#botanicwrites

Tenya Iida x (fem) Reader

❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❊ ✿ ❀ ❀ ❊ ✿

It was nearly midnight when Tenya Iida’s door creaked open.

He blinked in disbelief, hand still on the knob, gaze flickering rapidly between the digital clock on his nightstand—11:58 p.m.—and the sight standing right in front of him.

You. Wearing nothing but fuzzy slippers, a pair of cotton shorts that barely clung to the tops of your thighs, and an oversized t-shirt that slipped off one shoulder. You looked sleepy, cozy, soft—utterly dangerous.

“Hi” you whispered, smiling up at him with that innocent tilt of your head.

Tenya’s eyes widened. His mouth opened, then closed. He glanced down the hallway—left, right, even toward the security camera near the ceiling—like you’d brought a bomb to his front door instead of yourself.

“D-Do you have any idea what time it is?” he stammered. “This is entirely inappropriate. If someone were to see—if a teacher or even a classmate—”

“No one’s around,” you interrupted calmly, stepping closer. “And we don’t have class tomorrow.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that this is a direct violation of—of the student handbook! Visitors aren’t allowed after curfew and—” You placed a gentle hand on his chest. “Tenya,” you said, quietly, “it’s just one night.”

His mouth trembled around a protest, but your hand curled around his wrist and you stepped inside his room before he could finish. He backed up, heartbeat hammering in his chest like he’d just broken the law. You shut the door softly behind you.

Walking toward his bed. “I just wanna sleep next to my boyfriend.” He stood frozen in the middle of the room, face flushed, glasses fogged. His striped pajamas clung to his long frame—the shirt buttoned all the way up to his collarbone. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides as you climbed into his bed like it was yours.

He joined you after a long pause, his movements stiff and unsure. He laid flat on his back, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to recite the U.A. rulebook in his head to stop thinking about the warmth of your thigh brushing his.

You turned on your side, propping yourself up on one elbow as your eyes wandered to the way the soft cotton of his pajama shirt pulled over his broad chest. Slowly, you swung a leg over his waist and straddled him.

He went still.

“W-What are you doing?” His voice cracked. “Th-this is not proper. This—”

“It’s just so hot in here,” you said softly, tracing your fingers along the edge of his shirt. “Aren’t you hot, Iida baby?”

His hips jerked slightly—barely noticeable, but it was enough.

Your fingers dipped down, slowly undoing the first button of his shirt. He swallowed hard.

“sorta—please, you shouldn’t…”

Another button undone. His chest began to show—hard lines of muscle, smooth skin, warmth rising under your touch.

“Please…” he whispered again, but it was weak now, breathy.

You unbuttoned another. Then another. The shirt parted, revealing the full expanse of his toned torso—taut abs, the curve of his obliques, that perfect divot leading down beneath the waistband of his pajama pants.

You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone, then down the center of his chest. His hands clutched the sheets at his sides, his head tipping back into the pillow.

“Y-You have to stop,” he whispered.

But his hips bucked up into you. His cock was already hard beneath you—thick, twitching beneath the fabric, pressing against your core through your shorts.

“it doesn’t feel like you want me to stop tenya”

You rolled your hips down gently, letting the friction spark between your bodies. He gasped.

“You’re already so hard,” you murmured. “I thought this was inappropriate”

He groaned, face flushed red to the tips of his ears. “I-I can’t… I can’t think straight when you—”

“Then stop thinking,” you whispered against his neck. “Just feel.”

His hands finally rose—slow, trembling—and landed on your hips. His grip was firm. Desperate.

His hands stayed on your hips, trembling slightly as you rocked against him. You could feel him now—really feel him. Hard, hot, twitching beneath you, straining against the thin fabric of his pajama pants.

His chest heaved with every shallow breath. His eyes met yours—wide, pleading, conflicted.

“I-I should stop you.” he whispered.

“You don’t want to.”

He exhaled, shaky and soft. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t.”

You kissed him.

He gasped into your mouth like he’d never been kissed like that before—like he hadn’t let himself want it until now. Your lips moved slowly over his, guiding him, coaxing his control apart with every brush and tug. And when you ground your hips down again, he groaned into your mouth—loudly, head tipping back into the pillow, breath completely stolen.

You pulled back just enough to murmur, “Can I take this off you?” He nodded—quick, breathless.

You pushed the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, finally exposing all of him. He was beautiful—broad chest, sculpted abs, and strong arms you’d only imagined holding you like this. Your fingers slid over the planes of his torso, and you felt the way his muscles tensed under your touch, like he was barely holding himself back.

Then your hands moved lower. Over his waistband. Beneath the hem. slipped your hand into his pants and wrapped your fingers around him.

He was big—thick and flushed and so painfully hard it made him whimper when you stroked him for the first time. His hips bucked up again, completely unintentional, and his head fell back against the pillow with a deep groan.

“Oh my god—” His voice cracked. “I-It feels… I don’t even have words—”

“Good?” you teased softly, brushing your thumb over the leaking tip. He nodded furiously, mouth falling open.

You leaned down and kissed down his chest again as you stroked him—slow, steady, watching how quickly he unraveled beneath you. His hips had a mind of their own now, chasing your hand, desperate for more friction. His hands gripped your thighs like a lifeline.

“Iida,” you whispered against his neck, “you’re so sensitive. You’re gonna come like this, aren’t you?”

You could still feel him twitching against your palm, his breath shaky and uneven beneath you. His face was flushed, chest rising and falling in soft, stunned waves. You started to lean down to kiss him again—but then Tenya surprised you.

He grabbed your hips suddenly, strong and sure, and flipped you onto your stomach in one smooth motion. You let out a surprised gasp as you landed on your elbows, your shorts riding up to expose the curve of your ass.

“Tenya—?”

He didn’t answer.

His hands slid over your hips like he was memorizing them. His breath was ragged behind you as he pushed your oversized shirt up your back, exposing the soft skin beneath. You looked over your shoulder at him—he’d taken his glasses off, hair slightly messy now, the pajama shirt tossed to the floor.

His eyes were dark now. Heavy-lidded. Starving. “W-We shouldn’t,” he whispered, voice breaking. “We’ve never…”

“But you want to,” you said softly.

His hands gripped tighter. His thumbs dug into the flesh of your hips as he groaned, so low it barely escaped his throat. “I want to,” he admitted, his voice strained, “so badly, I can’t wait anymore.”

He tugged your shorts down slowly—pausing when they reached your thighs, like he was giving you one last chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

So he pushed them down fully, his palm sliding over your bare ass. He let out a shuddering breath. “You’re… perfect.”

You smiled into the pillow. “Then do something about it, Tenya—show me how perfect I am to you.”

That broke something in him.

You heard the rustle of fabric behind you—his pants being shoved down just a little more. The thick, hard press of him against your entrance, rubbing along your folds. He wasn’t inside yet, just teasing. Coating himself in your slick.

You whimpered and pushed your hips back. “Please, baby…” Tenya exhaled hard through his nose, leaning over your back and whispering near your ear, “You have to be quiet.”

“I will,” you promised, already trembling with need. “Please, fuck me I need you.”

And then he pushed in. You bit into the pillow as he filled you—slow, careful, but so deep. He gasped behind you, like your body had knocked the air right out of his lungs.

“F-Fuck,” he whispered, and the curse in his mouth sounded forbidden. “You feel… oh god, you feel amazing…”

He stayed still for a moment, trembling, holding your hips like if he let go he might fall apart completely.

Then he started to move. Slow at first—controlled, deep thrusts that made you moan against the sheets. His grip was bruising, his breath hot against your back. He groaned every time he pushed in, fighting the urge to get rougher.

But your hips kept meeting him. Rolling back. Begging for more.

“Stop doing that,” he rasped.

“Doing what?” you asked innocently.

“Pushing back like that. I can’t— I can’t keep it quiet if—”

You did it again. And that was it.

His hand slid up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades to arch your spine for him. His hips snapped forward faster, harder—deep and filthy. The sound of skin against skin filled the room in soft, rhythmic slaps, and even though you were trying to stay quiet, little gasps and whimpers kept slipping out of your mouth.

Tenya leaned forward, chest against your back, lips brushing your ear. “Be quiet,” he whispered. “You’re going to get us caught.”

But the way he fucked you said something else entirely.

“I-i can’t when your dick is literally h-hitting my fuc-fucking organs”

His hand reached down and rubbed slow circles over your clit, and your whole body tensed. “Tenya—!” He groaned, biting down softly on your shoulder to muffle his own moan as you clenched around him.

“Come for me,” he begged. “Please—please let me feel you—”

You came with a soft, broken cry, your body shaking beneath him. Your thighs trembled, your back arched, and Tenya’s pace turned sloppy, frantic. His hands gripped your hips like he was anchoring himself, and with one last, deep thrust, he came inside you—his whole body shuddering with the force of it.

He collapsed gently over your back, breathing hard, lips brushing your skin as he whispered your name like a prayer.

For a long moment, the room was nothing but silence and the hum of your heartbeats, tangled together in a mess of sweat and soft gasps.

“…This was so against the rules,” he whispered.

You smiled into the pillow. “And you loved every second.”

He let out a shaky laugh. “I think I might love you.”

Pro Hero | Izuku Midoriya x Fangirl (Fem) Reader

-> I will NEVER stop writing menace Izuku because there is absolutely NO WAY someone that nice, that polite, that sweet is not secretly a freak. You don’t save the world with a smile and then go home and knit. No—you choke your girl out while she wears your merch and thank her for letting you. —Anyway, enjoy🥳

ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍

You didn’t expect much when you walked up to the table—just your hero crush smiling at you for five seconds before you moved on like everyone else.

But when his eyes lifted and locked onto yours, time stretched. You offered him the homemade fanart you’d printed on glossy paper. “It’s silly, but… I wanted you to sign it.”

His freckled cheeks went pink, and he gave you that smile. “It’s not silly at all. It’s cute.”

His fingers brushed yours when he took it. “Hey… mind if I ask something kinda bold?”

You blinked. “Yeah? What’s up?”

He scribbled something in the corner of the poster and slid it back. A phone number.

“Text me. If you want to talk more. Or… I don’t know. Grab a coffee?”

Your heart practically launched out of your chest.

Of course you texted him.

Coffee turned into dinner. Dinner turned into your back hitting his apartment mattress—staring up at him, wide-eyed, wondering how the sweet, bashful hero who wore a cardigan on your little date now had your legs pinned wide open… your wrists bound above your head with his utility belt.

At first, he kissed you like you were fragile. Hands shaky. Voice soft. Whispers of “you sure?” between every breath.

But the second you moaned his name and rocked your hips into his?

A switch flipped.

And suddenly the man above you wasn’t the one who smiled for cameras. He fucked you like he’d been starving. Like he’d been good for too long and now he needed to ruin something sweet.

He rutted into you slow and deep—possessive, gritting through every thrust like he hated how much he needed it.

“You thought I’d be gentle, didn’t you?” he muttered, slamming into you hard enough to make the headboard crack.

“Thought I’d blush and stutter while I fucked you?” He leaned down, lips dragging along your jaw. “No, baby. I earn my rewards.”

Your legs shook. He was everywhere—biting your neck, sucking marks onto your chest like he wanted the world to see, you were a moaning mess while he’s choking you just enough to make you dizzy.

“You moan like you want the whole city to hear you,” he growled. “You like this? Being fucked by your favorite hero like a filthy little fan girl?”

You gasped, nails digging into your palm.

He chuckled low, voice dark. “You’re soaked. Can feel it drip down my cock every time I pull out.”

“Please—” you barely got the word out before he was on you again, teeth gritted like he was holding back something brutal.

He paused, just to thrust harder. “I’ve saved lives, baby,” he snarled into your neck, “but I’d let the city burn if it meant I got to come back to this cunt.”

Your body snapped tight, your orgasm crashing into you with no warning—and he felt it.

He growled, rough and wrecked. “Good girl. Fuck—milk it. Soak me. Show me how much this pussy loves me.”

And when you finally went limp, body shaking, eyes glassy? He leaned down and kissed you like he hadn’t just destroyed you.

Then he pulled out, slowly, watching his cum leak from your pussy onto the sheets.

He groaned. “Next time I fuck you, wear my merch.”

You blinked up at him, fucked-out and blinking.

Pro Hero | Bakugou Katsuki x (fem) Blogger Reader | Aged Up

Part 2 -> Here

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧. 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

—

You post it as a joke. Kind of.

It’s late, and you’re curled up in bed with your fanfic draft open and half a Twix in your mouth. Your followers are going wild in the replies, and you’re riding the high of being the “unofficial Dynamight smut queen” of the timeline. You’ve been known for your over-the-top thirst tweets, but this one? This one’s feral.

—

@/blastyourbackout

“Dynamight wouldn’t even take the suit off. He’d fuck you with the gauntlets still on, breathing heavy through gritted teeth, all ‘Shut up and take it—this is what you wanted, right?’”

—

You toss your phone. That’s enough unhinged behavior for the night. Until the morning comes—and you wake up to hell.

Your tweet is trending. His name is trending. People are tagging him.

—

“this is NASTY and i love it.”

“@Dynamightofficial please read this and confirm or deny.”

“If Dynamight didn’t do this, I’d be shocked.”

“SOMEONE CHECK ON HIM”

“@Dynamightofficial thoughts??”

Then it happens.

—

@Dynamightofficial :

“Who tf is behind this account.”

“If you’re gonna talk like that, be brave enough to show your face.”

Timeskip | Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

Room: dark. Door: locked—he swore he locked it. Clothes: everywhere.

His hands were under your thighs, spreading them wider on the couch, his hips grinding against yours, both of you breathing hard and fast, lost in each other, your hands buried in his hair while his mouth was on your neck, moving lower, hungrier, rougher.

“Katsuki,” you whispered, gasping when his hips rolled against yours. “God, you feel so—”

Click.

Door opens.

“Yo, Bakugou! Have you seen my—”

Silence.

Eye contact.

Chaos.

Denki stood frozen in the apartment doorway. Bag in hand. Keys still dangling from his fingers. And eyes locked on the absolutely-naked, very-much-mid-fuck position happening on the shared living room couch.

Bakugou didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then—death.

“DENKI, I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU.”

“OH MY GOD—OH MY GOD—”

“WHY DID YOU COME HERE?!”

“DUDE WE SHARE THIS APARTMENT!!” Denki screeched, flinging his hands over his eyes. “I SIT THERE, MAN! I EAT CHIPS THERE!”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE GONE FOR THE DAY?!”

“DO YOU KNOW HOW EXPENSIVE THERAPY IS?!”

You were desperately trying to cover yourself with a throw pillow that covered nothing, blinking in humiliation as Bakugou lunged for his hoodie and yanked it down over your body while simultaneously launching a remote control at Denki’s face.

“You don’t KNOCK, you don’t TEXT, you don’t even say you’re COMING BACK—WHAT THE FUCK, DUNCE FACE?!”

“I WAS GONE FOR TWO HOURS—I CAME BACK FOR MY PHONE CHARGER BECAUSE I FORGOT IT!!”

“WHICH IS TWO HOURS TOO SHORT AND FUCK YOUR PHONE YOU CAN CHARGE THE BITCH YOURSELF!”

Denki shrieked as a second throw pillow flew past his head and slammed the door shut. You and Katsuki sat there panting, tangled together, his hands clenched into fists like he was going to physically hunt Denki down.

You burst out laughing.

He whipped his head toward you. “The fuck is so funny?!”

You wheezed, pressing your face to his neck. “The look on his face. You could’ve cooked an egg on it.”

“He saw your tits,” he muttered, voice like gravel.

“Oh my god,” you teased, cupping his cheek. “Is the big bad Dynamight getting all possessive?”

“I’m gonna kill him,” he muttered darkly, already reaching for his phone.

You snatched it before he could text a death threat. “How about round two instead?”

His red eyes flicked to yours. Heat—instant. Rage softened into that lazy, smug smirk you knew way too well.

“Yeah,” he said, dragging you back into his lap. “He’s already traumatized. Might as well make it worth it.”

——

It was a few days after that incident, and you were both still trying to ignore what had happened.

Denki, of course, made it his very own mission to ruin your lives the moment you showed up at dinner that night. With a wide grin and the most ridiculous level of enthusiasm, he leaned toward you both, his voice way too loud.

“So, how was the private time, huh? Did you guys, uh—” he wiggled his eyebrows. “Finish what you started?”

Bakugou nearly shot up from the table, his fist clenched, ready to beat Denki’s face in.

“I WILL END YOU, YOU DENSE BASTARD—DON’T FUCKIN’ TALK TO HER.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Guess we’ll just have to be more careful next time.”

Denki threw his hands up. “All I’m saying is… that was way more than I bargained for.”

“Yeah?” Bakugou growled, glaring at him with murder in his eyes. “Well, you better learn how to knock. Next time, i’ll shove that charger straight up your ass.”

Katsuki Bakugou x Reader

• MDNI!! (18+)

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧. 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

Bakugou had never had a real girlfriend before you. Sure, he’d kissed a few girls, gotten a handjob or two—hell, maybe even gone down on someone once—but sex? That was something he never cared to try. Not until you.

The moment he finally had you, it was over. Katsuki was insatiable. Obsessed. A damn addict. If he wasn’t thinking about touching you, he was already doing it. Sneaking into your dorm when everyone else was asleep just to have you, only to wake you up hours later for another round before first period. He didn’t give a damn if you were tired—his hands were already pulling you close, lips pressing against your ear as he growled something filthy about how much he needed you.

Study sessions? Yeah, those were a joke. He’d start with his books open, acting like he gave a shit, but the second you leaned in too close or bit your lip in concentration, they were forgotten. Before you knew it, he had you bent over the desk, one hand gripping your hip, the other covering your mouth to muffle your moans.

Skipping training? It started as an accident—one missed session because he was too busy pinning you to his bed, your fingers tangled in his hair as he lost himself in you. Then once turned into twice, and before he knew it, he was making excuses to Kirishima, shrugging off practice like it wasn’t a big deal. After all, he had a new favorite way to work up a sweat.

And in between classes? During lunch? If he could find an empty space—an unused classroom, a janitor’s closet, even the back of the school building—he was taking advantage of it. It didn’t matter if you whined about getting caught, he’d just smirk, pressing you against the wall and murmuring,

“Then you better keep quiet, sweetheart.”

Katsuki Bakugou x Reader

post-war recovery where helping Bakugou turns into something softer between you both.

. ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

Nobody talked about the war directly anymore.

Not because they didn’t want to but because it felt like touching a bruise that still wasn’t healed. UA opened its doors again. Class schedules were updated. Dorms got fixed up. Teachers acted like everything was almost back to normal.

But the new school year felt… off. More cautious. More quiet. Like everyone was holding their breath.

Training was slower, recovery was the priority, counseling was mandatory. The halls sounded different —sometimes too loud, sometimes too empty. You were lucky. You made it out with only a sprained wrist and some burns. You still had nightmares sometimes, but you were okay. Physically. And emotionally? You were doing as well as anyone else could after almost dying next to your classmates and seeing others die.

You’d always been in the same friend circle as Mina, Kirishima, Sero, Denki, Jirou… and by extension, Bakugou. Not close to him, not exactly. He wasn’t rude to you. He just didn’t let people close unless they were already inside his walls.

You existed on the edges of that group. Welcome. but not central. You talked to Kirishima often. You and Denki shared inside jokes. Mina dragged you into everything she possibly could. Jirou helped you study sometimes.

Bakugou? You exchanged maybe five sentences a week. Mostly school-related. Mostly neutral.

But somewhere during the school year before the war…you developed a tiny crush. The kind you kept buried because you didn’t want the headache of getting teased.

You told Mina once, very quietly, after a long night study session when you were overtired and your filter slipped. “Please don’t say anything,” you whispered into her pillow. Mina sat up like you’d just told her life-changing gossip. “OH MY—”

“Mina. Please. I’m begging you.” She clapped both hands over her mouth. “Okay okay okay. I won’t tell anyone. But oh my god, you have a crush on—”

“Stop saying it out loud!” She giggled, but she kept the secret. She never said a word to anyone. Not even Kirishima. Good thing, too— because after the war, your crush did NOT magically go away. If anything, it just softened into something quieter, sadder, more protective.

Everybody was different now. And Bakugou was especially different. His injury wasn’t a rumor. You saw the bandages, the way he held his shoulder, the way his right hand didn’t fully respond when he tried to move it.

During the first class back, you watched him discreetly. He looked exhausted, eyes heavy, movements careful. When he wrote with his left hand, the letters were cramped and uneven. He kept stopping to shake the tension out of his wrist. Kirishima kept an eye on him the whole time. Denki whispered “you good?” at least five times. Everyone helped in small ways.

You weren’t a main helper but you were there. In the circle. Present. Quiet. Paying attention. And when Bakugou dropped his notebooks after class that day, when everyone was already out the door talking about the new schedule and training reforms, you were the only one still close enough to hear it.

The soft thud. The curse under his breath. The sound of pages skidding across the floor because his left hand didn’t close right.

Your crush didn’t matter then. Your pride didn’t matter. The weird distance between you didn’t matter. What mattered was that he needed help and he wasn’t going to ask for it. So you stepped back into the classroom. He didn’t see you at first. He was trying to pick up a textbook with fingers that wouldn’t cooperate.

You swallowed and said, “Bakugou?” He stiffened and shot you a look like you’d caught him doing something he hated being seen doing.

“I got it,” he said softly with a grunt bending down. But his hand shook. And the book slipped again. You knelt down and picked it up.

And that became the start of everything.

⸻

Bakugou didn’t fight you the second or third time you helped him pack up after class. He never did thank you either, but he stopped tense-shouldering every time you reached for something. His pride was still there, but exhaustion made it quieter.

One afternoon he nearly stabbed his notebook trying to write with his left hand. His handwriting looked like a toddler got hold of a crayon.

You slid your own notebook over to him. “Trade me. I’ll write yours while you copy something easy.”

He squinted at you. “I don’t need—”

“You sure?” You pointed at his page. “Because that looks like a medical emergency.” He clicked his tongue, but he pushed his notebook toward you.

When you handed the finished notes back, he stared at them like they were insulting him personally.

“This looks nothing like mine.”

“Yeah, that’s the point.”

“It’s too clean.”

“Well, it’s still better than whatever cryptid language you’ve got going on.”

He held up his left hand, crooked letters all over the page. “…Better than this shit.”

“Exactly,” you said, nudging the notebook toward him. “So you’re welcome.” He muttered something like “tch… whatever,” but he kept looking at your handwriting longer than he needed to.

⸻

Helping him cook became normal without either of you deciding it. One night you walked into the kitchen to grab a drink only to find him glaring at a pan like it betrayed him.

“Youuuu good dude?” you asked.

“No.” He slapped a chicken breast onto the counter like it offended him. “This keeps slipping.”

“Because you’re holding it with two fingers.”

“Because I only got two fuckin’ fingers that work.”

You stepped in, steadying the cutting board with one hand. “Here. I’ll hold it. You cut.” He grumbled but didn’t push you away. His shoulder brushed yours when he leaned in. He ignored it. You tried to ignore how warm it felt.

Another night, he was trying to mix something while keeping the bowl steady with his casted arm. It wasn’t going well.

“Move,” you said gently, slipping behind him and holding the bowl in place.

He paused. “…You don’t gotta—”

“Yeah, I know. But I want the kitchen to survive the night.”

He cleared his throat. “Fair.”

⸻

Then there was the tie incident.

Bakugou stood in front of the mirror in his dorm, frowning down at the crooked knot choking the life out of his collar. Denki sniffled dramatically behind him.

“I TRIED, it’s harder to do on other people okay?!”

Bakugou deadpanned him looking down at the tie then back at denki. “kinda symmetrical if you squint.”

You stood in the doorway. “Want me to fix it?” Both boys turned. Denki perked up like a puppy.

“Oh thank god. He’s making this my problem.” You stepped in, undoing the mess Denki had created. Bakugou didn’t move, didn’t complain, just watched you through the mirror with this weird, quiet focus.

“There,” you said, straightening the knot. “Normal. Professional. Not strangling you.”

Denki made his way out the room giving a groaned. “my bad i didn’t know you were a tie whisperer”

Bakugou ignored him completely. “ignore him,” he said to you, softer. You tried not to melt. You failed.

⸻

Few nights later Mina begged you to go out with the girls that Friday.

“Pleeeeeeeeaaaase,” she insisted, arms wrapped around yours. “You haven’t been out in forever. We’re getting dinner, cute outfits, matching selfies—”

“I don’t know…” you said, glancing toward the common area where Bakugou was reading through class notes slowly, brow furrowed, pencil wobbling in his left hand.

Mina followed your gaze. Her mouth curled into a knowing smile. “He’ll survive one night without you.”

You shoved her lightly. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” she sang. “It’s dinner, not abandonment— plus denki and kiri are here.”

You sighed. “Fine. I’ll go.” Mina squealed like she’d won the lottery and dragged you off to pick clothes before you could change your mind.

⸻

Meanwhile, back at the dorms, Denki wandered into the kitchen after hearing stuff slam against the counters aggressively. Bakugou was attempting to slice vegetables again. They were uneven. Crooked. Some were definitely not vegetable looking anymore.

Denki blinked. “Uh… need help?”

“No,” Bakugou snapped, then hesitated. “Fuck. I don’t know.”

Denki grabbed a cutting board. “Alright, tag me in.” Bakugou let him take over, but looked irritated. More irritated than usual. After a minute, Denki raised a brow. “You’re being weird.”

“You’re being annoying.” Bakugou grunted at the pot like it personally offended him.

“Ya know a simple thanks for the help would be nice”

“fuck off i didn’t ask for it”

Denki paused for a moment then gasped, “Oh my god,” eyes widening, then pointing at him like he’d solved a crime. “You want her help. Dude. DUDE.”

Bakugou’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t say—”

“Where is she?” Denki shot back.

Bakugou stiffened, looking almost defensive. “…out.” Denki had the biggest shit eating grin for the rest of the night. Bakugou didn’t explode. He didn’t deny it. He just exhaled hard through his nose and endured the embarrassment.

⸻

Months had passed by and Bakugou healed slowly.

The bandages came off. The bruising faded. His fingers stopped trembling every time he tried to grip something. He still swore under his breath when the stiffness caught him off guard, but compared to those first weeks when even holding a pencil looked like it hurt, he was doing worlds better, getting the hang of using his non dominant arm for everything.

He could write again, slowly. He could hold his textbooks again. He could chop vegetables without worrying about dropping the knife. Bit by bit, things slipped back into a version of normal. And just like that, you helped him less.

Not because you wanted to distance yourself but just because he didn’t need you in the same way anymore. He could make it through class without you rewriting his notes. He didn’t need help tightening jars or buttoning shirts or steadying his wrist while he cooked. You stepped back quietly, naturally.

He noticed it immediately. Even with his independence returning, he kept drifting toward you. Sitting next to you when there were plenty of open seats. Pausing in the hallway until you caught up. Hovering in the kitchen until you acknowledged him. He never said anything about it, and you didn’t comment either. It was just something that existed, quietly.

One night during dinner, Kirishima handed Bakugou a set of chopsticks, watching him like he was performing a surgery. Bakugou rolled his eyes, muttered something about everyone being dramatic, and raised the chopsticks in his right hand.

He hesitated. Then picked up a piece of food.

Denki exploded. “WE’RE SO BACK DUDE—WE’RE SO FREAKING BACK!”

Bakugou threatened to hit him with the bowl. Mina screamed into her hands. Kirishima clapped him on the back like he’d just saved Japan (literally did). Sero ran to tell anyone who would listen. Bakugou tried to act annoyed, but he couldn’t hide the tiny, almost reluctant smile tugging at his lips.

A week later, he bend the hand gripper just a tad bit more than last time during training. Everyone lost their minds. Cheering. Whistles. Even Aizawa cracked half a smirk. Out of everyone celebrating, he kept looking at you. Part of him wanted you to see it. Part of him wanted your smile more than the applause.

⸻

Then one early morning, everything shifted.

The dorms were barely awake—just soft, grey light leaking across the carpets and the quiet hum of the building settling. Bakugou stood in his doorway wearing his uniform getting ready for class, hair still damp from a rushed shower. His tie hung around his neck in a sad, uneven knot that looked like it had been redone…multiple times.

He stared at the mirror, frustrated. He tugged the knot loose and tried again. His fingers worked as well as they could, but the tie didn’t look the way it did when you did it. Yours always came out neat, sharp, precise. His looked crooked no matter what angle he fixed it from.

He dropped his hands, exhaled sharply, and before he could talk himself out of it, he stepped into the hallway and made his way to your dorm. He knocked on your door.

It was early, almost too early but you were already awake, hair slightly messy from rushing. When you opened the door and saw him standing there, his expression tight and his tie disaster-level, you blinked in surprise.

“Katsuki? What’s wrong?”

He held up the tie between two fingers like it personally offended him.

“…can’t get it right. The way you do.”

You stared for a second because Bakugou never asked for help unless he really needed it and then stepped closer. He didn’t move back. You loosened the sloppy knot and started redoing it from the top. Your fingers brushed his collar, smoothing the fabric. His breath hitched, barely noticeable, except he froze like any movement might break whatever was happening.

You focused on the tie. He focused on you.

Your soft concentration, the way you tugged the fabric with practiced hands, the faint scent of your perfume—familiar now after months of late-night cooking and early-morning classes.

When you finished, you gently straightened the knot and smoothed it down, your hand lingering a moment too long without meaning to.

His voice drops, softer than you ever heard. “You make it easier. Everything. All of it.”

Your heart stumbles. You couldn’t speak your heart was in your throat.

He looks away, fingertips brushing the doorframe like he needs something to do. Then something in him just…gave. His right hand—steady now, rose to your cheek. Carefully. Softly. Like he’d imagined doing it and finally allowed himself to try.

Your breath caught. He leaned in, slow enough that you could’ve stepped back if you wanted. You didn’t.

His lips met yours in a gentle, warm kiss—careful but certain, like he’d thought about it longer than he’d ever admit. Your hands curled into the front of his uniform for balance as everything tilted in the smallest, quietest way.

He pulled back just a little, forehead almost touching yours, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you…for everything” You laughed—soft, breathless and he swore he’d remember the sound forever.

For a moment, neither of you moved, just standing there in the quiet hallway. His hand lingered near yours, hesitant, as if afraid to let go, and you didn’t pull away.

Finally, he shifted slightly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, eyes soft in a way you’d never seen before.

“…Guess… I’ll keep asking for your help, huh?” he murmured, half-teasing, half-serious.

You smiled, heart fluttering, and nodded.

“Always.”

And for the first time, Bakugou let himself fully exhale, the tension he’d carried for months melting just a little, knowing you were right there beside him even if he was healed.

Behind the screen spinoff

| college AU | Professor Deku x (fem) Student Reader

MDNI!!!!

ੈ✩‧₊˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ˚ ༘

You don’t tell anyone about the secret fan account. Not your friends, not your classmates, and definitely not your fucking family. It exists in the dark— a burner Twitter built purely for one purpose: Screaming about how horny you are for heroes you find attractive and feed off others delusions. The username came to you while scrolling at 12 a.m.: @/MightlessMuse

Vaguely poetic, slightly horny, and anonymous enough to never be traced back to you. Tonight’s tweet sits drafted in your notes, thumb hovering over “post.” You sit there eating your favorite late night snack and listening to “Bathroom bitch” by HOLYCHILD. Reading it again and again, debating whether it’s too much… then remember the entire point of this account is not overthinking. So you hit send and gave your bottom lip a bite—something you did out of nervousness or being turned on.

—

@/MightlessMuse

“my toxic trait is thinking i could handle a green pro hero with freckles bc i swear he’d fold me and fuck me on a table senselessly if he ever looked at me for longer than 3 seconds like FUCK i’m tryna get a load of him” #proherocrush #number4

—

Notifications start instantly.

❤️2.5k 🔁 111 💬 287

Top replies:

• @/blastyourbackout: girl you’d need physical therapy don’t play😵‍💫

• @/herodekuenthusiast: and honestly?? i support this delusion

• @/kacchansbitch: be serious bc we all know you’d LAST 1 second and evaporate

—

Pinned bookmark comments flood in. Thirst is mutual. Timeline is chaos. All anonymous.

You grin. This is why you like the account. It’s fun. Safe. A space to be unfiltered without consequences. You toss the phone facedown on your bed. Because now you have to get ready for class.

⸻

College was boring. You weren’t one to go out. The only class that was keeping that gpa high was “Quirk Genetics & Dynamics”. It wasn’t about hero society — it was about the science of evolution. Quirk emergence over generations. Mutation patterns. Carrier traits. Whether quirks were stabilizing, intensifying… or heading toward collapse.

Complex. Fascinating. You loved it. And it had absolutely nothing to do with the professor—in a way.

“Izuku Midoriya — PhD, Quirk Phenomenology.”

You didn’t even realize it was HIM until someone in the back whispered “holy shit—thats Pro Hero Deku” and suddenly half the class was Googling and trying to sneak watch his videos of winning against some of the scariest villains of all time. He used to teach high school first and second years but would occasionally come to college campuses as a ‘special guest’, but after several years of this the faculty realized something: older students were… more engaged when Midoriya lectured. They didn’t drift, didn’t doodle, didn’t scroll. They stared. They listened. They hung onto every word. And the university wanted that.

The way he walked into the lecture hall —quiet, confident, like a man who didn’t need to prove anything. Tie, button-down, hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it all morning. Muscular in a way that absolutely did not match the faculty wardrobe he was forced into. And that voice. Soft, low, lecturing like he was narrating a documentary that could ruin lives. A voice that would definitely talk you through it…but we’re getting off track. You still took the class for the science…That was the story you stuck to.

⸻

You slip into your usual seat —third row, center—before the room fills. Best spot to see and hear him. You’re already pulling out your notebook when the door closes and the air shifts.

Professor Midoriya walks into the lecture hall with a stack of notes tucked under one arm and a calm confidence that settles the room instantly. No wasted movements. No dramatic entrance. Just the quiet authority of someone who knows exactly what he’s talking about.

“Good evening everyone,” he says, adjusting his glasses as the projector hums to life. “I hope you all are having a good day so far”

He pulls out his reading glasses and pushes them up with his knuckle, picks up the red marker, and starts writing on the whiteboard without a word— like the entire universe forms in his head before anyone else has the privilege of hearing it.

“Today we’re covering quirk amplification theory.”

His sleeve rides up when he reaches high on the board, revealing strong scarred forearms you absolutely shouldn’t be looking at in an academic setting. Markers tap against his palm as he faces the board.

“In classical models, quirks were assumed to operate at a fixed output…the same strength regardless of environment. But newer data disagrees.” He draws a simple graph. The curve rises.

“Many quirks don’t stay constant. They accelerate when stimulated by external triggers.” Pens scratch across notebooks. Yours doesn’t move. He keeps going, voice smooth and steady.

“Triggers vary. Some people respond to danger. Others respond to admiration or rivalry. And—” His eyes sweep the room, unhurried. “some respond to…specific individuals.” A ripple of laughter moves through the room. You don’t laugh. Midoriya smiles a little but not playful, not flirty, just someone who genuinely loves the material.

“For example,” he continues, leaning against the desk, “one quirk might intensify around people the user fears. Another might intensify around people the user trusts.” A beat. “Or likes.” The word hangs in the air. He doesn’t react. Doesn’t search the room. Doesn’t push. Just keeps lecturing, calm and academic.

“The important thing isn’t why a trigger happens — but that it does. Amplification isn’t random. It’s deeply personal.” He turns back to the board and underlines one sentence:

Quirks react to emotion before logic.

The class mumbles approval— interest, amusement, disbelief. You sit frozen, pen loosely between your fingers, doing everything you can to look normal while your pulse fights for escape. You shift in your seat, force yourself to focus on your notebook instead of the man teaching.

Midway through the lecture, he sets the marker down and claps his hands softly, once—signaling a transition. “I’ve prepared an anonymous survey for today,” Professor Midoriya says, tone casual… but his eyes stay sharp. “It’s optional, but it’ll help support our current research.” Students perk up. Extra credit usually lives behind phrases like that. He taps the tablet on his desk and a QR code appears on the projector.

“It’s just two questions,” he adds. “There are no right or wrong answers. Complete honesty is the point.” Chairs squeak. Phones lift. You scan the code with everyone else.

The survey wasn’t outrageous on paper. No talk of attraction. No “quirk compatibility.” Nothing that would make HR knock on his office door.

Just clinical wording:

1. Have you noticed if your quirk fluctuates when you’re emotionally stimulated?

2. If so, do these fluctuations correlate with specific individuals or environments?

To everyone else, it was academic. To you, sitting three rows from the front with your heart pounding through your ribs— it felt like a spotlight.

You answered honestly, but vaguely:

“Yes I do notice my quirk reacting when my emotions are high / I notice my quirk tends to fluctuate around people or subjects I feel strongly about.”

The moment you pressed submit, you already knew what you were going to tweet later.

⸻

Back in your room, laptop open, textbook closed, you stare at the blinking cursor on @MightlessMuse.

The timeline is thirsty for content. And you have plenty.

You type:

@MightlessMuse: learned today in class that quirks can amplify around certain ppl… which is WILD bc mine sure likes to try and act up whenever l see or hear the #4 hero 🤝 quirk science is crazy lol #Thirstfornerds #Quirkfacts

—

Nothing explicit. Nothing illegal. Just jokes. Perfectly fine. Could be about a classmate. A barista. A celebrity. A hero on TV.

Replies fire instantly:

• @Allmightybih: Fuckkkk no wonder my shit starts acting up when i get flustered😩

• @HeroHungry: amplify??? turn UP or turn ON?? DETAILS NOW

• @BlastYourBackOut: quirk going WEEEOWW around a crush is so real

—

You shut your phone off before you get tempted to overshare or start a poll about it and start to conjure up ideas for your next unhinged tweet.

Meanwhile the man responsible for the chaos is completely unaware. For now.

—

Professor Midoriya is still at his desk grading papers. He’s fast. Organized. Thorough. And smart. So unbelievably smart. He can map quirk patterns across three generations in his head. He can do statistical evolution analysis without notes. He remembers every student’s handwriting after week two.

He finishes grading around 11:40 p.m., stretches his stiff shoulders, and finally allows himself to open his phone like a reward.

Not hero work. Not emails. Just a harmless scroll.

He types his own name into the search bar, looking at his tags— not out of vanity, but habit. Reputation monitoring… or at least that’s what he tells himself. The truth is simpler: he likes knowing people care. He used to be one of them. Hell, at thirteen he ran an All Might fan account so dedicated it had twelve thousand followers and a daily breakdown series. He’ll never judge admiration. He understands it too well.

He’s scrolling casually through the usual when one tweet stops him.

@MightlessMuse:

@MightlessMuse: learned today in class that quirks can amplify around certain ppl… which is WILD bc mine sure likes to try and act up whenever l see or hear the #4 hero 🤝 quirk science is crazy lol #Thirstfornerds #Quirkfacts

—

He blinks once, twice… something sits strange.He shouldn’t click.

He clicks.

The account is anonymous. No name, no face. Just memes, thirsty commentary, and art reposts of heroes— mostly him in his prime and thirst trap edits from his interviews and fights with villains. Some post regarding college life…He scrolls back. A tweet from a few days ago:

“every time he adjusts his tie i lose 3 years off my life expectancy this is not sustainable for my education” #droppingout #helpme #ithinkilovehim

He huffs out a tiny laugh not in an arrogant way, just disbelieving. Because it’s absurd to even think but still… his mind ticks automatically. He can’t help it. He tracks patterns for a living. Coincidental, sure… but uncomfortably precise.

Except— the part that sticks in him isn’t the flirting. It’s the wording…

“learned today in class”

“quirks amplify around certain ppl”

He said exactly that in his lecture this morning. His fingers go still. That’s too specific. Too timed. Too aligned. He leans back in his chair, pinches the bridge of his nose, and forces himself not to overthink.

Yes, he said that in class today. Yes, this tweet references that exact idea. But he has multiple students across multiple sections. And thousands of fans online who watch lecture clips, Q&As, and recorded guest talks.

It could be anyone. It probably is. He shakes his head, shuts off the phone, and drops it on the desk —maybe a little faster than necessary.

He’s seen it before. The naughty fanfics. The thirsty posts. The harmless “haha I ship him with so and so” threads.

All of it made him flush, yes, but it was distant enough— just imagination. Safe. Fiction. Not real. But this account? and that specific tweet? It lines up too perfectly with his lecture today. He eventually refuses to let his brain make that leap. It’s not logical. It’s not professional. And it’s definitely not safe. He takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes, and tells himself firmly…It’s just a coincidence.

But the problem is—once a hypothesis forms, the scientist in him cannot unthink it. Even while he packs his bag, even while he locks his office door, one uninvited question stays lodged in the back of his mind like a splinter…What if someone in one of my classes is tweeting about me?

He doesn’t want to believe it. He especially doesn’t want to admit that the idea sends a quiet chill down his spine —But he shuts it down immediately, jaw tightening. Don’t be ridiculous. There are thousands of students and even more fans. Coincidence. It’s just coincidence. He doesn’t look again. He doesn’t check the account. He doesn’t let himself think about it. But the tweet stays burned behind his eyes.

—

It’s been a week since you’ve tweeted anything. It feels like all your professors collectively agreed to give you an assignment to write a 5-10 page long essay due at the end of the week.

You walk in to the classroom like it’s any other day — laptop, coffee, messy notes. You sit in your usual spot, totally normal. But he’s… different. Not obvious. Not inappropriate. Just—sharper. His posture straighter. His eyes lingering a touch too long when he scans the room. Like he’s searching for something he shouldn’t be searching for.

He teaches perfectly. He always does. He’s brilliant. But there’s something in the way he pushes his hair back, something in the way he adjusts his tie while talking, something that makes heat pulse under your skin. And for the first time in weeks, he calls on you during discussion.

“Y/L/N? Thoughts on the amplification variable?”

His voice is steady, neutral —but his eyes are not. You hesitate but you answer, stumbling only a few times, and the tiny impressed twitch in the corner of his mouth nearly short-circuits you. You use to struggle in his class before realizing you didn’t want to make a fool of yourself in front of him— so you started studying like your life depended on it.

Class ends. Everyone starts packing up. And then: “Y/L/N… could you meet me in my office? I need to go over something with you regarding your research paper.” Totally neutral. Totally professional. He had called on a few students the prior class day so no one batted an eye when he called on you.

—

After class it’s just the two of you in his office— Your pulse shouldn’t be this loud. You approach his desk as he sits down behind it. He pulls up a file on his laptop —your paper. The one on quirk gene lineage and inherited limitation thresholds.

He clears his throat, but his voice is soft — lower than usual. “Your analysis was… impressive. One of the strongest I’ve read this semester. I’m seeing real progress in you from the start of the semester till now.”

You stare at your paper on his desk, biting your bottom lip before looking back up at him. He’s not just smiling. It’s something worse. Pride. Approval. Praise. Focus. You. He continues: “I just wanted you to know I noticed. That’s all.”

Your heart is in your throat. You thank him, try to sound normal, try not to melt under the attention. You leave the room on shaking legs.

⸻

You barely make it back to your place before your hands are shaking. You lock the door behind you and lean against it, laptop still in your bag, your chest hammering like you just ran a mile.

It was so small. Just… a paper review. “Your analysis was impressive. One of the strongest I’ve read this semester.” And yet. Your thighs tighten, heat blooming between them. Your chest pounds, pulse in your ears. You pace a little. Hands fidget. You feel like you’re literally vibrating.

You throw your bag onto your bed, flop into your chair, and open your laptop like a lifeline. Twitter. Your safe place. Your chaos outlet.

Fingers fly:

@/MightlessMuse:

Deku would SOOOOO praise you while he fucked you and make you BEGGGGG don’t asked me how I know because i just KNOW IT 😭😭 biting my lip so hard thinking about it #imfreakingthefuckout #ineedhimasap #cumslut

—

Your heart hammers as you hit “tweet.” You throw on a hoodie on and clutch it—breath shaky, thighs still tingling. Your chest rises and falls like a storm. You know you’ll never think about class the same way again. And somewhere deep down, part of you can’t wait to tweet more— to immortalize that little moment.

⸻

Midoriya slouched in his office chair, head heavy, eyes burning from staring at the same lesson plan for the last hour.

Quirk genetics. Amplification theory. Environmental triggers. Every line meticulously typed, but nothing is sticking. He’s tired. Burnt out. Hero work yesterday morning. More hero work tomorrow. Crime has been up recently. Paperwork, grading, emails, repeat. Some days it feels like he’s running a marathon in a suit he didn’t even pick out for comfort. He rubs at his eyes. Sighs. Pushes the laptop away. He grabbed his phone did his ritual weekly search of his name.

what pops up is the new— but usual tweets. fan accounts. edits. interviews. false media. drawings. Scrolling, scrolling, barely paying attention, when a familiar name flickers into view:

@MightlessMuse · 5:43 PM

Deku would SOOOOO praise you while he fucked you and make you BEGGGGG don’t asked me how I know because i just KNOW IT 😭😭 biting my lip so hard thinking about it #imfreakingthefuckout #ineedhimasap #cumslut

❤️579 🔁 10 💬 29

—

He freezes.

Not because it’s dirty, he’s seen thousands of fan tweets before. Not because it’s explicit— it’s just words. Again…It’s the timing and It’s the phrasing.

It’s that he literally praised a student for her paper three hours ago. His chest tightens. His stomach knots. His fingers hover over the phone, trembling almost imperceptibly. Rationally, he tells himself: It’s anonymous. It could be anyone. Coincidence.

But a deeper, unreasoning part of him can’t ignore it. Heat blooms low in his torso. His mind flashes to that paper, her handwriting, the subtle pride in her posture when he complimented her work. He didn’t think twice about it —it was just honest. She deserved praise— she’s been doing so much better in class and so much it was hard not to notice. Professional, simple. Yet now, seeing this… tweet… it lands differently. He leans back, running a hand through his hair. His focus on the lesson plan is gone, replaced with a slow, feral curiosity.

He needed proof it was HER.

The next day, in the few classes he taught, he tried something subtle— calling on a few girls and guys who he thought might fit the profile, the ones who had flirted with him before in a way that lingered under the surface. Each time he asked a question, he didn’t watch for the answer… he watched for the reaction.

One girl giggled. Nope.

One guy went tomato-red. Nope— embarrassed wasn’t the right shade.

One batted her eyelashes. Definitely not.

Then he called you. A question on the board— one of the harder ones. Something he knew was your weak spot according to your test section scores. The room went quiet. You stared down. He waited. And in that silence… your breathing went shaky.

“Y/L/N,” he said, voice smooth, unreadable. “Care to answer?” He should’ve just moved on. That would’ve been fair. But this wasn’t fairness. This was confirmation. His next words were a test. Of both theory and temptation.

Your eyes lifted, unsure. “I… I don’t know.” You licked your lips and bit down on your bottom one, soft but unmistakable— and his eyes dropped the second you did it.

Bingo.

“See me after class.”

The class exhaled all at once, some students smirking, assuming you were in trouble. You just froze— wide-eyed. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look disappointed. He just looked… curious.

When the bell rang, everyone filed out. Except you. You stood in front of his desk, trying not to fidget. He pretended to grade papers, giving you time to stew, to wonder, to worry. Then he looked up. “Relax,” he said softly. “You’re not in trouble. I wanted to see if you wanted extra credit. You clearly understand the subject, but freeze whenever you’re called on. That’s something we can fix.”

You swallowed hard. “Okay.”

He walked around the desk, standing beside you as he pointed at the problem. Close —but not touching. “Try again. Don’t overthink. I know that you know this”

You answered — slowly, hesitantly — he gave little hints that you were close but you got it right. And he knew he shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But the word left him anyway, low and warm and too intimate to be innocent: “Clever girl.”

Your breath shattered. Eyes huge. That exact reaction from class — the one he’d been hunting for. He leaned back against his desk, arms crossed, watching you piece everything together — the tweet, the coincidence, his attention.

And he smiled. Not cocky. Not arrogant. Knowing. “See?” he murmured. “You’re smart. You just needed… the right kind of encouragement.”

Your knees almost buckled. He saw it. He felt it. He confirmed every suspicion. And for the first time, he wasn’t burned out. He wasn’t tired. He wasn’t overworked. He was wide awake—because now the game had officially begun.

And god—now that he knew it was you? He couldn’t believe he hadn’t put it together sooner. You were always the one who slipped into class quietly, notebook clutched to your chest, hair a little messy from rushing, lips bitten when you concentrated. A bright, pretty thing without trying to be. He’d thought so from the first week —just a passing thought, nothing more, a private little note in the back of his tired mind: She’s cute.

He never acted on it. Never gave it oxygen. He was exhausted, burnt out, juggling hero work and teaching, too busy to care about attraction. But now? Now that he was pretty sure the girl who shook under his praise was the same one tweeting about getting folded and fucked? Yeah. It suddenly mattered.

He pushed off the desk slowly, closing the space just enough that you felt his presence without him touching you.

“You really do underestimate yourself,” he said softly. “You’re… a lot more capable than you think.”

You swallowed. Hard. He let his eyes linger — not inappropriate, but not academic, either. Like he was studying you for reasons that had nothing to do with the syllabus.

“And honestly?” he added, voice dropping the tiniest bit, “I knew from the beginning you’d stand out.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “Why?”

His answer came like it cost him nothing — but it wrecked you. “You’re sharp. And you’re… pretty hard to overlook.” Your whole body went hot. He didn’t even seem to realize he’d dropped the compliment. Didn’t rush to take it back. He just let it hang there, casual — like calling you pretty was as unimportant as taking attendance. He paused and clicks his tongue before continuing “We will be writing a short 3 page essay on the topic next week—I look forward to reading your work.” But the curve of his mouth— the one he didn’t even try to hide, said he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Then he stepped aside, letting you go, dismissing you like nothing unusual had happened. And when you walked out, heart sprinting in your chest, phone half-pulled from your pocket already. He couldn’t wait to see what you’d tweet next.

—

You don’t even remember walking out of the building. Your legs move, your brain doesn’t. All you can hear is him— “clever girl. see? you’re smart.” Like it’s still echoing inside your head, bouncing off the walls of your skull. You get back to your apartment and drop your bag somewhere on the floor. You sit on the edge of your bed like you’re in some kind of trance, your heart still beating way too fast for a conversation that was supposedly “about extra credit.”

You type before you can stop yourself:

@/MightlessMuse

god gives his strongest soldiers the most DANGEROUS temptations. #greenisAproblem #justfuckmealready

❤️358 🔁10 💬23

• @/blastyourbackout: bestie logged onto twitter when she SHOULD be calling a therapist (i’m so proud)

• @/academiadegeneracy: this is the kind of vague tweet you post when ur future is about to RUIN YOU and you’re EXCITED

• @/lettheheroesruinme: i KNOW this is about that green pro hero. i feel it in my BONES. don’t ask how. WHAT ARE YOU HIDING?!

—

You slammed your laptop shut like it had personally offended you, tossed your phone face-down on your bed, and marched straight to the shower. Because what else were you supposed to do? The hot water didn’t help. At first you hoped it would calm your racing brain, but instead it just made it worse— replaying everything.

His voice. The praise. The way he’d looked at you just before you walked out —like he knew something he shouldn’t. Your legs pressed together on instinct and you groaned, dragging your hands over your face.

your imagination drifting into him being in the shower with you and his hands wondering up and down your soaked body. “Get it together,” you muttered to yourself as you opened your eyes trying to push the thought away. “He’s your professor. One of Japan’s top hero’s. And you’re— insane… fucking delusional psycho.”

But no amount of logic stopped the fantasy running wild. You dried off, threw on pajama shorts and an old pro hero deku merch shirt, and crawled into bed —definitely not planning on checking the tweet again. You didn’t even touch your phone. You needed distance. You needed to chill. Eventually, exhaustion knocked you out.

⸻

Across the city— same night.

Izuku sat on the floor of his house, legs stretched out. He’d just finished tightening a loose plate on his suit —a small repair from patrol— when he let himself relax for the first time in days.

Head tilted back against the couch. Hair damp from his own shower. Shoulders finally loose. He check the account. The urge was there—the twitch of curiosity that refused to die. Just one refresh. Just to see if the account had posted anything new. His thumb moved before the thought even finished forming.

Refresh.

A new tweet appeared immediately:

@/MightlessMuse

“god gives his strongest soldiers the most DANGEROUS temptations. #greenisAproblem #justfuckmealready”

—

He stared at it. He didn’t need caffeine— that sentence lit him up in a way nothing should have. The timing. The tone. The dramatic, borderline feral energy of it.

He didn’t need a quirk to connect dots. He knew who wrote it. Everything was perfectly connected He exhaled once —sharp, amused, and darkly pleased.

So the praise rattled her. So she really did fantasize about him. So she couldn’t stop thinking about it either. He let the satisfaction bloom quietly in his chest as he opened her messages —the fact that the hero world knew him as Deku and that his students still had to call him Professor Midoriya suddenly felt like a weapon in his hands. And he used it.

He typed slowly, deliberately—not leaving room for interpretation…

“Meet me in my office after class Wednesday, Y/L/N”

—

No heart. No smile. No context.

He hit send. Locked his phone. His pant were tight and strained at the thought of her reading it and getting flustered. He leaned back with a silent, dangerous smile —the kind no news interview ever caught.

⸻

Your phone buzzed on your nightstand.

You didn’t notice at first —half-asleep and warm under your blankets. Then it buzzed again. And again. You reached for it lazily, assuming it was a group chat—going to turn on dnd and the moment your screen lit up you nearly threw the entire phone across the room. The top notification:

Message from: Deku✔️

Japan’s number 4 hero. The man who teaches your class. The man you… tweet things about you should not be tweeting. And the preview text?

“Meet me in my office after class Wednesday, Y/L/N.”

You sat bolt upright. “OH MY FUCKING GOD. HOLY FUCKIN FUCK. FUCK ME. FUCK—”

Your heart launched into orbit. He messaged you. On his verified hero account. He said your last name. He wants to meet. Wednesday. After class. Your brain turned into static. Did he know? You were so unbelievably FUCKED. You stared at the message so long your eyes burned, but you still couldn’t form a single reply—not even an emoji.

You dropped the phone onto your chest and covered your face with both hands. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god he knows—” And for a second, you weren’t sure if you were thrilled…or doomed.

⸻

You barely sleep Tuesday night. Your phone still sits on your nightstand, still showing his DM — the one from his verified account. The one with a blue check, 3.2 million followers, the one that only follows like 58 people.

“Meet me in my office after class Wednesday. y/l/n.”

You had reread the message so many times that you started doubting you ever read it at all. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe you dreamed it. By Wednesday morning, the uncertainty had settled like a pit in your stomach.

You forced yourself to eat —anything, just enough to keep from shaking. Then you checked the weather app. Summer in Japan was already creeping in, heavy and humid, so you dressed for it: the cute skirt you ordered online, the tank top you just thrifted that youve been excited to wear…in a way you were dressing for him but you of course didn’t want to say it outloud.

Except today, it didn’t feel exciting. It felt strategic. Walking into class, your stomach was lodged in your throat. Every part of you was braced for… something. A look. A change in tone. A shift in the air.

But he’s normal. He’s already at the podium adjusting the projector settings, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, tie perfectly straight. Focused. Professional. Calm. Like every other morning.

Like nothing happened. Like you dreamed the whole thing.

“Good Evening, everyone,” he says. Voice steady, low, controlled. Not even a flicker of recognition when his eyes skim across the room and land on you for half a second before moving on. Your heart drops so hard it rattles your ribs. The lecture is clean, clinical. He talks about quirk compatibility statistics, environmental gene activation, the social consequences of mutation theory. He calls on a few students. You are not one of them. Every time his eyes move— you hope. And every time… nothing. By the time the clock hits the last five minutes, you decide you made it all up —the DM was fake, a troll account, a fan account pretending to be him. You must’ve been exhausted. You must’ve imagined it. You’re taking all the right medications right?

Class ends. backpacks zip, the room erupts with conversation and fades slowly as people leave. You shove your notebook into your bag without even closing it properly, trying to get out before your brain embarrasses you any more. You reach the door.

“Y/L/N” His voice stops you like a lasso around the waist. Slowly —too slowly—you turn. Mr.Midoriya is still by the podium, packing up his tablet. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. His face is unreadable.

“If you have a moment can you please come with me,” he says softly.

You nod your head ‘yes’ and follow him out of the classroom and down the hallway. Every step echoes. Every student you pass might as well be looking straight through you. His hand opens the office door. He steps in first. You step in second. He shuts it behind you.

The quiet is suffocating.

You sit down in the chair where the desk is between you and him —at first. He sets his tablet down. He removes his glasses. Folds them neatly. Then finally, finally, he looks at you fully. And that’s when you know. You didn’t hallucinate a damn thing. He leans against his desk, crossing his arms —posture relaxed, expression composed, but his eyes? His eyes are focused like he’s got you pinned to a chalkboard.

“I wanted to discuss something with you,” he says. “Something important.” Your pulse is feral. He tilts his head slightly, studying you —not academically, not professionally… like he’s trying to decide something.

“You did you get my message, right?” he asks. Not ‘Did I send one?’ Not ‘Was it confusing?’ Did you get it.

Your mouth goes dry. “Y… yes.” Your knees almost give out.

“Okay so you know why I asked you here.” His voice dips —playful, but dangerously controlled. You swallow. “Yes but no.” Your throat tightens. “Am I in trouble? Or—”

He laughs. Soft. Low. Unhelpful. “Trouble?” he repeats, like the word tastes sweet. “Is that what you think this is?” He pushes off the desk, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m not here to scold you,” he says. “I just want to understand.” His eyes drag over your face, your mouth, your neck. Your breath catches. He tilts his head a little more, waiting, and when you stay quiet he hums —amused, not disappointed. “uh tell me,” he says, voice dropping. “When you posted those things…the ones you thought I’d do.” His tongue brushes his canine, barely noticeable but hungry. Your knees weaken.

“…were you wishing I’d do them to you or was it like a general kink you thought I might have and wanted to share it with other fans of mine?”

Your lungs forget how to work. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out— not denial, not confession, just panic and heat. You force a word—any word. “I didn’t think you’d see—or know it was me and I-i am so incredibly sorry and embarrassed…It was just all cause I have a stupid crush I-” You were rambling, and it turned him on seeing you like this truly.

His eyebrows lift. He moves. Not fast— but with purpose, intent, hunger. The desk is no longer a barrier. He gets up and steps around it, closing the distance until his body heat hits you head-on. You scoot back up in your chair without thinking —but there’s nowhere to go. He’s right in front of you now. back side leaning against his desk. hands giving him leverage on the desk beside his hip, felt like he was caging you in without even touching you.

“you didn’t answer my question.” Your heart is chaos in your chest. He dips his head down closer but not touching, just close enough that your lips part on instinct. He watches it happen.

“were you wishing I’d do them to you?” Your whole body jolts in panic, need, embarrassment, all at once. You look away, but he catches your chin between two fingers —gentle, but undeniable guiding your eyes back to his.

“Do you want me to bend you over this table?” Your knees nearly buckle. “Do you want me to hold you there and fuck you until you forget your own name?” You gasp —a sound that betrays everything. He pulls back just enough to see your face.

“Say it,” he orders, quiet but lethal. “Say what you imagined.” He was giving you take same tone of encouragement like he did before.

Your voice tries to stay steady— it really, really does. “I…I imagined…” Your throat closes. You swallow hard, eyes locked on his because he isn’t letting you look anywhere else. “…your hands on me,” you force out, barely above a whisper. “Your voice... fucking me like you need me against this very desk” Something breaks in him. Not control — no, he still has that — but restraint. The space between you evaporates. “Stand up” it’s like he almost chokes it out. You look up “what?”, he breathes in harshly like he’s trying. “I said stand up please” You stand up your face is inches away from his.

His hand hesitantly slides to the small of your back and drags you the last inches toward him like you weigh nothing. Your chest hits his, breath tangles, and suddenly you’re right where your fantasies always put you. Both his hands are on you now — one at your hip, the other at the back of your neck, thumb stroking slow along your throat like he’s memorizing the pulse hammering there. Your knees almost buckle. His hand on your hip tightens to hold you up.

"You know..good girls don't struggle in my class," he whispered, voice rough. "But maybe... if you begged right, I'd still call you that when you're spread across my desk."

He pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you—dark, intense. His fingers trail down, over the curve of your ass—just enough pressure to make your head fall back. You whimper—actually whimper—and that’s when he really loses patience. He spins you gently but firmly, pressing you forward until your hips hit the desk. His body follows, crowding you from behind, caging you in with heat and mass and zero escape.

“Put your hands on the desk,” he says. You obey before your brain catches up—palms flat against the cool surface, breath ragged. He leans over you, mouth grazing your ear.

“There you go,” he purrs. “Already listening” His hand travels up your spine, slow and burning.

Your eyes flutter shut. His hand slides back down— lower —lower— He takes a fistful of your skirt and drags it up in one smooth, devastating motion. Your underwear showing with a wet line seeping through.

“I want to hear you ask for it.” Your body jolts. Your voice fails. He waits—smiling against your neck.“Come on,” he whispers. “You wanted this. You wrote it. posted it. Now ask. for. it.” Your pulse is out of control, your brain gone, every nerve on fire. “Professor Midoriya… please… fuck me against your desk, I want it so badlyyy” you gasped, words tumbling out in a mix of embarrassment and need, your body betraying you with every quiver.

He didn’t hesitate. His hands yanked your panties aside, leaving you bare and wet. Dropping to his knees, he engulfed your clit with his mouth, flicking his tongue in maddening patterns, sucking and teasing until your back arched and your nails scraped the desk.

“Oh… fuuuuck yes— right there!” you moaned, head falling forward on the table, every nerve alive, every inch of you craving more. His tongue didn’t stop, diving in and out of your slick, desperate heat, making you shiver and whimper. You felt like you were melting when he finally stood, The sound of his belt and zipper drew a gasp from your lips. His cock already hard and heavy, slapping against your ass. He pressed himself against you, sliding between your folds, the friction sending shocks straight to your core.

“Tell me,” he growled, hands gripping your hips, “tell me this is better than any of you little fantasy post.” You could barely form the words, trembling, burning, lost to sensation. “Yes… yes, it’s… so much better…”

He slams his fat cock into you forcing a choked moan out before he slaps a hand over your mouth. “Shhhhh—You better be quiet or else someone will hear us” He trust into you as he speaks “and what will people think of me fucking my student hmm?” he continues to trust and you’re trying so hard to listen. “A lot of people want me just as bad as you do and they’ll see me giving you that student pet treatment and we don’t want that do we?” he slowly brings his hand off your mouth and glides it down to you hip giving it a tight squeeze. “no sir” you lean you head back hitting his shoulder with a quiet moan.

He pulls out and flips you around facing him— your back now against his desk. He lines himself up to your hole and slams into you once more. He’s holding your legs apart spreading them wider and fucking you deeper. You could feel him hitting that certain spot that made you want to squirt— it made your toes curl and your hands reaching out to grab anything that kept you grounded. Your head rolled back against the desk and your back arched upwards. You could feel yourself clenching around him as you saw stars. Midoriya continued to fuck you, his thrust were getting sloppier the longer he looked at you. “Fuuuck gonna cum all in this tight pussy—aauh”

“yes— please please please” your voice raspy and barley above a whisper— begging him. This was your dirtiest fantasy come to life and the cherry on top was him fucking you so deep he’d spill his hot seed in you. Knowing you would walk around on campus like nothing happens all while not only your professor but your pro-hero crushes cum is dripping in your panties. Maybe being delusional does get you somewhere in life.

He leans down over you on the desk, the chaos of the moment fading into something quieter. His hands rest lightly on your sides as his forehead hovers near yours. And then his lips find yours, soft, gentle, a stark contrast to everything that came before.

“You’re—so— pretty” he says in between kisses. He lets out a low, ragged breath, chest pressing lightly against yours, hands gripping your sides as if grounding himself. His lips hover near your ear now, voice rough and strained.

He pumps into you a few more times before letting out a low groan and the feeling of warm liquid dripped out your used hole. Midoryia breathed heavily hovering over you before leaning up and pulling out of you. “Look at that” he says as he grabs his cock and runs the swollen tip along your throbbing clit— spreading his cum all over you before sticking himself back inside making you jolt from how sensitive you are. “Don’t want it to go to waste do we?“ he slowly fucks his cum back inside of you.

Your hips jolt towards him wanting more. He laughs lowly at your action. “Wow…you really are a cum slut” you were so fucked dumb you couldn’t think to answer.

“Answer me.” The sharp smack to your hip pulls you out of the fog, breath hitching as reality rushes back in.

“Shit— I am,” you say quickly, words tumbling over each other. His scarred hand comes up to your face, fingers warm against your flushed skin. The touch is almost gentle, almost tender—enough to make your stomach twist. His thumb brushes your cheek like he’s grounding you, like he’s reminding you exactly where you are.

“Get up,” he murmurs. Then, quieter, controlled “Fix yourself before you walk out of my office.” You sit up slowly, nodding because it feels easier than thinking. Your legs feel weak beneath you. You watch him move away, circling back behind his desk like this is all routine. You hear the soft, unmistakable sounds of him straightening himself—zipper, buckle, fabric settling.

Already composed. Already done with you. You smooth down your clothes with shaking hands, tugging fabric into place, pressing your palms against the desk for balance. Your hair is a mess; you try to fix it blindly, fingers trembling. You feel lightheaded. Overheated. Like your body hasn’t caught up to the fact that it’s over. Wrong. So wrong. And somehow, still intoxicatingly right.

He straightens the papers on his desk with careful precision, aligning the edges before sitting down. When you grab your bag, he finally looks up at you—and the shift is jarring. His expression is neutral now. Professional. The man who lectures. The man who grades. The man who risk his lives for others.

“Before you go,” he says evenly, like this is just another reminder at the end of office hours, “I’d like to remind you that the research paper is due in a few days.” You stare at him, trying to reconcile the distance in his voice with how close he was moments ago. How little space there’d been between you.

“Yes, sir,” you manage. “I’ll start it tonight.” There’s a pause. Thick. Deliberate. You sling your bag over your shoulder and reach for the door handle when his voice stops you. “Uh— after you turn it in,” he adds, casual but measured, “I think it’s best you come see me during office hours.”

His mouth tilts into something that might be a smile.

“And after we discuss your paper,” he adds, tone deceptively casual, “I think it’s best I give you a few… pointers on how to make it better.” He pauses, eyes dragging over you slowly—deliberately—before continuing. “Maybe even a few bonus points,” he says, voice low. “That is—if you’re interested.”

The implication hangs heavy between you.

You smile despite yourself, biting your lip like you already know the answer you’re supposed to give. “Yes, sir,” you say softly. “I’d like that a lot. Thank you.”

His mouth curves—not warm, not kind. Satisfied. “Good,” he says, already reaching for the next paper on his desk.

“Then we’ll discuss it properly.” Like this is just another academic arrangement. Like he hasn’t already decided exactly how this will go. The implication settles heavy in your chest.

There’s a pause. Measured. Intentional. You reach for the door when he speaks again. “Oh—one more thing.” You stop. His tone stays casual. “Next time you want to post something,” he says, eyes flicking up to you, sharp and knowing, “don’t make it so obvious you’re a college student but I also wouldn’t mind seeing what else you’d want me to do to you.”

Your stomach drops. “Yes, sir,” you say again, quieter this time. You walk out of his office on unsteady legs, posture straight, expression careful—every inch the good student. Down the hallway, back into the world, carrying the heat of what just happened and the cold reality of what it means.

You go home, sit at your desk, open your laptop. And you write like everything depends on it— because somehow, it feels like it does.

ੈ✩‧₊˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ˚ ༘

Age up | Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

-> for my itty tiddy committee babes 🍒

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You flop down onto the couch in just one of Katsuki’s old t-shirts, sighing dramatically as you glance down at your chest.

“I swear, Bakugo,” you mutter, cupping your boobs, “you’ve got bigger tits than me.”

He looks up from the kitchen, one brow twitching. “The hell did you just say?”

“I said you’ve got the chest in this relationship. Mine look like two polite suggestions compared to your built like a Greek god situation.” You poke your own chest, then point at his. “It’s honestly offensive.”

He tosses the dish towel aside, storming over with a scowl and a wild little glint in his eyes. “Yeah? Well, I don’t want another version of me in my bed. I want you.”

You laugh, but he doesn’t.

“I mean it, dumbass.” He grabs your face and kisses you hard, practically knocking the breath out of you. “I don’t give a shit about how big your tits are… Still the one I come home to, hard as a rock, just from remembering how you sound when I touch you and how nicely your tits bounce a little in my face when I fuck you.”

Your eyes almost busted out your damn skull and your cheeks burned. “suki—”

“And for the record,” he mutters, sliding his hands under the hem of your—his—shirt, “they’re the perfect size for me to get my mouth around. Wanna see?”

“shit”

Your breath hitches as he kneels between your legs grabbing one of your tits and giving your nipple a pinch in between in rough fingers, eyes dark, grin wicked. “Because I’m pretty sure I could spend all night showing you.”

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･