༉‧₊˚. summary: brat!reader x brat tamer!izuku
༉‧₊˚. warning/s: smut, mdni, 18+, dom/sub dynamic, brat!reader. brat tamer!reader, praising, mentions of punishment, condescension, overstimulation, aftercare, unprotected sex
You knew exactly what you were doing. From the moment you woke up, a little kernel of defiance had been smoldering in your chest. You’d been short with him at breakfast, rolling your eyes when he asked about your training schedule. You’d "forgotten" the text he sent about meeting for lunch, only to reply an hour later with a blase, "oops, my bad." The final straw had been when he came to your room, his face soft with concern, and you’d looked him dead in the eye and said, "God, Izuku, do you ever stop analyzing everything? Can't you just be normal for five seconds?"
You saw the shift immediately. The easy-going warmth in his green eyes didn't vanish, but it hardened. It cooled into something sharp, something appraising. He didn't get angry. He didn't raise his voice. He just looked at you, a slow, deliberate smile touching his lips that was more terrifying than any shout.
"Oh..." he’d said, his voice deceptively sweet. "I see what this is."
And now, here you are. He’d maneuvered you to the bed with a strength that always took you by surprise, his hands firm on your waist. He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, and you’re standing between his spread knees, your arms crossed defiantly over your chest.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice quiet but holding an undeniable weight. When you don't comply, tilting your chin up in a show of rebellion, he chuckles. A low, knowing sound. He reaches out and hooks a finger into the belt loop of your jeans, tugging you closer until your shins bump against his. "I said, look at me, Y/N."
You finally meet his gaze, and the intensity there makes your breath hitch. His eyes are dark, narrowed with a focused determination that’s usually reserved for a villain he’s about to take down.
"There she is," he murmurs, his free hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. The gesture is almost gentle, a stark contrast to the steel in his voice. "You’ve been a brat all day. On purpose."
You try to jerk your head away, but his grip holds you fast. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"No?" he hums, his thumb now pressing against your bottom lip. "You forgot lunch? You called me annoying? You think I can't tell when you're trying to get a rise out of me? I know you, baby. I know every little trick." He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "And you were very, very naughty."
A shiver runs down your spine, a mix of fear and anticipation. "Or what?" you challenge, your voice barely a whisper.
"Or this," he says simply. In a smooth, fluid motion, he stands, turning you both and falling back onto the bed so you land straddling his lap. His hands are instantly on your hips, holding you in place. "You wanted my attention? You have it. Now you gotta take your punishment."
He doesn't give you a chance to argue. One hand stays on your hip, a grounding, possessive weight, while the other snakes up your back to tangle in your hair. He pulls your head down, crashing his lips against yours. It’s not a gentle kiss; it’s a punishing, claiming one. His teeth nip at your bottom lip, and when you gasp, his tongue sweeps in, dominating yours. It’s a kiss that says, I’m in charge now.
You try to keep up the facade, squirming in his lap and digging your nails into his shoulders, but a fire is already starting to build low in your belly. He breaks the kiss, his chest heaving slightly, a smirk playing on his swollen lips.
"Still got some fight in you?" he asks, his voice a low, condescending purr that makes you clench around nothing. "That’s cute. Let’s see how long it lasts."
In a move that’s pure, controlled power, he flips you. Suddenly you’re on your back, and he’s hovering over you, his knees bracketing your thighs. He makes quick work of your clothes, his movements efficient and sure. Soon, you’re bare before him, and you fight the urge to cover yourself. His eyes rake over your body, and the heat in his gaze is almost a physical touch.
"Look at you," he breathes, and the praise, so condescendingly sweet, makes your cheeks burn. "So pretty when you’re all worked up. But you forgot who’s in charge, didn’t you?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He lowers his head, and his mouth is on you, hot and insistent. He’s not teasing. He’s not gentle. He’s devouring you, his tongue flicking against your clit with a ruthless, calculated precision that he’s learned from studying your every reaction. Your back arches off the bed, a choked moan escaping your lips as your hands fly to his hair, trying to push him away, trying to pull him closer.
"Ah-ah," he scolds, lifting his head just enough to speak. His chin is glistening with your arousal, and the sight sends a fresh wave of heat through you. "You don't get to tell me what to do. Remember? You wanted to act like a brat, now you’re going to take what I give you."
He dives back in, and this time, he adds a finger, then two, curling them inside you to press against that spot that makes your vision go white. The pleasure is sharp, immediate, overwhelming. It builds at an alarming rate, a tight coil in your stomach that’s already threatening to snap. You can feel it, the orgasm cresting, your thighs beginning to tremble.
"Izuku," you gasp, your voice ragged. "I’m gonna—"
"No," he says, his voice firm, and he pulls away completely.
The loss is staggering. You cry out in frustration, your hips bucking into the empty air. Your eyes fly open to glare at him, and you see the smug satisfaction on his face. He’s enjoying this. He’s enjoying your desperation.
"What the fuck?" you snarl, your bratty persona making a last-ditch effort.
He just chuckles, leaning down to press a soft, mocking kiss to your inner thigh. "Nuh-uh, honey. You don't get to come yet. You haven't earned it." He waits until the violent edge of your arousal begins to recede, until you're left panting and aching, before he lowers his head again.
This becomes the pattern. He brings you to the very brink of oblivion with his mouth, his hands, his words, only to pull back at the last second. He’s a master of your body, and he knows exactly how to push you, how to read the tells of your impending orgasm—the way your toes curl, the frantic little gasps you make, the way your walls flutter around his fingers.
"Look at that," he praises after the third denial, his voice dripping with condescending sweetness as he watches you writhe. "You’re so close already. Such a sensitive girl. But you’re still being a little brat, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes. You still haven’t learned your lesson."
He’s right. You’re fighting it, clinging to your defiance even as your body screams for release. The overstimulation is a dizzying, torturous haze. Every nerve ending is on fire. The pleasure is so intense it’s almost painful, and the denial is a form of exquisite agony.
"Please," you finally whimper, the word tearing from your throat. It’s not a demand. It’s a surrender.
"Please what?" he asks, his voice softening just a fraction. He’s hovering over you again, his hard length pressing against your thigh through his jeans. He hasn't even taken his clothes off yet, and that fact alone is a heady display of control.
"Please… let me come," you beg, tears of frustration leaking from the corners of your eyes.
He wipes a tear away with his thumb, his expression softening into something that looks almost like pride. "There she is," he murmurs. "Good girl. See? All you had to do was ask nicely."
He finally sheds his own clothes, and the sight of his hard, muscular body, the raw desire in his eyes, makes you whimper. He settles between your thighs, not entering you yet, just letting his weight press you into the mattress. He captures your lips in a kiss that’s slower this time, deeper, a reward for your submission.
"You gonna be good for me now?" he asks against your lips.
You nod frantically, your hands clutching at his shoulders. "Yes. I’ll be good. I promise."
"Good," he says, and then he’s pushing into you.
The stretch is exquisite, a welcome relief after the torturous build-up. He fills you completely, and you moan, your head falling back against the pillows. He doesn’t move for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him inside you.
"Who’s in charge, Y/N?" he asks, his voice a low growl.
"You are," you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut.
"That’s right," he says, and then he starts to move.
He sets a punishing pace, his hips snapping against yours with a rhythmic, powerful force. The coil in your stomach, which had barely begun to unwind, tightens again, impossibly fast. The pleasure is overwhelming, a tidal wave that’s been held back for too long, and now it’s crashing over you with the force of a tsunami. There’s no holding it back this time. He’s not going to stop.
"Look at me," he commands again, his voice strained with his own effort. "I want you to watch me when you fall apart."
You force your eyes open, locking your gaze with his. The sight of him—his face contorted in pleasure, his brow furrowed in concentration, his eyes dark with possession—is what finally undoes you. The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, a blinding, deafening wave of ecstasy that steals your breath. You cry out his name, your body arching off the bed as your walls clench around him, a violent, rhythmic pulsing that you have no control over.
But he doesn't stop. He fucks you through it, his thrusts never faltering, drawing out your pleasure until it borders on pain. The overstimulation is immediate, a sharp, almost electric shock that has you thrashing beneath him.
"Izuku, wait," you gasp, your hands pushing weakly against his chest. "Too much."
"Nuh-uh, honey," he grunts, his rhythm never breaking. He captures your wrists in one of his large hands, pinning them above your head. "You gotta take it. This is your punishment, remember? You don't get to decide when it's over."
Tears are streaming down your face now, but they're not from sadness. They're from pure, unadulterated sensation. Every thrust sends a new jolt of pleasure-pain through you, so intense it's almost unbearable. The coil in your stomach, which had just unwound in a devastating climax, is already tightening again, impossibly fast.
"You can," he insists, his voice a low, dominant growl. "I know you can. You’re so strong, baby. Such a good girl, taking your punishment so well." He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Just one more. Give me one more."
His words are your undoing. The condescending praise, the possessive command, the overwhelming pleasure—it's all too much. The second orgasm builds faster than the first, a violent, explosive thing that tears a scream from your throat. It’s even more intense than the first, a full-body convulsion that leaves you shaking and sobbing, completely wrecked.
This time, he stills his hips, buried deep inside you. He releases your wrists, and you let your arms fall limply to your sides. You’re boneless, spent, a trembling, whimpering mess. He presses a soft, gentle kiss to your forehead, his touch a stark contrast to the brutal way he just claimed you.
"Shhh," he murmurs, his voice now soft and reassuring. "It's okay. I've got you. You did so good for me, baby. So perfect."
He slowly pulls out, and the emptiness you feel is immediate and profound. He disappears for a moment, returning with a warm, damp cloth. He’s gentle as he cleans you up, his touch reverent, his eyes full of a tender, adoring warmth that makes your heart ache. He wipes away the tears, the sweat, the mess between your thighs, his movements slow and deliberate.
When he’s done, he discards the cloth and pulls the covers over you, sliding into bed beside you. He gathers you into his arms, pulling you against his chest, your head resting on his steady heartbeat. His hand strokes your hair, his fingers gently massaging your scalp.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice a low, gentle rumble against your ear.
You can only manage a weak nod, your body still trembling in the aftermath. You burrow deeper into his embrace, seeking his warmth, his strength.
"Talk to me," he coaxes softly. "Was that too much?"
You shake your head, your voice hoarse when you finally speak. "No. It was… perfect."
He lets out a soft, relieved sigh, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "You were so beautiful," he murmurs, his arms tightening around you. "All day, I mean. Even when you were being a brat.."
You let out a weak laugh, the sound muffled against his chest. "Whatever"
"You were," he chuckled, a smile in his voice. "But you're my brat. And I love you."
"I love you too," you whisper, your eyes drifting closed. The adrenaline is gone, replaced by a deep, profound sense of contentment. The fight has been drained out of you, leaving only a warm, fuzzy feeling of love and safety.
He continues to stroke your hair, his touch a soothing balm on your overwrought nerves. "Get some sleep," he says softly. "I've got you."
And as you drift off into a deep, dreamless sleep, held securely in his arms, you know that you've finally, truly, learned your lesson.
༉‧₊˚. A/N: I NEED t be treated like this by Izuku. deadass if I see one more person put him in a "crazy, total freakfest" fic and its all vanilla??? you will feel my wrath.
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