lia♡

college au! izuku midoriya x f!reader

The neon sign of the campus diner buzzed, casting a harsh pink glow over the formica table. Across from you, Izuku was fast asleep, his face buried in his arms among a sea of highlighters and textbooks.

Your phone buzzed with a text from your roommate: You seem pretty sad for a girl so in love.

You locked the screen, a cold lump forming in your throat. Sad. Was that how it looked?

You looked back at him. Izuku was everything. Brilliant, kind, and devastatingly handsome in a messy, effortless way that made your chest physically ache. He was a sun, pulling everyone into his orbit, while you were just burning up in his atmosphere, completely invisible.

That was the tragedy of it. Being in love with him didn't feel like a romance; it felt like a beautiful, slow-motion car crash. You spent every day pretending that the way your heart shattered when he smiled was normal, knowing he was too busy saving the world to ever notice the girl standing right next to him.

You reached across the table, your fingers hovering just millimeters above his messy green curls. You wanted to wake him up and scream at him for having this absolute, agonizing hold over you.

Instead, you pulled your hand back into a fist.

"Izuku," you whispered.

He stirred, blinking his heavy green eyes open. The moment he saw you, that soft, impossibly sweet smile broke across his face. "Oh... sorry, Y/N. Did I pass out again?"

"It's fine," you lied, forcing a smile that felt completely hollow.

cheater!gojo x f!reader

requests open!

The thing about Gojo Satoru is that he fills a room. Even when he isn’t trying to, his cursed energy, his height, his laugh—it all just expands until there’s no oxygen left for anyone else.

You spent years being grateful just to breathe his secondhand air.

But tonight, the apartment feels entirely empty, even though he’s sitting right across from you at the kitchen island. The six eyes are hidden behind his dark sunglasses, but you don’t need to see his eyes to know he isn’t really here. He hasn’t been here in months.

"Satoru," you say, your voice barely scraping past the lump in your throat.

"Hmm?" He doesn’t look up from his phone. His thumb flickers across the screen, a small, private smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It’s the kind of smile he used to give you when you first started dating—back when he looked at you like you were the only exception to his solitary godhood.

Lately, that look belongs to notifications. To late-night "missions" that don't quite line up with the jujutsu society logs. To the faint scent of a perfume that doesn't belong to you, clinging to the collar of his high-necked uniform when he stumbles home at 3 AM.

"Look at me. Please."

The please is what does it. It’s too raw, too broken. Satoru pauses, his thumb freezing over the glass screen. Slowly, he slides the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, revealing those impossibly bright, sky-blue eyes. They are beautiful. They are also entirely unreadable.

"What's wrong, babe?" he asks, his tone dripping with that casual, effortless charm. The kind he uses to deflect everything serious. "You look like you're about to give a eulogy."

"Am I enough for you?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy and pathetic. You hate how small your voice sounds. You hate how your hands are trembling in your lap. You’ve spent the last six months convincing yourself you were just being paranoid, that Satoru was just busy, that a man like him just commands attention from everyone. You told yourself that your insecurities—the ones that whispered you were too ordinary, too fragile, too much of a footnote in his grand story—were just demons of your own making.

But you saw the texts yesterday. You saw the way he laughed at a voice note from a name you didn't recognize, the way he hastily locked his screen when you walked into the room.

Satoru’s smile fades. The playful glint in his eyes dies out, replaced by something heavy. Something like pity.

"Where is this coming from?" he asks softly. He reaches across the marble countertop to take your hand, but you pull away. His fingers twitch, grasping at nothing, before dropping back to his side.

"Don't do that," you whisper, a tear finally slipping down your cheek. "Don't act like you don't know. I’m not stupid, Satoru. I’ve just been quiet. Because I was terrified that if I brought it up, you’d leave."

He doesn't deny it.

That’s the exact moment your heart shatters into a million jagged pieces. If he had argued, if he had gotten defensive, if he had laughed it off and called you crazy—you might have clung to the lie. But he just sits there, looking at you with a profound, quiet guilt.

"You're the strongest man alive," you choke out, the words tasting like copper and grief. "You can manipulate space and time, but you couldn't just tell me the truth? You couldn't just tell me you were bored of me?"

"I’m not bored of you," he says quickly, his voice dropping an octave. There's a rare panic bleeding into his features now. He slides off the barstool, stepping closer to you, but the infinity between you feels miles wide right now. "Hey. Look at me. I love you. You know I love you."

"Then why do I feel like a ghost in my own home?" you sob, finally looking right into those limitless eyes. "Why do I check my reflection and wonder what she has that I don't? Why do I have to beg for a text back while you’re out giving pieces of yourself to everyone else?"

Your voice cracks on the word everyone.

"Satoru, I changed everything about myself to fit into your world. I shrank myself down so I wouldn't get in your way. I accepted the crumbs you gave me because I thought... I thought being loved by Gojo Satoru meant I had to suffer a little bit. Because you're a god, right? And gods are selfish."

Satoru looks like he's been struck. The man who cannot be touched by any weapon looks entirely defenseless. He reaches out again, and this time, he doesn't let you pull away. His large, warm hands cup your face, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears pouring down your cheeks. His touch is so gentle, so devastatingly familiar, that it makes you cry harder.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his forehead coming down to rest against yours. His breath is shaky. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

"Did you sleep with her?" The question is a whisper against his lips.

Satoru closes his eyes. He doesn't answer.

And there it is. The silence that confirms every nightmare you've had for the past half-year.

You pull your face out of his hands. The loss of his warmth leaves you shivering. You take a step back, wiping your eyes with the back of your sleeve, feeling a strange, hollow numbness take over where the panic used to be.

"You're a monster," you whisper, not with anger, but with a profound sadness.

Satoru stands there, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. For the first time since you’ve known him, he looks small. He looks like a boy who broke his favorite toy and realizes he doesn't know how to put the pieces back together.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he says, and for once, he sounds completely stripped of his arrogance. He sounds entirely human. "I don't... I don't know how to do this right. I don't know how to be what you need. I have everything, but I don't know how to keep the things that actually matter."

He takes a shaky breath, looking at your tear-stained face, at the way your shoulders are hunched, trying to protect yourself from him.

"I'm sorry," Satoru whispers, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "I'm so sorry I made you love me."

You look at him, the man you gave your whole heart to, the man who used his infinity to keep the world out, but used it to keep you out, too.

"So am I," you say softly.

bakugou x f!reader

The dorm room is dark except for the sliver of moonlight cutting through the blinds. I'm sitting on the edge of Bakugou's bed, heart hammering against my ribs as he stands before me, shirtless and breathing hard after our training session.

"Stop looking at me like that," he growls, though there's no real heat in it.

"Like what?"

"Like you're seeing right through me."

His fingers trace the hem of my tank top, and I shiver despite the warmth of the room. We've been dancing around this for months—the tension, the stolen glances, the moments that almost happened but didn't.

"I want to see all of you," I whisper, and that's all it takes for his control to snap.

His mouth crashes against mine, hungry and desperate. Hands that create explosions now explore my body with reverence, as if memorizing every curve. When he finally pulls back, his red eyes are dark with desire.

"I've wanted this," he admits, voice raw. "For so long."

The confession hangs between us as I lift my arms, letting him pull my shirt over my head. His gaze is intense, almost worshipful as he takes me in.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs against my skin, and I realize that beneath all the anger and aggression, Bakugou Katsuki is just a boy who wants to be seen, to be wanted, to be loved.

As his hands continue their exploration, I understand that being undressed by him isn't just about physical exposure—it's about emotional vulnerability, about letting someone see the parts of yourself you keep hidden.

notes: trying to force myself to write smut but alol i can thing about is angst

Todoroki Shouto watches porn the way other people watch weather reports—mechanical, detached, cataloging the ways bodies can burn without ever touching. He has playlists organized by temperature. Ice play. Fire play. The ones where actors scream like they're being murdered and he turns the volume down because it sounds too much like home. He tells himself it's about control, about seeing something he can start and stop with a click, unlike the frost that lives in his bones or the anger his father planted there. But it's 3 AM and he's watching the same clip for the seventh time, not touching himself, just staring at the way the actress's eyes go blank in the middle of the frame, and he thinks: there. That's the place I want to be. Nowhere.

Bakugou Katsuki doesn't watch porn—he consumes it. Aggressively. Competitively. His search history is a battlefield of tags he won't admit to in daylight: rough, forced, crying, ruined. He jerks off like it's training, like if he doesn't come hard enough or fast enough or right he's failing some invisible metric. The only time his brain shuts up is when he's watching someone else get taken apart, piece by piece, until they're nothing but need and saliva and the wet sounds of being used. He hates how much he needs it. Hates that he bookmarks the ones where the bottom looks broken afterward, stares at the screen with his hand still around himself, thinking about Deku's face when they were kids—I'm sorry, Kacchan—and comes so hard his vision whites out. Then he deletes his history and screams at his reflection until his throat bleeds.

Shinsou Hitoshi found porn at twelve because he was tired of being invisible and the people in the videos looked at the camera like they saw him. Now his laptop is full of POV shots, first-person perspectives, you and your and look at me while I— He doesn't want to touch anyone. He wants to be witnessed. His favorites are the amateur ones, the ones that feel accidental, where someone forgot to turn off the camera and you can see the real thing underneath the performance. He collects them like evidence. See? People are like this when no one's watching. Desperate. Animal. Just like me. He tells himself he's studying human behavior for his quirk, for the day he'll make villains kneel with a word, but really he's just lonely in a way that porn can't fix but can numb for twenty-three minutes at a time.

Dabi Touya, whatever, names don't matter when you're ash—uses porn to feel something, anything, the way other people use pain. His skin is scar tissue and regret so he seeks out the roughest stuff, the kind that would make most people flinch. Blood. Choking. The moment where someone realizes they can't breathe and the panic sets in. He watches it with the sound off, blue flames flickering across his palms, thinking about how his own lungs used to burn, how his father used to look at him like he was already dead. The girls in the videos never look dead enough. He keeps searching. Keeps clicking. Keeps his hand steady even when the rest of him is shaking apart.

He’s the life of the Theta Chi party until he isn't. The second he sees you hiding a yawn behind your hand, he’s grabbing his keys. In the quiet of his truck, he’ll reach over to squeeze your knee. "Too loud for you, sweet girl?" he’ll murmur, his voice dropping the harsh edge it uses for everyone else.

Your closet is slowly being overtaken by heavy cotton and the scent of mahogany cologne. He pretends to roll his eyes when he catches you wearing his varsity sweatshirt, the sleeves bunched past your wrists. "You're a little thief," he’ll tease, pulling you in by the drawstring. But seeing his last name on your small frame is his favorite thing.

He likes to know exactly where you are, and he gets possessive if you take too long to text back. If you ignore him while you're studying, he’ll show up at your apartment unannounced, leaning against your doorframe with a dark, intense look in his eyes. "You're ignoring me now?" he’ll murmur, his voice low and dangerous, before crowding you against the wall just to make sure he has your undivided attention.

He loves the contrast of how shy you are compared to how loud and aggressive he is. At frat parties, he’ll purposefully whisper something incredibly shameless in your ear just to watch you blush and look down. He thrives on knowing that he’s the only one who can make you lose your composure like that, and he likes to show you off like a prize he won.