he’s a little nervous the first time you ask him to come over and give you a lesson. honestly, he said yes because you pouted at him so sweetly and he considers himself a nice person. even if nice people don’t usually have sex dreams about the girl they’re meant to help pass her classes.
still, he’s nervous. even though he long grew out of the scrawny frame he had before high school and now stands nearly a foot taller and broader in college, the part of him that was bullied has trouble wrapping his head around the fact that someone as pretty as you wants him here. izuku has trouble wrapping his head around the fact that you’re definitely flirting with him right now because he can definitely feel the plush of your thigh pressed against his and your cleavage is so delightfully distracting.
“‘zu, what’d you get for number 4?” you ask, eyebrows pulled together in slight worry as you gaze up at him.
“uhm, 24.6…” he stammers. izuku can feel the way his cheeks are growing pink.
he tries to push away the thoughts of bending you over, he really does, but the next thing he knows, izuku’s hand is shaking up your skirt. it’s really more natural than it should be. he’s not a virgin by any means but the way you gasp and part your legs when his fingers hit the noticeably damp center of your panties makes him feel like he could lose his mind.
really, who could blame him for bending you over your work and finger fucking you. i mean, you’re just not getting the material. izuku’s gotta ingrain it in you. so he pets that sweet spot inside of you, fingers smushed between the fat of your thighs, while he coos in your ear about minding the material. is this helping? you feel like you’re learning? and all you can do is nod your sweet head because izuku, still bullied in his mind, has thick fingers and a knack for finding your g-spot.
summary:your whole life gets put on hold to move back in with your grandmother who raised you, as it’s discovered she’s slowly losing her memory. though you prepared yourself to shoulder this burden alone, help comes from the most unlikely places.
a/n:this was a request from @apollosfallen so tysm for it scout i had so much fun w this. deku runs an animal sanctuary, has a mild savior complex, and a thick southern accent i make the rules it’s my fic. Also he’s a big man, idk if you’re 6ft, he’s 7ft now, just imagine him as larger than u. cw: use of sir as a title briefly, dom!izuku, brat tamer izuku, he covers readers mouth with his hand, reader is a little afraid of thunderstorms, quirkless au, my first fic ever w no daddy kink but there’s always time for a part two. grandmother has dementia, bakugou x deku past implied.smut/hurt/comfort.
You’ve been sitting in your grandmother’s driveway for ten minutes now. You have service, kind of. It goes in and out depending on how upright you hold your phone. It’s almost ninety degrees, and you can feel it, the air is heavy with water as you procrastinate and pick at your cuticles.
Her house is a light eggshell blue, the wraparound porch you’d loved so much as a child having fallen into disrepair. You’re doing the right thing. You remind yourself. She raised you. You peer in the windows, you can see the piles of clutter, imagine the mothball smell, you don’t even want to think about the probably expired KFC in the refrigerator.
When you told your boss you’d need to work remotely for a few months, he’d assumed you were joking. You were at the top of your game, managing several employees, working hard.
“I’m not talking about someone who has anyone else,” You’d argued, “She didn’t have to raise me, when my parents died she could have put me in foster care, she was already in her seventies. And I can’t put her in a home, she lives in the middle of nowhere and she’s not going to leave.” He’d sighed, and agreed, provided you kept normal hours. You’d agreed, and picked up your life to move back to your hometown.
The slam of the car door startles several sparrows dancing around the full bird feeder. You wonder if she’s been getting up to refill it or if someone from the neighborhood has been coming around to help her. The front steps creak under your weight, and you peel up the doormat to pick up her keys. It’s 4PM, and the sun is low in the cornflower sky, painting everything gold. Her house is set back a ways from the road, surrounded by gardens that have been let go. If you were to look carefully, you would be able to see the patterns, the healthy rose bushes that haven’t been clipped back, the tomatoes growing and ripening, falling to the earth. Hard work gone to waste.
You jam the key in the lock, preparing yourself for the worst. The screen door swings open with a familiar song, you step into your entrance hallway. The shoes are stacked neatly by the door, to your right, papers cover the dining room table, hospital bills, credit card applications, and more spam. To your left, the kitchen, blue and white tile shining in the evening light, the wooden table standing just the way you remember it, slightly askew.
