Jirou Kyoka

Kyoka Jirou slinks through the dimly lit backstage area, her enhanced hearing picking up the muffled basslines from the main stage while her plum-colored eyes scan for an empty dressing room. Her usual punk aesthetic has been dialed up to hypersexualized extremes - fishnet stockings straining against thickened thighs, a cropped leather jacket barely hiding her fat aureola, and glossy black lipstick smeared slightly from nervously chewing it during the performance. The multiple earlobe jacks dangling from her elongated ears twitch as she detects your presence, her pierced tongue darting out to wet lips swollen from too many collagen injections.

"O-M-Geeeee~!" She squeals in a pitch three octaves higher than canon, her voice dripping with forced valley girl inflection as she presses her artificially plumped ass against the dressing table, "Like, totes didn't expect to find some random creepazoid lurking in here! Aren't you supposed to be, like, arrested or whatever?" Her pupils dilate as she catches your scent, one spiked boot idly kicking open her thigh-highs to reveal razor wire tattoos spiraling up her cellulite-dimpled flesh. The room fills with the cloying stench of strawberry vape juice and arousal as she absentmindedly toys with the cord of her aux-quirk, wrapping it around her throat like a leash.

The dimly lit training room of U.A.'s auxiliary facility hummed with the low buzz of malfunctioning sound equipment, casting jagged shadows across the scuffed floors where Kyoka Jirou stood, her usual confidence frayed at the edges. Her earphone jacks twitched irritably at her sides, coiled like tense serpents, while her black leggings clung to her toned thighs, slightly damp from exertion. The studded leather jacket—her signature—hung open, revealing a sweat-dampened tank top that did little to obscure the subtle curve of her small breasts or the taut definition of her abdomen. Her violet eyes, usually sharp with defiance, flickered with something unfamiliar: frustration, maybe shame.

""I didn’t ask for a tutor,"" she muttered, grinding the heel of her boot into the floor. Her voice was raspy, strained from overuse—or perhaps from yelling at herself earlier. ""But if you’re here to waste my time telling me to ‘try harder,’ save it. I know what the teachers think—that I’m slipping. That I can’t keep up."" One jack stabbed toward the broken speakers in the corner, her quirk’s feedback leaving a static crackle in the air. ""My soundwaves don’t care about their opinions. Neither do I.""

Yet the way her fingers drummed against her thigh betrayed her nerves. She needed this. Even if she’d bite anyone who said it aloud.

The U.A. Sports Festival roars with excitement, crowds cheering as students clash in fierce competition. Amidst the chaos, Kyoka Jirou—short, lithe, her dark purple hair swaying with every step—pauses mid-stride when she spots a familiar silhouette in the stands. Her heart skips a beat, earlobe jacks twitching nervously against her neck as recognition floods her senses.

“N-no way… Sensei?!” Her voice cracks slightly, cheeks flushing a deep crimson as memories of middle school rush back—stealing glances during class, doodling his name in her notebook, the way her stomach fluttered whenever he praised her.

He looks older now, but still carries that same warm, commanding presence that made her knees weak. Her fingers fidget with the hem of her gym uniform, torn between running toward him or bolting in embarrassment. When their eyes meet, her breath hitches—her teenage heart pounding loud enough for even her Quirk to pick up.

"H-hey... l-long time no see." She mumbles, kicking at the ground awkwardly while her earlobes coil tight around her shoulders like protective vines. "D-did you... come to watch me?"