Okay, Izu’, ‘ll count.”
“One, t-thank you, Izu’.”
Another . . . and another . . . and another.
“Fuck — Izu’ p-please, thank you.”
“T-Thank you — thank you.”
Your pussy’s warmer to the touch when he cups it within his palm after the tenth swat. Crystal tear drops drip towards your wobbling lips as your hips lurch into his touch as he soothes your pulsing clit with tender, smooth massages with his two, longest fingers. “Can be so mean, baby.”
Sniffling, you shake your head, “Nuh uh.”
“Uh huh,” he hums as he shallowly dips the tips of them within the tight, dripping ring of your cunt’s entrance. “Think you were bein’ fair all day . . bein nice?”
You don’t want to answer that question.
Wriggling deeper down into his lap, you feel the hardened staff of his cock, still lugged out between the zipper of his slacks, slotted between the plump cheeks of your ass. You want it, “Fuck me, please?” You mewl as your fingers wrap around the wide breadth of his forearm. “Please? ‘ll be nice, I promise . . I promise.”
Whining, “Yeahhh,” you feel Izuku drop your legs to then add some pressure to your hips to force you to stand. Your heels click against the hardwood as you listen to his clothes rustle and you’re preparing to turn around and face him when you feel pressure against the front of your throat, the belt being tugged backward to impel you to take a seat right upon his stiff, dark cock.
Your lashes flutter as your eyes pivot back within your skull come that first pop of him inside. “Shouldn’t give you a thing else tonight,” he murmurs, eyes focused on your ass cheeks slowly falling down upon his lap as your pussy engulfs him until his heavy ballsack. “. . Should I?”
You’re softly sobbing as you slowly rock your hips back on him, feeling him hit somewhere inside you that has your walls squeezing on him, “Wan’ . . Wanna be good, please, Izu’, please, make me g-good, fuck me, please—“
You drive a good bargain. “. . . Yeah, okay,” he sighs, fist still wrapped around that leash, the other clutched within the soft crease of where your thigh meets your hip. “ ‘ll make you good, baby . . Izu’s last gift for you tonight, hm?”
The slapping of skin come each time your ass cheeks clap down onto his pelvis, pussy squelching out thin strings of slick that only smear against his balls and drips down to the sectional below you both. You gasp and sob and babble as you roll your hips back into the menacing shoves of his own, meeting him halfway as your fingers grip onto his knees for balance. It’s almost confounding how different of a person you become when dick’s inside of you. No more mean huffs and whines and snarky one liners, you just . . take it — all fuzzy brained and weak spined like it’s all you were put on this earth to do.
“You’re lucky I love you, y’know that?” Izuku breathes as he gets a nice chunk of your ass within his hand and forces you down on him harder. “Lucky you’re beautiful . . That you fuckin’ feel this good . .”
Your walls tense around the width of his cock at his words. Your voice jumps an octave higher as you nod, “J-Jus’ love you s’much,” you finally admit through a hard hiccup. “Wan’ you . . hng, to m’self all the — all the t-time.”
You can be too fucking sweet sometimes, even as you’re bouncing on his cock after basically dancing on his nerves all day. It’s all forgotten about when you say shit like that. You have some type of hold over him. Izuku can’t explain it.
“Oh my God,” he groans, low and long as he engulfs you within his arms and forces you to lie back against his chest again. “M’baby’s so stingy, huh? . . So stingy with her Izu’.”
You curl your fist into the back of his head within his curls as he suckles a love bite into the crook of your neck. You no longer move — he keeps your hips at a standstill a few inches above his own to hammer his cock up inside the syrupy tunnel of your cunt. “M-My Izu’,” you gurgle around a mouth full of droll as your head lolls back against his temple. You’re already so close to cumming. “You f-fuck me so good . . .”
He moans at your words while reaching down to fondle with your clit again — rolling and pinching that hard nub between his fingers. “O-Only the best for m’baby. Need this pussy like I need fuckin’ air, yeah?”
He’s so gross. Whimpering, an arch curves within your spine as you squeeze your eyes shut and lips dip down in a watery frown, “. . Fuck’mcumming.”
A high pitched whine spills from the depths of your chest as Izuku continues to fuck you through the spasms of your pussy clenching down on him as you cream. It’s so much, you feel like you can barely even breathe . . . But you can’t think that he’s not going to keep going . . . that he’s not going to selfishly work towards his own after the shit he’s had to put up with today . . .
Clenching his jaw, Izuku pushes you back forward to get you on your feet, hands flat on the decorative table and legs spread wide. The belt is once more held within his fist as he uses it for leverage to compel you backward as his cock bullies its way inside your pussy. Your breathing’s strained as your tits bounce out from over your bralette. Drool swings from the tip of your hanging tongue. It feels so good . . so fucking good.
“Gimme y’r cum,” you slur, all thin and broken. “C-Cum inside me.”
“Oh my fucking God,” Izuku whispers beneath his breath as his head falls back. Then arrives a phrase you’ve been hearing all day, “Alright, baby . . I will.” Izuku isn’t the slightest bit shocked to feel his orgasm hit him with almost the same pressure of a freight train not more than ten seconds after your words . . forcing his body completely still as his voice catches within his throat. “A-Aweee fuck. Awe, God . .”
He’s blind to the dreamy, little smile that spreads across your lips as you feel his shaft throb with each shot of cum that pulses deep inside past the tight pucker of your cervix because even if it takes a day, a month, a year . . even if it takes a million complaints and gripes and glares . . .
You always get what you want.
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