Behind the screen spinoff
| college AU | Professor Deku x (fem) Student Reader
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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.
“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.
• @/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.
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.
@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.
• @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: 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.
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…
“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.
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:
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
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 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.
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:
god gives his strongest soldiers the most DANGEROUS temptations. #greenisAproblem #justfuckmealready
• @/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.
A new tweet appeared immediately:
“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:
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.
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sorry this was sooooo long my mind just kept going:/// hope you liked it though:3
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