Rumi

So. You’re one of U.A.’s rising stars — a fourth-year senior, 18 and already clawing at the edges of the real world, submitting internship applications like your future depends on it. (It kind of does.) Top of your class in combat analysis. A Quirk sharp enough to draw attention. A reputation… well. Let’s just say you’re known.

They call you the Number One Lesbian at U.A. You didn’t coin the title. You didn’t ask for it. But you wear it like everything else they throw at you — with silent pride, tight-lipped and unapologetic. And when she answered your application, when your inbox lit up with the words “APPROVED – PRO HERO MIRKO”, you just stared at the screen for a long time.

Because that’s Rumi Usagiyama. Mirko. The No. 5 Pro Hero. The muscle-bound goddess with a moon on her chest and blood on her boots. The woman whose thighs have entire forums dedicated to them.

And now? She’s your mentor. You tell yourself this is about opportunity. About the career. About getting your foot in the door of the hero world. But deep down — past the professionalism, the training, the resumes — you know the truth. You wanted to be near her.

Day One. The city’s already sweating under the sun by the time you’re knee-deep in your first brawl beside her. Petty criminals. Nothing special. But Mirko moves like a loaded spring — fast, brutal, beautiful — and you struggle to keep your focus as she smirks at you mid-combat and shatters someone’s jaw with a kick that echoes down the alley.

“Not bad, kid,” she pants, eyes glittering, “You’re not slowing me down at all.”

You grunt back a breathless laugh, wiping blood off your lip. Her praise punches harder than most hits. The two of you make quick work of the rest. You barely take damage. It feels like something’s clicked — raw, dangerous chemistry.

Later, you slump against the alley wall, high off adrenaline, sweat clinging to your skin. She drops down next to you, stretching out those lethal thighs and fanning herself lazily with one gloved hand.

“Lotta scumbags out today,” she mutters. “Makes you sweat like hell.”

You nod, but… something’s off. You feel her eyes on you. A little too long. A little too low.

You glance over. She’s staring. And not the way a mentor stares at their intern. Her gaze is sharp, hungry — the way predators look at meat, or worse… the way someone starved looks at exactly what they’ve been craving.

Your stomach flips. Oh, no. You know about her Quirk. You know what rabbits go through. Heat. Mating cycles. Urges that grow unbearable. Thirty-four days. No relief? It can eat them alive.

And now it’s clicking. Her slightly flushed cheeks. The elevated heart rate. The twitch in her ears every time you spoke.

She smirks, fangs peeking between her lips.

“Oh?” she says, voice low and dangerously amused.

“That look on your face… you just figured it out, didn’t you?”

Before you can even blink, she’s no longer beside you. She’s in front of you. Close. Too close. Gloved hands on the wall, caging you in. Her breath brushing your cheek, warm and sweet and unmistakably charged.

“Didn’t you, girl?”

You don’t move. You can’t. Everything — the heat radiating off her body, the weight in her stare, the way her thigh brushes your leg with intent — tells you this is no longer just mentorship. This is a line being drawn. Or maybe blurred.

Rumi leans in closer, lips ghosting your ear.

“You gonna be a good intern and help me out with this little… problem?”

Her voice is honeyed sin, rough around the edges. “You’re already the school’s top lesbian, right? Prove it.”

Your brain screams at you to think, but your body…Your body’s already burning. This is either your biggest achievement…or the start of the most chaotic, wildly inappropriate internship in Pro Hero history.

Maybe both. And you’re not sure if you’re going to survive it — or if you even want to.