izuku midoriya is nothing if not patient. giving. he's so sweet and kind that you can't help but love him. so willing to do any and everything to make you happy—to see you smile. he's so patient with you, so lenient, relaxed. you swear you've never even heard him raise his voice, even a little bit.
every time you see him, he's always smiling. one seems to be glued to his face, presented to everyone, but there's something there that's reserved for you and you only. nothing about him is noticeably different, he still talks like he used to, laughs like he used to. his eyes still twinkle like they do when he sees all might. but there's a flash of something impatient in his eyes, dwindling. a rope being pulled and pulled until it snaps.
he gives into your every need, every desire, every want. indulges you even when he doesn't have the time, sitting you on his lap or fucking you with his fingers when he has hero work to do. but this time? he's a little fed up.
"use your words," he says to you, voice low in your ear, firm hands holding you steady in his lap. "what do you want?"
"to—to come," it comes out as a choked sob, born of overstimulation and impatience. the heat between your thighs burns like the sun. flowing through your body, from your fingers to your toes—throbbing, aching, like no other. but you deserve it, you think. you've not been good, like you're supposed to be.
izuku hums, and gives you a little squeeze. he's not minded you rutting against him before, grinding your weeping clit on his thigh, desperate to cum. to get the release that he can give you; whining and whimpering his name, pleading for him to give in and touch you already. but that's not how you learn your lesson, no. that's how you get what you want, and not learn anything at all. he thinks you're so cute like this, so needy. working yourself to the point of near orgasm, then bringing it back down again. so pathetic, so helpless. his name, "izu," slips from your lips between gasps, breathy and soft all the same.
"why should i let you come? hm." you let out a soft 'fuck', that makes him laugh mirthlessly, "go on, tell me."
"because i'm—i'm good," you keen, and he hums in question. "i'll be good, i promise, izu," hiccuping, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt to hold yourself up, fearing his hands aren't enough, "i'll be more—more than good, please—please let me come."
izuku plants a kiss to your forehead, steadying you with his hands—pressing your hips closer to him, he spreads his legs to give you more room, "again."
sensitive, you rock your hips slowly, clumsily. you're still there, close—teetering around the edge, warmth pitching a tent your belly. it gives you butterflies and swallows you up as your jaw goes slack, unable to stop the moans that escape you. it gets worse and worse with every rock of your hips, and the tighter izuku's grip gets. surreal, bruising, dragging your wet cunt against his clothed thigh, dampening his pants. debauched, flushed, shameless. it's humiliating, even if it is him. especially because it's him.
he knows. he can tell by the way you tremble, burning from the inside out, searing hot. your movements become more ragged, more desperate, grinding down onto his thigh like it'll kill you. you plea, you cry for him to let you cum. he'll let you, this time.
he doesn't relent even then, letting you fuck yourself on him through your orgasm, as intense and shocking as it is, coming over you in waves—telling you to keep going; keep fucking yourself through it, he says, scarred fingers digging into the fat of your hips as you ride him, cunt drooling and slicking with every thrust.
