aged up! soft dom! academic rival! izuku
The first time you realize Izuku Midoriya is your problem, it’s because he looks at you like he already knows you.
Not in a creepy way. Not in a cocky way. Just… certain.
Like he isn’t intimidated.
Which is annoying, because everyone else is.
You’ve built your reputation carefully since freshman year. Top of your program. Sharp tongue. Sharper mind. Professors respect you. Classmates avoid you unless they need something. You don’t lose.
Until him.
It starts sophomore year, Advanced Cognitive Theory, Monday morning at eight. The professor hands back the first exam with a pleased smile.
“Highest grade in the class,” she says, tapping the stack. “Midoriya. Ninety-six.”
Your stomach drops before she even says the next part.
“Second highest. Ninety-five. y/n.”
Second.
You stare at the red number on your paper like it personally betrayed you.
You don’t look at him. You refuse to. But you feel his presence two rows over, quiet and still.
He doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t brag. Doesn’t even turn around.
That almost makes it worse.
After class, you’re stuffing your things into your bag when you hear him.
“You always write really strong conclusions.”
You freeze.
Slowly, you turn.
He’s standing there, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed. He’s taller than you by a few inches, curls messy like he ran his fingers through them too many times. His expression is calm, open. Earnest.
You narrow your eyes. “What.”
He nods toward your paper. “Your argument structure. It’s good.”
Your grip tightens on your strap. “Did I ask for your feedback?”
His lips twitch, just slightly. Not quite a smile.
“No.”
“Then don’t give it.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t get defensive.
He just nods once, like he expected that answer. “Okay.”
And he leaves.
You hate that he doesn’t rise to it. Hate that he doesn’t snap back. Hate that he doesn’t give you something to push against.
You hate that he’s calm.
—
Weeks pass, and the pattern settles into place.
Every test, every quiz, every assignment.
He beats you.
Not by a lot. Never by a lot. Just enough to stay ahead.
And he never rubs it in.
Never gloats.
Never even mentions it.
Which makes you meaner.
You make sure he hears your scoffs when grades are announced. You “accidentally” bump into him in crowded hallways. You cut him off mid-sentence in group discussions.
He lets you.
Every time.
He watches you with those steady green eyes, patient in a way that makes your skin itch.
Like he’s waiting.
—
The library becomes your battleground.
It’s late, nearly midnight, and you’re surrounded by books and empty coffee cups. Your laptop screen glows against your dark skin, highlighting the furrow in your brow as you reread the same paragraph for the fifth time.
And then he sits across from you.
You don’t look up.
“There are other tables,” you say flatly.
“I know.”
You glance at him.
He’s already watching you.
Calm. Comfortable. Like he belongs there.
“Then go sit at one.”
He tilts his head slightly. “I like this one.”
Your jaw tightens. “Why.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Because you’re here.”
Heat flashes through your chest, sharp and unwanted.
You roll your eyes. “You’re weird.”
“You’re mean,” he replies gently.
Your fingers still on your keyboard.
Most people would say it like an insult. Like an accusation.
He says it like an observation.
You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. “Maybe you should mind your business.”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
Silence stretches between you.
He doesn’t leave.
He opens his laptop and starts working like your hostility doesn’t exist.
Like it doesn’t affect him at all.
It drives you insane.
—
The breaking point comes mid-semester.
A presentation worth thirty percent of your grade. You spent two weeks preparing. You know your material inside and out.
You go first.
You deliver flawlessly. Clear voice. Sharp analysis. Confident answers.
The professor looks impressed.
You sit down, satisfied.
Then Midoriya stands.
He doesn’t have flashy slides. Doesn’t use dramatic gestures. He just speaks.
And somehow, everyone listens.
His voice is soft, but steady. His points are precise. His analysis goes deeper than yours. Not in a way that makes yours look bad. Just… better.
When he finishes, the room is quiet.
The professor smiles.
“That,” she says, “is exceptional.”
Your stomach twists.
Grades are posted two days later.
You open the portal.
Izuku Midoriya : 100
Y/N: 98
Your vision goes red.
You spot him outside the lecture hall later that afternoon, talking to someone from class. He laughs quietly at something they say, shoulders relaxed.
You walk straight up to him.
“You think you’re better than me?”
The other student immediately excuses themselves.
He looks at you, surprised but not alarmed. “No.”
“Then why do you keep acting like it?”
“I don’t.”
“You beat me every time.”
“I try my best,” he says simply.
His calm makes something snap inside you.
“You’re so fake,” you spit. “You act all nice and quiet like you’re not competing, but you are. You love it.” You exclaim flipping your braids over your shoulder
His expression changes.
Not dramatically. Not angrily.
But something sharp appears behind his eyes.
“I do compete,” he says.
Your breath catches.
It’s the first time he’s admitted it.
You scoff. “At least you’re honest about something.”
He steps closer.
Not threatening.
Just closer.
“I compete,” he continues quietly, “because you make me better.”
You blink.
“That doesn’t make me your enemy.”
You don’t know what to say to that.
So you default to what you know.
“You’re still losing.”
His eyebrow lifts slightly.
“You’re just too stupid to realize it.”
Silence.
Heavy.
His jaw tightens.
It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t notice.
But you do.
Because it’s the first crack you’ve ever seen in him.
“Do you actually believe that,” he asks softly, “or are you just trying to make me react.”
Your heart stutters.
You open your mouth, ready with another insult.
But nothing comes out.
Because he’s looking at you differently now.
Not patient.
Not passive.
Focused.
Intent.
And suddenly, you feel exposed.
—
You avoid him after that.
Not on purpose.
Not consciously.
But every time you see him, you turn the other way.
You don’t like the way he looked at you.
Like he saw through you.
—
The rain had slowed by the time you reached the library steps. The city lights reflected off puddles like little stars scattered across the sidewalk. You tugged your hoodie tighter, still tense from the conversation with Midoriya in the hallway. Every time you saw him, it was the same: calm, collected, infuriatingly aware of every inch of you.
You pushed the door open rubbing your glossed lips together, something you did out of habit. The library was nearly empty, just a few students tucked into corners with laptops and notebooks. You let out a shaky breath and went straight to your usual table. Notes spread across the surface, pens and highlighters ready. You needed to focus. You had to focus.
A shadow fell across your table.
“Mind if I join you?” His voice was soft but commanding, pulling your gaze up automatically.
You squinted at him. “You have other places to sit.”
“I like this one,” he said simply, sliding into the chair opposite you. His green eyes lingered on you in a way that made your stomach knot. Calm. Steady. Certain.
You scowled. “Why?”
“Because you’re here,” he said without hesitation, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You hated how your chest clenched at the words. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, trying to hide it with irritation.
“You’re mean,” he replied, and the small smile tugging at his lips made your frustration spike.
You slammed your notebook closed. “You just like making me miserable.”
“I like watching you fight,” he said quietly. “It’s… fun.”
You blinked at him. “You think I’m fun?”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “I think you’re sharp, stubborn, clever. I think you’re everything I don’t have to try to win against. And I like it.”
Your jaw tightened. You wanted to be offended, wanted to lash out, but your throat had gone dry. For the first time, the words he said weren’t just teasing. They were real.
You tried to push your notebook toward him, a silent “go away.” He didn’t budge.
“You think you know me,” you said, voice shaking, “but you don’t. You have no idea how hard I work. How much I push myself.”
His gaze softened, unwavering. “I notice. I’ve noticed from the very beginning. Every late night, every exhausted look, every page you’ve rewritten a dozen times. I see it all, y/n.”
Your stomach fluttered. That quiet attention, the way he said your name, it felt like he was inside your head, seeing everything you hid.
“You make it look easy,” you spat, though your voice lacked conviction. “You always win, you don’t even try, and somehow you’re better than me.”
He leaned back in his chair and smiled faintly. “I work just as hard. Maybe a little differently. But it’s not about beating you… it’s about keeping up with you.”
Your fingers twitched. “Then why do you… why do you always look at me like that?”
Like he knew exactly how to push you, and exactly what buttons to press.
He tilted his head, calm and confident. “Because I like knowing you’re trying. I like that you fight. And I like that you fight me.”
You flushed, leaning back, crossing your arms defensively. “You’re impossible.”
He smirked faintly. “Maybe. But you like it.”
“Don’t say that,” you muttered, heart racing.
“You do,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to admit it yet. I can tell.”
You wanted to throw something at him. Maybe a pen. Maybe your own notebook. Instead, you just buried your face in your hands, feeling that mix of exasperation and longing churn inside you.
He reached across the table, lightly brushing your wrist with his fingers. The touch was casual, almost negligent, but it made your pulse spike. “You don’t have to fight me,” he murmured. “Not here. Not anymore.”
You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. “What are you-you can’t just-.”
“I can,” he interrupted softly, leaning slightly closer, eyes locked on yours. “You just don’t want to. And that’s okay. You don’t have to explain it. I get it.”
You swallowed hard, aware of the heat creeping into your cheeks, aware of the rapid thrum in your chest. His voice, his presence, the quiet authority in the way he said your name—it was overwhelming. And yet, despite every instinct telling you to resist, every bit of pride telling you to walk away, you didn’t.
Because you wanted him to notice. You wanted him to hold that space for you. You wanted him to see you completely.
The moment stretched between you, taut and electric. Every tiny brush of his fingers, every glance, every unspoken word made your chest tighten. You could feel the shift—the tension between control and surrender, between frustration and desire. You knew where it was heading, even if you weren’t ready to say it out loud.
-
The moment stretched between you, taut and electric. Every tiny brush of his fingers, every glance, every unspoken word made your chest tighten. You could feel the shift—the tension between control and surrender, between frustration and desire. You knew where it was heading, even if you weren’t ready to say it out loud.
His thumb traced your lower lip, the touch feather-light but deliberate. You wanted to look away, to break the intense eye contact that made you feel so exposed, so seen—but you couldn't. His emerald green eyes held you captive, reading every flicker of emotion across your face.
"You don't hate me," he said softly, his voice dropping to that dangerous, intimate tone that made your stomach clench. "You hate that I make you feel this way. That I see through you.”
Your pulse hammered against your ribs. His hand slid from your chin to your waist, fingers curling around the fabric of your shirt, holding you steady. The touch was grounding, anchoring you to the present moment even as your mind raced with conflicting emotions.
"You're so tense," he observed, his tone conversational despite the charged atmosphere. He stood slowly, moving to your side where you sat. His presence loomed over you, towering and commanding. Without waiting for permission, he placed both hands on your shoulders, kneading the tight muscles there with practiced ease.
"Let me help you relax," he murmured, his voice so calm, so certain—like he knew exactly what you needed even when you couldn't articulate it yourself.
"Don't—" you started, but he cut you off with a gentle squeeze.
"No one’s in here, you don't have to fight me," he repeated, leaning down to brush his lips against your ear. His breath was warm, smelling faintly of mint and something distinctly him. "Not here. Not anymore."
His fingers traced slow circles on your shoulder blades, working deeper into the knots of tension that had been building there for weeks. The touch was insistent, proprietary, like he was claiming every inch of your body as his territory. You tried to resist, to maintain that last bastion of defiance, but your shoulders betrayed you—sagging slightly under his ministrations.
"You've been carrying so much," he said, his voice softening. "So much pressure. Let me take some of it."
His hands slid lower, wrapping around your waist as he guided you to stand. The movement was fluid, controlled, his body pressing against your back as he moved you toward the quiet corner of the library where the shelves cast long shadows. The space was private, secluded—exactly the kind of spot he'd been waiting for.
He turned you to face him, one hand coming up to cup your jaw. His thumb traced your lower lip again, slower this time, more deliberate. "You fight so hard," he whispered, his eyes searching yours. "But you don't have to fight me. Not when you want this as much as I do."
Your breath came in short gasps, your body trembling with need and resistance and something deeper—trust, maybe, or the beginning of surrender. His other hand rested on your hip, pulling you closer until you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the firmness of his chest against your back.
"Tell me you want this," he commanded softly, his lips brushing against your ear. "Tell me you want me."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication.
"Tell me you want this," he commanded softly, his lips brushing against your ear. "Tell me you want me."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. Your throat felt tight, your body trembling with need and resistance and something deeper—trust, maybe, or the beginning of surrender. His other hand rested on your hip, pulling you closer until you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the firmness of his chest against your back.
You tried to speak, to form the words he wanted to hear, but they caught in your throat. Instead, you felt your head tilt back against his shoulder, an involuntary submission that spoke volumes. His hand tightened on your hip possessively.
"That's what I thought," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "You've been fighting this for so long, but your body knows the truth."
His fingers slid from your waist to the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, deliberately. The fabric bunched up under his hands as he exposed the soft skin of your lower back, his touch igniting trails of fire wherever he made contact. You shivered, a soft gasp escaping your lips.
"Midoriya ..." you whispered, his name sounding almost like a prayer.
"Shh, I've got you," he soothed, his lips trailing down your neck. “And from now on you call me Izuku, yeah?” His hands continued their exploration, one sliding up to cup your breast through your bra while the other gripped your hip firmly, holding you in place. The dual sensations made your knees weak.
He guided you backward until your back pressed against the cool library wall, the old bookshelves creating a semi-private space around you. His body caged you in, his presence overwhelming yet somehow comforting. His hands roamed freely now, one sliding up to tangle in your hair while the other worked at the clasp of your bra.
"Let me take care of you," he breathed against your jaw, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "Let me show you what it's like to stop fighting. To just... let go."
Your resistance was crumbling completely now, melting under the heat of his touch and the weight of his confidence. When he finally pulled the fabric of your bra away, your breasts spilled free, nipples already hardening in the cool air. His gaze was hungry, possessive, as his hands resumed their exploration with expert precision.
"God, you're beautiful," he murmured, his eyes dark with desire as they roamed over your exposed skin. His hands resumed their exploration with expert precision, one cupping your breast while his thumb circled your hardened nipple, sending jolts of pleasure through your body.
Your breath came in ragged gasps as his other hand slid down your torso, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants. The touch was intimate, claiming, as he worked the button and zipper with practiced ease. When he finally pushed the fabric down, exposing you to him completely, he let out a low growl of satisfaction.
"Fuck, yes," he breathed, his gaze dropping lower. His fingers traced along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, making you tremble. "So perfect. All mine."
He leaned down, his mouth finding your neck, then your collarbone, then the swell of your breast. His teeth grazed your skin as he worked his way lower, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. You arched into his touch, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders, pulling him closer.
His lips continued their journey downward, tasting every inch of you, until they finally found the most sensitive spot between your legs. When his tongue made contact, you cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair as pleasure sparked through your core.
"Izuku," you moaned, your back arching off the wall as he worked you with expert skill. His hands gripped your hips firmly, holding you in place as he brought you higher and higher, his mouth and hands in perfect coordination.
The pleasure built in waves, each one stronger than the last, until you were gasping, your entire body trembling on the edge. Izuku’s tongue worked expertly against you, his hands steady and sure, guiding you toward the peak with the same patient confidence he'd shown throughout. Your hands gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as the first waves of orgasm began to crash through you.
"Let go," he murmured against you, his voice vibrating with dark satisfaction. "Cum for me, y/n. I want to feel you come apart for me."
The words pushed you over the edge. Your body convulsed, your hips bucking against his mouth as pleasure flooded through every nerve ending. You cried out his name, a raw, desperate sound that echoed in the quiet space of the library. He held you through it, his tongue continuing its steady rhythm until the spasms gradually subsided, leaving you boneless and breathless against the wall.
When you finally came down, you were shaking, your body slick with sweat and spent. Lucas slowly pulled away, licking his lips clean with a satisfied smirk. "Mmm, you taste so fucking good," he purred, his eyes dark with hunger. "But we're not done yet. Not even close."
He stood, helping you slide down until your feet found the floor again. His hands roamed over your heated skin, reacquainting himself with every curve and dip. "You're mine now," he said possessively, his lips brushing your ear. "All mine. And I'm going to make sure you never forget it."
He guided you back to the table, gently pushing you to lean forward over it. The position was vulnerable, exposing, and he took advantage of it immediately. His hands spread your legs wider, and you felt him working at his own clothing, the sound of his belt buckle unbuckling loud in the quiet space. Your heart raced, anticipation and nervousness mixing in your stomach as you waited. Feelings of ‘What is you got caught?’ riddled through your mind.
"You're so wet for me," he growled, his fingers testing your readiness. "Been this way all day, haven't you? Thinking about me. Touching yourself. Wanting me to claim you.
And now I'm going to show you what that means." His hands gripped your hips firmly as he positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. You tensed, a mix of anticipation and apprehension running through you. "Relax for me," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "I've got you. I won't hurt you."
He pushed in slowly, letting you adjust to his size, his fingers threading through your hair to hold you steady. The stretch was intense, bordering on uncomfortable, but his touch was gentle, grounding. "Fuck," he breathed, his voice strained with control. "You feel so tight. So perfect." He gave you time to adjust before gradually increasing his depth, filling you completely. The position had him hitting spots inside you that made your breath hitch, your body responding instinctively to his presence.
He began to move, starting with slow, deep strokes that gradually gained momentum. Each thrust was deliberate, powerful, designed to claim and possess. Your body responded despite your initial tension, heat pooling in your core as pleasure began to build again. His hands roamed freely now, one cupping your breast while the other slid lower to find your clit, rubbing slow circles that made your knees weak.
"Look at you," he growled, his lips on your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. "Taking me so well. So beautiful when you let go." His words were filthy, possessive, and they made something primal stir inside you—something that wanted to be claimed, to be owned by him. His pace increased, each thrust harder, deeper, until the sound of skin meeting skin filled the quiet space, along with your gasps and his low growls of satisfaction.
"Cum for me again," he commanded, his thumb pressing harder against your clit. "I want to feel you squeeze me. Want to know that you're mine." The pressure built impossibly high, and when you came this time, it was explosive—your body clamping around him as waves of pleasure tore through you. The sensation of your walls pulsing around him was enough to send him over the edge too. With a guttural groan, he buried himself deep inside you, his body stiffening as he came in pulses
, his warmth flooding into you in thick, hot spurts. You felt him shudder against you, his fingers digging into your hips as he finished with a raw groan. For a moment, the only sound was your combined breathing, ragged and uneven. He stayed inside you for several long seconds, his forehead pressed against the back of your neck, before slowly withdrawing. You felt the loss immediately, a strange emptiness that made you want him back inside.
He helped you straighten up, steadying you with gentle hands on your waist. "You're incredible," he murmured, his voice soft and genuine—a stark contrast to the dominant man who'd just claimed you so thoroughly. He pulled you back against his chest, his arms wrapping around you from behind as he guided you back to the table. "Are you okay?" he asked, his thumb tracing idle circles on your hip. "That was... intense." You nodded, still catching your breath, your body feeling boneless and satisfied. "I know it was a lot," he continued, his lips brushing your temple. "But you did so well. I'm proud of you." The praise made warmth bloom in your chest, melting away the last of your defenses. His hands moved to adjust your clothing, his touch gentle and caring now, the contrast making you acutely aware of how different this side of him was.
"You're amazing, Y/N," he said softly, his fingers interlacing with yours. "And I know this is going to sound crazy after everything that just happened, but..." He paused, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm. "I want to do this again. Not just the sex—all of it. the relationship. I want you to be mine in every way—in the light and in the dark. I want to wake up next to you, argue with you about stupid things, and worship your body like I just did. I want you to trust me, to let me take care of you, to let me push your limits and show you just how much you can take." He squeezed your hand gently, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.
“ I know this is fast, but I've never felt like this before. You're different, Y/N. You make me want things I didn't know I was capable of wanting." His other hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your swollen lips. "I want to claim you properly. Not just in the physical sense, but in every way that matters. Will you let me? Will you be mine?" The question was vulnerable, stripped of all his earlier dominance, and it made your heart ache with affection. This was Izuku—the real him, the one beneath the confident exterior.
You knew your answer before he even finished asking. "Yes," you whispered, leaning in to kiss him. It was soft and sweet, a promise and an agreement all at once. He smiled against your lips, a genuine, joyful expression that transformed his entire face. "Good," he murmured, deepening the kiss.
