As Class 1-A gathered on the observation deck for the next bout, my mind wandered not to quirks or tactics, but to Momo Yaoyorozu.
She stood beside me, her ponytail swaying gently in the breeze, her hero costume—a sleek, form-fitting bodysuit of white and navy—hugging her curves in a way that made my cheeks heat despite the chill.
Yesterday's fight had unlocked something in her: confidence, a spark in her dark eyes when she'd thanked me for the inspiration. We'd talked late into the lunch hour, her laughter soft as she confessed her doubts about Creation, my words tumbling out about tides and storms finding balance.
Now, as Aizawa announced the match—"Ochaco Uraraka and Yuga Aoyama versus Thirteen. Begin in five"—her hand brushed mine, accidental but electric.
"Midoriya," she murmured, voice like silk over steel, "after this... could we talk? Somewhere quiet?" My heart stuttered, Saiyan instincts flaring primal. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."
Below, Uraraka and Aoyama took positions in the arena—a rebuilt labyrinth of mock streets, debris from prior fights scattered like forgotten bones, puddles lingering from my torrents.
Uraraka bounced on her toes, her pink cheeks flushed with determination, her Zero Gravity quirk ready to turn the world weightless. Aoyama struck a pose, his navel laser glinting under his cape, but something in his sparkling eyes felt off—too sharp, too calculated.
(A/N: He has forgotten the Aoyama being a traitor in canon, but don't worry he will remember in this)
Thirteen stood opposite, her black astronaut suit bulky yet graceful, the helmet's visor opaque, hiding her kind eyes. Her Black Hole quirk—sucking in air, matter, life itself—made her a gentle giant turned devourer in combat.
"Students," she said, voice warm through the suit's modulator, "show me your heroism. I'll hold nothing back." The buzzer blared, and the fight ignited.
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The Fight: Uraraka & Aoyama vs. Thirteen
Uraraka moved first, a blur of pink and determination, touching a chunk of rubble—concrete the size of a car—and activating Zero Gravity. It floated upward, a makeshift meteor, hurtling toward Thirteen.
"Go, Aoyama!" she shouted, her gloves gleaming as she prepped another touch. Aoyama twirled, his laser firing in a cantilevered beam—navel sparkling, the purple ray twisting mid-air to avoid friendly fire, slicing toward Thirteen's flank.
The hero raised her right arm, Black Hole humming to life. Air warped, a vortex pulling the floating rubble into its maw, crumbling it to dust before it could strike. Aoyama's laser bent, sucked toward the singularity, fizzling harmlessly at the event horizon.
Thirteen advanced, her steps measured, left arm extended to control the pull's radius. "Good start, but predictable!" The vortex widened, yanking at Uraraka's feet, trying to drag her in.
She planted her hands on the ground, touching the asphalt to float a section beneath her, propelling herself upward like a zero-G skateboard.
"Not today!" she yelled, somersaulting mid-air, touching three rebar spikes from the debris and launching them like zero-weight javelins. They spiraled toward Thirteen, gravity-null, silent and swift.
Aoyama capitalized, firing a rapid series of laser pulses—short bursts, each a glittering arc—aiming for Thirteen's helmet to blind her sensors. The hero twisted, Black Hole shifting to her left, sucking two javelins into oblivion.
The third grazed her shoulder pauldron, clanging off. Aoyama's laser caught her off-guard, one pulse hitting the visor dead-on, sparking across the opaque surface.
Thirteen staggered, her pull faltering for a heartbeat, the vortex sputtering. Uraraka whooped, landing lightly and touching the ground again, floating a massive steel beam from a collapsed mock wall. It rose ponderously, then rocketed forward, end over end.
Thirteen recovered, her suit's servos whirring as she amplified the Black Hole. The beam bent mid-flight, metal groaning as it was drawn in, compressing into a fist-sized nugget before vanishing.
But the effort cost her—her arm trembled slightly, the suit's power draw evident in the faint hum of cooling fans. "You're adapting," she praised, voice steady but strained. "But teamwork means covering weaknesses."
She lunged, closing the 20-meter gap with surprising speed for her bulk, right arm retracting the vortex to swipe at Aoyama with her left gauntlet. He yelped, cape flaring dramatically as he backpedaled, laser firing point-blank into her chest plate.
Sparks flew, scorching the fabric, but Thirteen pressed on, her gauntlet clipping his shoulder, sending him tumbling into a puddle.
Uraraka dove in, touching Aoyama to float him out of harm's way—his body lifting weightless, cape billowing like a defeated flag. "I've got you!" She set him down gently, but Thirteen was on her, the Black Hole reigniting, pulling Uraraka's boots toward the ground.
Asphalt cracked, Uraraka sliding forward, fingers scrabbling for purchase. She touched her own gloves desperately, floating herself upward, but the pull tugged at her ponytail, her skirt, disorienting her.
Aoyama rose, shaking off the hit, his sparkle dimmed by a bruise blooming on his cheek. "Mon dieu, that was close!" He fired again, lasers crisscrossing to box Thirteen in, but she ducked low, the beams scorching the air above her helmet.
Ten minutes in, the tide turned. Thirteen synced her movements, Black Hole pulsing in controlled bursts—sucking in Uraraka's projectiles before they launched, compressing Aoyama's lasers into harmless plasma orbs.
Uraraka panted, sweat beading on her brow, her quirk's nausea creeping in from overuse. "Aoyama, we need a plan B! She's too strong up close!" Aoyama nodded, his usual flair cracking, eyes flicking to the observation deck—too quick, too secretive.
As the traitor planted by All For One, his loyalty was a fractured mirror: forced espionage for the League, whispers of U.A.'s secrets funneled to Shigaraki. But here, desperation clawed at him. They couldn't lose—not when the LOV's eyes watched from shadows.
Thirteen closed in, her visor cracked from Aoyama's earlier hit, revealing a glimpse of her focused gaze. "You're doing well, but heroes don't falter!"
She extended both arms, dual Black Holes forming—one pulling at Uraraka's feet, the other yanking Aoyama's cape, drawing them together like iron filings.
Uraraka released her touch too late, slamming into Aoyama, both tumbling in a heap. The pull intensified, debris swirling around them, the air thinning as oxygen fed the voids.
Uraraka gagged, nausea hitting full force, while Aoyama's laser fizzled, his navel gem overheating.
It felt hopeless. Thirteen loomed, suit humming with power, the escape gate 100 meters away, blocked by her unyielding form. That's when they played dirty—instinct, survival, the edge heroes rarely crossed.
Aoyama whispered, voice low and laced with his double life's cunning: "Now, Uraraka. Distract and strike." She hesitated, round eyes widening—Uraraka, the girl who'd float puppies to save them, now facing the moral gray.
But defeat meant failure, and failure meant no camp, no growth, no path to rescue her parents from debt. She nodded, stomach twisting.
Uraraka feigned a stumble, crying out, "Aoyama, I can't—hold on!" She touched the ground dramatically, floating a cloud of dust and pebbles toward Thirteen, the debris swirling into a blinding haze.
Thirteen turned slightly, Black Hole shifting to suck it in, her focus split for a split second—visor scanning for the real threat. That was the opening.
Aoyama lunged from the shadows of a half-collapsed wall, his pose abandoned for raw desperation. His boot connected with Thirteen's helmet face— a sharp, metallic clang, the kick aimed at the cracked visor, spiderwebbing it further.
Thirteen recoiled, a gasp escaping her modulator, her suit's balance servos whining as she staggered back.
In that heartbeat of distraction, Uraraka struck. She released the dust float mid-pull, lunging forward on all fours, fingers brushing Thirteen's boot.
"Release!" Zero Gravity activated, the hero's massive frame lifting suddenly—weightless, flailing. Thirteen's arms windmilled, Black Holes deactivating as she fought for control, her suit's thrusters firing erratically.
She floated upward, 5 meters, 10, the arena's ceiling looming. "What—students?!" Shock laced her voice, not anger—Thirteen, the rescue specialist, caught off-guard by her own pupils' ruthlessness.
Aoyama capitalized, laser firing upward in a sustained beam, the purple ray lancing through the air to clip Thirteen's thruster pack. Sparks erupted, one engine coughing out, sending her spinning lazily in zero-G.
Uraraka touched the ground again, floating herself up to match height, then released—dropping like a stone onto Thirteen's back, pinning her mid-air. "Sorry, Thirteen-sensei!" she whispered, guilt cracking her voice, but resolve steeling her.
Together, they wrestled the hero down, Aoyama's lasers providing covering fire against any counter-pull. Thirteen struggled, her gauntlets grasping for purchase, but without gravity's anchor, she was adrift—pulled toward the escape gate by Uraraka's clever redirection of a floating rebar pole as a makeshift towline.
They crossed the boundary as the timer hit 28 minutes, Thirteen touching down lightly once Uraraka released her.
The hero straightened, visor fractured but intact, her voice steady despite the bruise forming under her suit.
"Pass. Unorthodox... but effective. Remember, heroism has lines—don't cross them lightly." Uraraka landed, cheeks burning with shame and triumph, while Aoyama struck a shaky pose.
From the deck, Class 1-A cheered—Kirishima's "That was hardcore!", Iida's chopping protest about "honorable combat"—but I saw the flicker in Aoyama's eyes. Oceanus growled: Shallow waters hide predators.
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Interlude: Whispers in the Empty Room
The match's roar faded as I slipped away from the deck, Momo's hand warm in mine. "This way," I murmured, leading her down a service corridor off the training grounds—an empty storage room, forgotten amid U.A.'s bustle, door clicking shut behind us.
Dust motes danced in the slanted light from a high window, crates stacked like silent sentinels. My heart thundered, Saiyan ki coiling hot in my veins, the multiversal fire from Jean Grey's embrace a month ago stirring unbidden.
Momo turned to me, her breath quick, eyes dark pools reflecting my own hunger. "Midoriya... Izuku," she whispered, the name a caress. "After yesterday, seeing you fight... I can't stop thinking about you."
Words failed; action surged. I closed the gap, hands framing her face—soft, porcelain skin under my callused palms—and pulled her into a kiss. Not tentative, but deep, claiming. My lips met hers, firm and insistent, parting them with a gentle pressure that yielded instantly.
Her gasp melted into a sigh, mouth opening like a bloom, and I delved in—tongue tracing the seam of her lips before sliding inside, tasting her sweetness: mint from gum, the faint tang of adrenaline from the morning's fight.
She responded in kind, her tongue meeting mine in a tentative dance that ignited into fervor, twining, stroking, exploring the velvet heat of her mouth.
Twenty minutes blurred in that kiss, time dilating like the Zombie Dungeon. I angled my head, deepening the connection, tongue curling against hers in slow, deliberate sweeps—teasing the roof of her mouth, then retreating to let her chase, only to plunge back.
Momo moaned softly, the sound vibrating into me, her hands clutching my hero costume's collar, pulling me closer. Her body pressed flush—curves yielding against my Saiyan frame, breasts soft mounds against my chest, hips aligning in instinctive rhythm.
I sucked gently on her lower lip, nipping with teeth before soothing with my tongue, eliciting a whimper that shot straight to my core. Saliva mingled, slick and warm, our breaths syncing in ragged harmony.
Her tongue grew bolder, flicking against mine in playful retaliation, then yielding as I dominated, rolling it back to claim every inch— the sensitive underside, the tip dancing in circles that made her knees buckle.
I backed her against a crate, lifting her effortlessly—Saiyan strength making her weightless—her legs wrapping around my waist as the kiss intensified.
Tongues battled now, a wet, fervent duel: mine thrusting deep, mimicking more primal rhythms, hers countering with eager suction, drawing me in.
Minutes ticked—five, ten—sweat beading on her brow, her ponytail loosening, auburn strands framing her flushed face. I broke for air once, only to dive back, tongue laving her teeth, tracing her gums, before sealing our mouths in a lock that muffled her cries.
Her nails dug into my shoulders, body arching, the kiss a lifeline in the storm of exams and shadows.
But hunger evolved. At the twenty-minute mark, I trailed my mouth downward, nipping her jaw, her throat—sucking a mark just below her ear that drew a gasp. "Izuku..."
Her voice was breathy, pleading. My hands roamed, unzipping her costume's front with ki-precision, exposing the swell of her breasts—full, perfect orbs, pale skin flushed pink, nipples pebbling in the cool air.
No bra—practical for combat, now a gift. I cupped one, thumb circling the peak, before lowering my head.
Forty minutes of devotion followed, my mouth claiming her left breast first. Lips parted around the nipple, tongue flicking once, twice, before I sucked—harder than gentle, a firm pull that hollowed my cheeks, drawing the bud deep into the wet heat of my mouth.
Momo arched, a keening moan escaping, her hand threading into my curls, holding me there. I lavished it: tongue swirling in tight circles around the areola, teeth grazing the edge with just enough pressure to sting sweetly, then sucking again—relentless, rhythmic, like waves crashing.
The flavor—salt-sweat and her innate sweetness—drove me, Saiyan stamina endless, ki pulsing to heighten sensation.
Switching sides at ten minutes, I gave the right the same worship: a teasing lick from underside to tip, then enveloping fully, sucking harder, the vacuum pulling a bead of milk-like essence that I lapped greedily.
Her breasts heaved with each breath, heavy in my palms as I kneaded the neglected one, fingers pinching in time with my mouth's pull. Momo writhed, head thrown back against the crate, whimpers turning to pleas—"Izuku, oh god, harder..."
I obliged, suction intensifying, tongue battering the nipple in rapid flicks while my teeth nipped, sending jolts through her.
Twenty minutes in, her skin glistened, breasts reddened from my fervor, nipples swollen and glistening with saliva.
I alternated now, mouth hopping between them—suck left for a minute, hard and deep, then right, equally fierce—my hands never idle, rolling, squeezing, thumbs abrading peaks.
Her body trembled, hips grinding against my thigh, the room filling with wet sounds: slurps of my mouth, her gasps, the creak of wood.
Thirty minutes: I buried my face between them, tongue tracing the valley, then sucking both nipples in turn, harder still, the pull bordering on ache that she craved, her cries peaking. "Yes—don't stop!"
Forty minutes ended with a final, prolonged suck on each—deep, draining—before I pulled back, her breasts heaving, marked with faint bites, glistening trails down her sternum.
We collapsed together, her head on my shoulder, breaths mingling. "That was... incredible," she whispered, zipping up with shaky hands. I kissed her forehead, guilt flickering— the fight outside, Aoyama's shadow—but joy won. "You're incredible."
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Resolution and Shadows
The door opened to cheers—Uraraka and Aoyama's victory sealed. Thirteen debriefed them below, her tone forgiving: "Dirty tactics win battles, but heroes win hearts clean."
Uraraka beamed, guilt fading in triumph, while Aoyama sparkled. Momo slipped back first, cheeks rosy, rejoining the deck with a knowing smile at me. The class swarmed—Bakugo's "Floaty and Sparkles got lucky!" drowned by Kirishima's hype.
But as evening fell, doubt crept. Aoyama's kick replayed—calculated, cruel. Oceanus warned: Treachery brews in shallow smiles. The Training Camp loomed. With Momo's warmth lingering, I steeled. Heroes endure.