The observation deck thrummed with our ragged energy, the morning's chill burned off by nerves and sun. Ochaco's hand slipped into mine, her touch a quiet spark amid the buzz.
"Kirishima and Sato next, Deku—they're tanks! Gotta be able to smash Cementoss, right?" Her optimism was my lifeline. Bakugo leaned on the railing, explosions popping idly.
"Red Riot and Sugar Boy? They'll get buried in concrete before lunch. Pathetic." Momo adjusted her ponytail, notebook open. "Cementoss's quirk creates barriers—unbreakable at range. They need mobility and raw force."
Todoroki nodded, ice faintly frosting his side. Kirishima pumped a fist below, his red hair spiked defiantly, Hardening quirk shimmering on his skin.
Sato flexed beside him, apron-hero costume dusted with sugar from a pre-fight snack, Sugar Rush fueling his beast mode. "Let's harden up and sweeten the deal, bro!" Kirishima roared. Sato grinned, veins bulging. "Yeah! Time to bake this exam!"
Aizawa's voice grated over comms, his eyes bloodshot from endless oversight. "Kirishima Eijiro and Sato Rikido versus Cementoss. Objective: defeat or escape in 30 minutes. His walls will test your endurance—break through or break down."
The arena sprawled—a fortified mock fortress, concrete bunkers and rising pillars from prior resets, dust motes dancing in sunbeams. Cementoss—Ken Ishiyama, the stone-faced teacher with his gray, rocky quirk—stood at the center, arms folded, his Cement quirk already humming, ground trembling faintly.
"Young heroes," he rumbled, voice like grinding gravel, "build your resolve. I'll raise the barriers." The buzzer blared, and the earth answered.
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The Fight: Kirishima & Sato vs. Cementoss
Kirishima charged first, Red Riot unbreakable—Hardening quirk activating in a crimson sheen, skin turning diamond-tough as he barreled forward, 5 meters of momentum slamming into the first rising wall Cementoss summoned.
Concrete erupted from the ground, a 3-meter slab thick as a vault door, but Kirishima's shoulder-check shattered it, chunks flying like shrapnel. "Manly breakthrough!" he bellowed, shards embedding harmlessly in his armored form.
Sato flanked, Sugar Rush kicking in—pre-fight sweets converting to raw power, muscles swelling to 2.5 meters of hulking mass, veins popping like cables.
He leaped, fist cocked in a Sugar Smash, pulverizing a secondary wall mid-formation, dust billowing as the slab crumbled under his 500-kg punch.
Cementoss didn't flinch, his quirk a symphony of stone—arms gesturing like a conductor, ground surging with new barriers: interlocking walls forming a 10-meter maze, pillars spiking upward to block sightlines, the arena transforming into a concrete labyrinth.
"Endurance is key, Kirishima. Power alone crumbles." A spike lanced from a wall, aimed at Sato's gut—he dodged, but it grazed his side, drawing blood, Sugar Rush's speed barely keeping pace.
Kirishima vaulted a low barrier, hardening his fists to punch through another, cracks spiderwebbing the cement. "We're not crumbling, Teach! We're breaking through!"
Sato roared, charging a pillar, his double-fisted hammer-blow toppling it like a felled tree, debris cascading to open a path.
Five minutes in, momentum held. Kirishima's Hardening extended—full-body armor now, shrugging off ricocheting shards as he bulldozed a corridor, Sato behind, smashing flanking walls with seismic swings.
Cementoss adapted, his quirk's precision shining: barriers reshaping mid-fight, walls curving to encircle, a dome starting to form overhead.
A spike pierced Kirishima's thigh—hardened skin cracking slightly, pain lancing as blood welled. "Gah—sturdy up!" He pressed, ripping the spike free, but Sato took a hit next—a wall slamming his back, hurling him into rubble, ribs creaking.
Sugar Rush burned hot, his breaths ragged, sugar reserves dipping. "Kirishima— he's boxing us in!"
They rallied, synergy sparking: Kirishima as the unbreakable ram, Sato the demolisher. Kirishima tanked a barrage of spikes, hardening his arms into shields, advancing through the maze while Sato leaped atop his shoulders, using the height for overhead smashes—fists raining down like meteors, pulverizing the dome's rim before it sealed.
Dust choked the air, visibility dropping to meters, but Kirishima's roar cut through: "Unbreakable formation—go!"
Sato vaulted off, Sugar Rush propelling a 15-meter leap, his foot stomping a central pillar, shockwave rippling to crack surrounding walls.
Cementoss countered, summoning a wave of liquid cement—his quirk's advanced edge, flowing like mud to drown them.
Kirishima dove in, hardening to wade through, fists churning the flow into harmless sludge, but Sato slipped, the cement hardening around his legs, trapping him mid-stride.
Ten minutes, the tide turning. Cementoss's barriers thickened—20 cm slabs now, reinforced with rebar-like spikes, the maze evolving into a kill-box: walls closing in, ceiling lowering to 2 meters, spikes protruding inward.
Kirishima freed Sato with a hardened shoulder-bash, but exhaustion crept—Hardening's toll sapping stamina, cracks forming on his armor, blood trickling from gashes.
Sato's Sugar Rush peaked then waned, muscles deflating slightly, punches losing thunder as sugar crashed.
A spike impaled Kirishima's shoulder—armor shattering there, agony flaring as he roared, ripping it out. "Not... manly... to quit!"
Sato charged, freeing him with a desperate Smash, but Cementoss loomed, a massive wall rising to bisect them, spikes lancing from both sides.
Fifteen minutes, verge of loss. The box tightened—air thick with dust, walls inches from crushing, spikes inches from hearts. Kirishima panted, hardening flickering, Sato's fists bloodied from futile blows.
"We... we can't break it, bro," Sato gasped, sugar reserves empty, quirk fading to base strength. Cementoss's voice echoed, patient but firm: "Yield, boys. Endurance has limits."
The gate mocked them, 50 meters away but walled off. Desperation birthed dirt—raw, ugly, an echo. Kirishima's eyes met Sato's—nod. "Dirty play. For the win."
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The Dirty Play
They feigned collapse, Kirishima slumping against a wall, hardening dropping to bait an opening—"Can't... hold..." Sato echoed, "Sugar's out— we're done."
Cementoss approached cautiously, walls pausing their creep, his rocky form stepping through a gap, baton ready for the cuff. "Good fight. But heroism isn't surrender."
The distraction: Kirishima's foot scraped the dust-choked floor, kicking up a cloud—arena grit, fine and choking, but not enough. Sato joined, Sugar Rush's last dregs fueling a stomp, shockwave stirring a dirt-devil.
Cementoss raised an arm, cement flowing to seal the breach, but they lunged—dirty, desperate.
Kirishima scooped handfuls of loose soil from the rubble—gritty, pebble-mixed dirt from shattered planters—hurling it full-force at Cementoss's face.
"Take this, Teach—dirt in your eye!" The first volley splattered his mask, grit lodging in the eye-slits of his concrete helmet, stinging particles abrading his vision.
He recoiled, "What—unfair—!" But Sato followed, palms grinding into the ground, scooping wet clumps from my old puddles—mud now, clumpy and blinding—smearing it across Cementoss's face in a brutal face-wash. "Yeah! Blinding bake!"
Dirt poured in waves: Kirishima's hardened fists punched divots in the floor, flinging arcs of soil—dozens of handfuls, a brown blizzard pelting Cementoss's eyes, nose, mouth.
Particles ground in, vision blurring to haze, the teacher staggering, cement flow stuttering as he clawed at his face—"Gah—enough! This isn't—"
Sato pressed, knees in the mud, scooping massive globs—fist-sized mud-balls—smashing them against Cementoss's helmet, dirt cascading into slits, caking his rocky skin.
"Stay down— for U.A.!" Kirishima joined, shoulder-checking him off-balance, more dirt flying from his palms, raking handfuls across the eyes, grinding with thumb-pressure, the abrasive mix burning tears from Cementoss's hidden lids.
Cementoss thrashed, quirk faltering—walls cracking as focus broke, spikes retracting erratically. Blinded, choking on grit, he swung wildly, but the duo dodged, Kirishima tanking a glancing blow.
Sato yanked cuffs from his belt—U.A. specials, EMP-laced—snapping one wrist as Kirishima pinned the other arm. "Gotcha!" The click echoed, quirk nullified, barriers crumbling to dust. Cementoss slumped, wiping his face, voice muffled but amused.
"Dirty... but decisive. Pass." Timer at 22 minutes—victory by restraint, the gate forgotten.
The deck exploded—Kirishima's "Yeah, bro!" met Sato's fist-pump, Class 1-A cheering through winces.
Ochaco giggled. "Dirt again? It's a theme!" I clapped, pride swelling despite the ugliness. Manly to the end, even in mud.
_________________
Fractured Dawn
As the arena cleared, Aizawa eyed them sternly. "Ethics lecture later. Rest—last matches tomorrow." Kirishima and Sato climbed up, battered but beaming, high-fives all around.
__________________
Mina Ashido's POV
The afterglow in my dorm room hung thick like acid fog, the air still humming with the echoes of our frenzy—two hours of Mineta's relentless, 12-inch invasion, his girthy length plunging every second into my core, tip battering my womb's depths while his hand squeezed my exposed stomach in vise-like pulses, forcing every virile rope of his seed to anchor deep.
My pink skin glistened with sweat, horns aching from where I'd gripped the headboard, fanged moans fracturing into screams—"Mineta! Deeper—squeeze it full!"—as climax after climax ripped through me, his impregnation a hot flood that left me trembling, belly taut with the spark of life he'd planted.
The little grape bastard had leveraged my LOV secret like a pro—overhearing me with Aoyama and Denki, turning traitor dirt into this extreme claiming.
Blackmail sex, but damn if it didn't feel good. He sprawled beside me now, grape head pillowed on my thigh, his tiny frame smug, that pervy grin splitting his face. "Told ya, Pinky. You're mine now—bred and bound.
I forced a laugh, fanged smile flashing as I stroked his hair, my acid quirk bubbling faintly at my fingertips—harmless, for now. Inside, rage coiled like a Nomu ready to warp.
Third traitor? Yeah, me—Mina Ashido, acid queen and Shigaraki's inside girl, debts to the League chaining me since middle school, melting U.A.'s edges while playing bubbly sidekick.
Mineta's dirt? A wrinkle, but wrinkles get ironed. He thought he'd tied me with a baby? Cute. My utility belt—slung over the bedpost, pink leather scarred from Nezu's mech—hid more than cuffs.
Tucked in a hidden flap: a slim silver flask, a contraband from Toga's "gifts," a mango-tanged elixir brewed in some underground lab. Purge Serum—erases "seeds" clean, resets the womb like it never happened, virginity intact, no traces.
Shigaraki's insurance for his plants; I'd pocketed it months back, just in case. Time to prune.
He dozed, snoring softly, oblivious as I slipped from the sheets, naked pink form padding silent to the belt. Flask cool in my palm, screw-cap whispering open.
The liquid swirled—golden-amber, viscous like honeyed nectar, scent wafting sweet and tropical, mango's ripe tang hitting my nose with a deceptive innocence.
I tipped it back, the first sip gliding over my tongue: smooth, pulpy burst of mango flesh, tropical sunshine laced with a subtle fizz, like biting into sun-warmed fruit on a beach that didn't exist for girls like me.
Warmth bloomed in my throat, sliding down like liquid summer—sweet upfront, the mango's juicy core exploding in citrus-sharp notes, a hint of pineapple undertone for depth, cooling to a faint, herbal afterbite that numbed my fangs momentarily.
Second sip, fuller—flask tilting higher, the elixir coating my mouth in velvety waves, mango's creamy richness flooding my senses, pulp flecks dancing on my tongue like tiny explosions.
It pooled, warm and inviting, before I swallowed, the trail igniting a gentle heat in my chest, spreading downward in tingling rivulets—effervescent, like soda bubbles popping along my ribs, chasing the sweetness with a clean, clarifying bite.
Third and final pull: half the flask gone, the mango essence peaking—overripe fruit's heady perfume, blended with a whisper of lime for zing, the liquid thicker now, clinging to my lips as I drained it, a final gulp sending a rush straight to my core.
Warmth bloomed there, deep and insistent—a soft cramp, like period's eve but inverted, my womb contracting in subtle waves, purging the "seeds" with clinical mercy.
The serum worked fast, LOV's dark alchemy no joke. Heat intensified, a flush creeping up my pink skin, horns tingling as my body rebelled then reset—womb clenching, a faint, wet trickle between my thighs, the evidence flushing out in a warm gush, staining the sheets with harmless, odorless fluid that evaporated like mist.
No pain, just a hollowing release, the spark Mineta planted winking out like a snuffed candle—virility erased, walls contracting to pristine tightness, virginity's seal metaphorically resealed, no scars, no stretch, just me, clean and unburdened.
The mango aftertaste lingered, sweet on my breath, a mocking refreshment as the flask clinked empty back into the belt. I wasn't pregnant. No tie, no leverage. Just a pervy grape who thought he'd won the lottery.
He stirred, eyes cracking open, that smug leer returning. "Round two already, Pinky? My dick's ready to—" I cut him with a fanged grin, sauntering back, breasts swaying heavy and free, pink nipples still pebbled from our earlier frenzy.
"Not yet, grape. But... you earned a treat. Worship these." I straddled his chest, lowering my chest to his face, full orbs hovering like ripe temptations, acid-slick sheen catching the dorm's lamp.
His eyes bulged, hands shooting up to cup them—tiny palms barely spanning the swells—as his mouth latched on. Twenty minutes of harder sucking, his pervy devotion my distraction, keeping him hooked while I plotted.
He'd live—for now. Spill to Aizawa? Nah, too messy. Better to string him, use his dirt as my whip.
Mineta's lips sealed around my left nipple first, a hungry vacuum—harder than before, cheeks hollowing deep as he pulled the bud into his mouth's wet heat, tongue lashing the peak in frantic, swirling circles that sent jolts straight to my core.
"Mmm—Mineta!" I moaned his name on the first second, pleasure spiking unbidden, fangs grazing my lip as his suction bordered ache, teeth nipping the areola's edge for sting-sweet contrast.
Second second: another moan—"Mineta!"—his free hand kneading the right breast, thumb abrading the neglected nipple in rough circles, syncing with his mouth's relentless pull.
Third through fifth: the rhythm set, his sucks harder still—deep, draining draws that hollowed his cheeks further, tongue battering the left bud in rapid flicks, saliva pooling and trickling down the swell in glistening trails.
"Mineta... ahh, Mineta!" Moans spilled every second, my voice a breathy chant, pink skin flushing hotter as pleasure coiled low, traitor's guilt twisting into traitorous thrill.
Six to ten: he switched, mouth popping off the left with a slick smack—nipple swollen, reddened, shining wet—before engulfing the right fully, sucking harder, vacuum intensifying to milk-like tugs, tongue rolling the peak against his palate.
"Mineta! Yes—Mineta!" Each second a cry, my hands threading his grape hair, pulling him deeper, hips grinding against his chest in instinctive rhythm.
Eleven to fifteen: alternating frenzy—mouth hopping like a starving beast, suck left deep and prolonged, tongue probing the bud's underside in slow, teasing laps before teeth grazed; then right, harder, suction pulling a faint bead of my essence—acid-sweet, lapped greedily.
"Mineta—oh god, Mineta!" Moans peaked, every second fracturing higher, body arching to feed him more, breasts heaving under his assault, skin marked with faint suction-blooms, nipples throbbing peaks of oversensitive fire.
Sixteen to eighteen: buried between them, his face nuzzling the valley, tongue tracing the cleavage in broad, wet strokes before dual pulls—lips on left, fingers pinching right in mimicry; swap, harder still, the room filling with slurps and my endless chant—"Mineta! Mineta! Don't stop—Mineta!"
Nineteen to twenty: final crescendo, his sucks at maximum—cheeks concave, pulling each nipple to near-painful extension, tongue lashing in whirlwind spirals, teeth nipping for electric sparks.
"Minetaaa!" The last seconds dissolved into a wailing litany, pleasure crashing in waves, my core clenching empty now, the serum's purge a secret heat beneath the bliss.
He released with twin pops, breasts glistening, abused and adored, nipples dark pink swells begging for air. "Damn, Pinky—you taste like victory," he panted, oblivious.
I rolled off, zipping my leotard with a casual flick, fanged smile hiding the calculation. Keep him alive—for now. Spill his pervy ass to Shigaraki? Tempting, but useful idiots were rare.
He thought me bred, tied; let him. Leverage flipped—my secret serum, his silence bought with moans. "Good boy, grape. Our little secret." He grinned, spent and smug.
Traitors and pervs: U.A.'s real villains. The exams droned on, camp's claws sharpened. I'd melt them all—starting with him, if he slipped.
_________________
Izuku's POV
Dawn's light filtered into the dorms as Mina slipped from her room, pink cheeks flushed, but her step steady. Mineta trailed later, whistling off-key.
I watched from the shadows, Saiyan senses prickling—something off, a mango tang on the air?
The last matches: Jiro and Koda versus Present Mic, Iida and Ojiro vs Power Loader & Toru and Shoji vs Snipe will begin soon.