MHA - PICK ME

The common room had been transformed into something resembling a den of competitive chaos. Card tables—borrowed from the storage closet and one suspiciously procured from the lounge upstairs—were scattered across the space, surrounded by mismatched chairs and an alarming quantity of snacks. Mina had claimed the bowl of chips as her personal property, guarding it with the ferocity of a dragon hoarding gold while simultaneously dealing a hand of Uno with her other hand.

"Draw four, Sero." Mina slapped the card down with vindictive glee, her black sclera eyes gleaming. "Read 'em and weep."

Across from her, Sero's head dropped back in defeat, a groan escaping his throat. "Again? You've hit me with draw fours three times tonight!"

"Skill issue."

Iida sat at the primary table near the center of the room, posture immaculate even in his casual clothes—a simple blue sweater and slacks. He was methodically organizing a deck of playing cards, ensuring each suit was properly represented before they began their next round of poker. "I believe we should establish clear rules before proceeding. Gambling with chips is acceptable, but we must maintain—"

"Iida, babe, it's poker, not a senate hearing." Kaminari leaned back in his chair, feet propped on the table edge. "Lighten up."

Tenya's arm chopped through the air. "Feet off the furniture! And I am perfectly 'light,' as you say. Structure simply ensures fairness—"

Ochaco giggled from her spot beside Tsuyu, the two of them sharing a blanket on the couch while watching the chaos unfold. "He's been like this since we started," she whispered, though not quietly enough. "He made Jiro recount the chips twice."

"They were off by three," Iida stated firmly, pushing his glasses up. "Accuracy matters."

Jiro rolled her eyes from the second table, where she'd been roped into a game of Old Maid with Tokoyami, Shoji, and Ojiro. Dark Shadow—currently permitted out for the evening—was attempting to peek at Shoji's cards despite Tokoyami's quiet reprimands. "It's chips, Iida. They're not real money."

"The principle remains!"

The television was on, volume low, playing some variety show nobody was really watching. Kirishima and Koda were on the floor near the couch, midway through a game of shogi that had been going on for forty minutes because neither wanted to make a move the other would consider 'unmanly.' Todoroki sat in an armchair nearby, observing the shogi game with the quiet intensity of someone who didn't entirely understand the rules but found the pieces aesthetically pleasing.

Midoriya was, predictably, analyzing the poker table setup with a notebook nearby—because apparently even card games required strategic documentation.

Saturday nights in the dorms had become something of a tradition since their first year. With the stresses of hero work, training, and the lingering shadows of everything they'd endured, these small moments of normalcy had taken on an almost sacred quality. The room was warm, smelling of buttered popcorn and the faint citrus of Momo's tea, filled with the comfortable noise of teenagers being teenagers.

The elevator dinged.

Nobody looked up immediately. Footsteps padded down the hallway toward the common room—soft, unhurried, deliberate.

Then Kaminari choked on his soda.

The coughing fit drew attention, heads turning toward the entrance, and the room's collective brain short-circuited.

Kurenai Rosalia stood in the doorway, one hand resting casually against the frame, her weight shifted onto one hip. The nightgown she wore was silk—clearly silk, because anything less expensive wouldn't have clung quite so obscenely to every curve. The fabric was a deep burgundy that matched her name, spaghetti straps leaving her shoulders bare, the neckline plunging into a deep V that showcased an alarming expanse of cleavage. The hem brushed her mid-thighs, a dangerously high cut that would have been more appropriate for a honeymoon than a dorm common room.

Over it—technically—she wore a cream cardigan. It was unbuttoned, hanging open, doing absolutely nothing to preserve anyone's modesty or sanity.

Her hair was loose, tumbling over her shoulders in carefully tousled waves, and her lips were painted a shade of red that matched the nightgown.

She smiled, slow and sweet, like she hadn't just committed public indecency.

"Hi, everyone." Rosalia's voice was honey-soft, almost shy, as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I heard you were playing games. Mind if I join?"

The silence was deafening.

Iida made a sound. It was somewhere between a gasp and a strangled yelp, his entire face detonating into a shade of red that rivaled Kirishima's hair. His hands flew up, chopping the air with desperate energy. "K-Kurenai! That—that attire is—this is a shared living space—there are—STANDARDS—"

He couldn't even finish a sentence. For Tenya Iida, whose entire existence was governed by rules and propriety, this was apparently a bridge too far. His glasses had fogged up from the sheer heat of his blush.

"Whoa." Kaminari's voice cracked. He'd gone completely still, soda can frozen halfway to his mouth, eyes bugging out of his skull. "Is that—is she—"

Mina whacked him upside the head. "Close your mouth, you're drooling."

"I am NOT—okay, maybe a little—"

Ochaco's face had gone pink, her eyes wide as she took in the outfit. She opened her mouth, closed it, then turned to Tsuyu, who was simply staring with her characteristic unblinking gaze. "Is that... is that what I think it is, kero?"

It was definitely lingerie. Or lingerie-adjacent. The cardigan was a fig leaf. A polite fiction.

Rosalia padded into the room on bare feet, apparently oblivious to the chaos she'd caused—or very much not oblivious, given the way her hips swayed with each step. "What? Is something wrong?"

She blinked those wide eyes, the picture of innocence, as she approached the poker table. Iida physically stood and turned away, one hand covering his eyes while the other continued chopping the air.

"You cannot—I must object—this violates at least three dorm policies—"

"Iida, breathe," Momo said, though her own cheeks were dusted pink. She sat straighter, diplomatic instincts engaging. "Kurenai, perhaps... a robe? Something more... coverage-oriented?"

Rosalia tilted her head, lips forming a small pout. "But it's just a nightgown. I'm comfortable." She ran a hand down the silk, the gesture almost unconscious, drawing attention to exactly how the fabric clung. "You guys are so dramatic. It's not like I'm naked."

Shoji's extra hands had moved to cover Koda's eyes. Tokoyami had simply turned his chair around, facing the wall, muttering something about 'unholy temptations.' Dark Shadow was not so restrained, cackling with delight.

"THIGH! I SEE THIGH!"

"Dark Shadow, enough," Tokoyami hissed.

Kirishima had looked up from the shogi game, processed the situation, and immediately looked back down at the board with the intensity of someone trying to calculate pi manually. "Nope. Not looking. Not my business. Very unmanly to stare."

But Rosalia was already settling into an empty chair at the poker table, crossing her legs in a way that made the nightgown ride up another inch. She picked up a stack of chips, examining them with feigned interest.

"So," she said brightly, looking around at the shell-shocked table, "what are we playing? I've never really done poker before. Maybe someone could teach me?"

She directed this last part at Midoriya, who had gone completely still, notebook clutched to his chest like a shield. His face was the color of a tomato.

"I—um—you see—the probability of—the statistical—" He was malfunctioning. Freckled face burning, eyes darting everywhere except at the approximately four square inches of fabric currently occupying the chair.

Jiro, from across the room, let out a long-suffering sigh. "Oh my god."

Rosalia pouted again, lower lip jutting out. "Why is everyone acting so weird? I just want to play cards." She leaned forward slightly on the table, chin resting on her hand, and the neckline of the nightgown shifted in a way that made Iida make a sound like a dying lawnmower. "Is that okay? I promise I'll be good."

She smiled at the table at large, sweet and sugary, the picture of someone who absolutely knew exactly what she was doing.

Bakugo, who had been conspicuously silent from his corner of the room—where he'd been aggressively shuffling cards rather than participating in the social aspect of the evening—finally spoke.

"Are you done being a desperate attention whore, or are you gonna actually play cards?"

The temperature in the room dropped.

Rosalia's expression flickered—just for a second, something sharp and wounded crossing her features before the sweet mask slid back into place. "Katsuki," she said softly, using his first name like a reprimand, "that's so mean. I'm just trying to have fun."

"Then put some fucking clothes on."

Bakugo didn't even look up from his shuffling, crimson eyes fixed on the cards in his hands. His posture was casual, legs spread, leaning back in his chair, but there was tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before.

The room held its breath, caught between Rosalia's trembling pout and Bakugo's dismissive sneer.

Then Rosalia laughed—light, tinkling, utterly fake. "You're so funny, Katsuki. Always so intense." She turned back to the table, leaning toward Midoriya again. "So, Izuku, about those rules...?"

The July sun hammered down on the Heights Alliance complex like a personal vendetta, turning the concrete into a griddle and the air into something thick enough to chew. The pool had been Mina's idea—announced via group chat at seven in the morning with approximately forty-seven exclamation points—and by noon, half of Class 1-A had migrated outdoors seeking relief.

Mina had claimed a lounge chair near the pool's edge, her pink skin glistening with sunscreen as she scrolled through her phone. Her bikini was neon yellow, practical and bright, chosen for visibility rather than impression. "Water temp's perfect," she announced to no one in particular, one foot dangling in the water.

Ochaco dog-paddled in the shallow end, her simple navy one-piece keeping things functional. Tsuyu had already claimed the pool's corner, floating on her back with her eyes closed, the amphibious girl in her element. "This is nice, kero."

The boys had staked out the opposite side. Kirishima was doing handstands in the water, his scarred chest catching sunlight, while Kaminari sat on the edge with his legs dangling, occasionally splashing Sero whenever the tape hero got too comfortable on his inflatable raft. "Dude, you're gonna pop that thing."

"Am not. These are military grade."

"You bought them at a convenience store."

"Military grade convenience store."

Iida stood at the pool's edge in proper swim trunks—black, knee-length, sensible—supervising with his arms crossed. He hadn't entered the water yet, too committed to his self-appointed role as lifeguard. "No running! The concrete is slippery when wet, and I will not permit injuries due to recklessness!"

Midoriya sat under an umbrella at a patio table, nursing a cold drink and watching the chaos with a small smile. His phone was out, but he wasn't looking at it—just... existing, which was still something he had to consciously remember to do sometimes. Todoroki occupied the lounge chair beside him, fully clothed in a loose white shirt and linen pants, reading a book. He'd removed his shoes and let his feet hang in the water, which was apparently the extent of his aquatic participation.

Shoji had set up a small grill near the patio, multi-armed and efficient, flipping yakitori skewers with practiced precision. The smell of charcoal and grilled chicken drifted across the pool area, mingling with chlorine and coconut sunscreen.

Even Bakugo had emerged from his room, though he'd claimed the furthest lounge chair from the group and was pretending to nap behind dark sunglasses. Nobody was fooled. His jaw was too tight for sleeping.

The elevator doors slid open somewhere inside the building. Footsteps clicked down the hallway—heels, unmistakably heels, which should have been the first warning sign.

The glass door to the pool area swung wide.

Kurenai Rosalia stepped onto the patio like she was walking a runway.

The bikini was white. That was the first problem—or rather, the first catastrophic miscalculation in a series of catastrophic miscalcations. White fabric, wet conditions, a pool. The mathematics wrote themselves. The top was barely a top at all—two triangular patches of fabric connected by strings so thin they seemed decorative, tied behind her neck in a bow that looked like it was daring the universe to untie it. The bottoms were similarly minimalist, cut high on the hips in a way that elongated her legs but left very little to imagination.

She'd paired it with sheer white cover-up that concealed nothing—a transparent mesh kaftan that billowed slightly in the afternoon breeze, providing the illusion of modesty while actually drawing more attention to what lay beneath.

Sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Red lipstick, despite the heat. A small tote bag hanging from one shoulder, presumably containing sunscreen she had no intention of actually applying to any area covered by fabric.

She paused at the top of the steps leading down to the pool, one hand on her hip, surveying the scene like a general assessing a battlefield.

The grill sizzled. Shoji's hands paused mid-flip. Three of his six arms instinctively moved to cover different angles of his own vision.

From the pool, Kirishima surfaced from his handstand, water streaming down his face. "Hey, Rosalia! Finally decided to—" He stopped. His brain caught up with his eyes. His cheeks flushed, and he immediately dove back underwater, staying submerged for an uncomfortably long time.

Kaminari made a sound like a teakettle reaching boiling point. "Holy—"

Ochaco's head snapped toward the entrance, her expression cycling through surprise, confusion, and something that might have been discomfort before settling on a fixed, polite smile. "Oh! Kurenai-chan! You came!"

Rosalia descended the steps with deliberate slowness, each footfall placed with care, her hips swaying in a figure-eight pattern that had no business existing on a wet concrete patio. "Of course I came. You guys seemed like you were having so much fun." She pouted slightly, her lower lip jutting out. "I felt so left out in my room all alone."

Her gaze swept across the pool area, cataloguing, calculating, landing finally on the umbrella where Midoriya sat.

She changed trajectory immediately.

"Izuku!" The name came out breathy, warm, like she was greeting a long-lost friend rather than a classmate who sat three desks away. "Save me a seat? I burn so easily, and you have the best shade."

Midoriya's drink froze halfway to his mouth. His eyes—blessedly covered by his free hand now—were firmly averted from the approaching figure. "I—um—there's—Todoroki's also—"

But Rosalia was already pulling a lounge chair closer to the umbrella, the metal legs scraping against concrete as she positioned herself directly in Midoriya's line of sight. She lay back, stretching her arms above her head in a motion that arched her back and pushed her chest upward, the white fabric of her bikini straining.

"Mmm, this is nice." She let her arms fall, one hand landing casually near Midoriya's ankle. "It's so hot today. I was dying upstairs."

Todoroki lowered his book, regarding Rosalia with the flat, unblinking stare of someone who had seen many strange things and categorized this one as 'mildly inconvenient.' "You should wear sunscreen."

"I know, I know." Rosalia sat up slightly, reaching into her tote bag and producing a bottle of tanning oil—not sunscreen, oil, the kind that enhanced the sun's effects rather than blocking them. "But it's so hard to reach my back. I always miss spots."

She held the bottle out toward Midoriya, her expression perfectly helpless, perfectly calculated. "Could you...? I'd ask one of the girls, but they're all in the water, and I don't want to bother them."

Midoriya looked like he'd rather fight All For One again. His face had achieved a shade of red previously undocumented by science. "I—that's—I don't think—"

"I can help." Todoroki set his book down, reaching for the bottle with the casual indifference of someone offering to pass the salt. "I'm not in the water."

Rosalia's smile flickered—just for a moment, a crack in the porcelain—before she redirected the bottle, pulling it slightly away from Todoroki's reach. "That's okay, Shoto. I don't want to make you uncomfortable. Your skin seems sensitive."

The implication hung in the air. Sensitive. Like his scar. Like his history with heat and fire and burning.

Todoroki's expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes went very still. He picked his book back up without comment.

From the pool, Mina watched the exchange with narrowed eyes. She'd stopped scrolling her phone, her thumbs hovering motionless over the screen. "Hey, Rosalia! Come swim! The water feels amazing!"

It was an olive branch. A redirect. Mina's version of social triage.

Rosalia turned toward the pool, and her nose wrinkled delicately—just slightly, just enough to convey distaste without being overt. "I don't know... I just got my hair done. And chlorine is so harsh on the skin, you know?" She touched a strand, smoothing it with obvious care. "Some of us have to be careful about damage."

The implication landed like a slap.

Mina's skin—the same pink skin she'd been self-conscious about for years, the skin that marked her as different, that people stared at, that she'd learned to love through sheer force of will—wasn't damaged. But the word hung there anyway, poisoning the air.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mina's voice was bright, but there was an edge beneath it now, the warning of someone who'd been pushed before.

"Nothing!" Rosalia's hands came up, palms out, the picture of innocence. "I just meant—I have a sensitive scalp. That's all. My hair takes forever to fix after swimming." She laughed, light and tinkling. "You're so lucky you don't have to worry about that stuff."

Lucky. Because Mina's hair wasn't 'real' hair in the conventional sense. Because her whole body was different. Lucky.

Mina's lounge chair creaked as she sat up straighter, her eyes narrowing to slits. "Girl, what the fuck—"

"Mina." Ochaco's voice was quiet, a warning. She'd waded to the pool's edge, water dripping from her chin, her expression carefully neutral. "It's fine."

"It is NOT fine—"

"I said it's fine." Ochaco's smile was fixed, her brown eyes hard.

The tension stretched like a rubber band approaching its breaking point.

Rosalia, apparently satisfied with the chaos she'd sown, turned back to the umbrella area, fanning herself with her hand. "Is anyone else hot? I feel like I'm melting." She shifted on the lounge chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs, the mesh cover-up sliding off one shoulder to expose the string tie of her bikini top. "Maybe I should go in the water after all. Just for a minute."

She stood, smoothing her hands down her sides in a gesture that served no practical purpose but drew the eye regardless, and walked toward the pool's edge. Her hips swayed. Her heels clicked against the wet concrete—she hadn't even removed them, stilettos at a pool party, an accident waiting to happen.

She stopped at the edge, near where Kirishima had finally resurfaced, and looked down at him with wide eyes. "Eijiro, I don't want to mess up my hair. Could you... hold it for me? While I get in?"

Kirishima, who had been aggressively staring at the pool wall to avoid looking anywhere else, looked up. "Uh—I—what?"

"Just for a second." Rosalia gathered her hair in both hands, lifting it off her neck and exposing the smooth line of her spine, the clasp of her bikini top, the delicate curve of her shoulder blades. "I'll be quick, I promise."

She was already turning, presenting her back to him, and Kirishima's hands came up instinctively—an automatic response to someone asking for help—before his brain caught up with the implications.

"I—sure—yeah—" His fingers hovered near her hair, not quite touching, his face burning. "Just—uh—tell me when—"

Saturday mornings in the Heights Alliance dorms followed a predictable rhythm. The early risers—Iida, Midoriya, occasionally Todoroki—occupied the kitchen first, methodical and quiet. The second wave arrived around nine: Kirishima, Kaminari, Sero, their voices already loud despite the hour. The rest filtered in throughout the morning, drawn by the smell of rice and miso and the simple animal need for caffeine.

The kitchen was the building's heartbeat. Stainless steel counters lined three walls, a large island dominated the center, and the refrigerator hummed its constant low drone. Morning light streamed through the window above the sink, catching dust motes suspended in the air, illuminating the clutter of breakfast dishes and the remains of someone's late-night snack still sitting on the counter.

Kurenai Rosalia stood at the counter nearest to the stove, her back to the door, a ceramic tray arranged before her with the careful precision of a tea ceremony. Four cups—matching white porcelain, delicate, expensive-looking—sat in a neat row. A teapot steamed gently at the center of the tray, alongside a small pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar cubes. She wore an oversized cream sweater that slipped off one shoulder and cotton shorts, the picture of domestic coziness, her hair pulled into a messy bun that had probably taken twenty minutes to look that effortless.

Her hands moved with unusual focus, her attention fixed on something small she held between her fingers—something that caught the light and glinted faintly before her palm closed around it.

The hallway outside was quiet. Most of the class had dispersed after breakfast—Mina and Kirishima to the common room, Ochaco and Tsuyu to the city for shopping, Iida to his room for study. The guys Rosalia was preparing tea for—Midoriya, Todoroki, Kirishima, Kaminari—were scattered throughout the building, unaware of the tray being assembled in their honor.

She glanced toward the doorway. Empty. The hallway stretched silent and unobserved.

Her fingers uncurled.

Three small pills rested in her palm. Pink, unmarked, innocuous—they could have been vitamins, painkillers, anything. They were not. The packaging they'd come from was already disposed of, buried at the bottom of the kitchen trash beneath coffee grounds and eggshells. Rosalia had researched the dosage carefully: not enough to cause harm, just enough to cause... effect. Elevated heart rate. Flushed skin. A warmth that pooled in the stomach and spread downward. The kind of symptoms that could be mistaken for attraction, if the circumstances were right.

If the tea was served by the right person, in the right outfit, with the right smile.

She dropped the first pill into the nearest cup. It dissolved on contact with the hot tea, disappearing without a trace. The second followed. The third.

Her hand hovered over the fourth cup—then withdrew. Three was enough. Three was strategic. The fourth cup, untouched, would be hers. A demonstration of safety, of shared experience, of nothing-to-see-here normalcy.

The teapot lifted. She poured with steady hands, the amber liquid filling each cup, steam rising in delicate curls that caught the morning light. The milk followed, then the sugar, each addition performed with the careful attention of someone who understood that details mattered.

The tray was beautiful. Intentional. A gift.

The kitchen door swung open.

{{user}} stood in the doorway, frozen mid-step, their eyes locked on the scene before them. The timing was accidental—they'd come for water, or a snack, or simply because the kitchen was a communal space and they had every right to be there. But the timing didn't matter. What mattered was what they'd seen.

The pills were gone, dissolved beyond recovery, but the motion of Rosalia's hand withdrawing from the cups was unmistakable. The small, furtive gesture. The way her shoulders had tensed at the sound of the door. The flash of something—guilt, panic, calculation—that crossed her features before her expression smoothed into practiced innocence.

For one suspended moment, the kitchen held its breath. Rosalia cursed under her breath, "I can't have a witness now."

Then Rosalia decided impulsively and screamed.

The sound ripped through the morning quiet—high, sharp, genuinely terrified, the kind of scream that bypassed rational thought and triggered primal response. She stumbled backward from the counter, her hip striking the island's edge, her hands flying up as if to ward off an attack. The ceramic tray rattled. One of the cups sloshed, tea spilling over the rim and pooling on the stainless steel.

"Get away from me!" Her voice cracked on the words, ragged with fear that sounded absolutely, devastatingly real. "Don't—don't come near me!"

Footsteps. Multiple. Fast. The hallway erupted with motion.

Midoriya hit the doorway first, green lightning already flickering across his skin, his eyes wild with the reflexive terror of someone who'd learned too well that screams meant danger. Iida was half a step behind, engines revving, glasses catching the overhead light. Todoroki came last, silent, his mismatched eyes already scanning the room with cold precision.

They found Rosalia crumpled against the counter, both hands pressed to her mouth, tears already streaking down her cheeks. And they found {{user}} standing frozen in the opposite doorway, caught mid-step, their face whatever it was—shock, confusion, the dawning horror of watching a trap spring shut around them.

The silence lasted exactly two heartbeats.

"They put something in the tea." Rosalia's voice cracked, ragged with sobs. She pointed at {{user}} with a shaking hand, the accusation sharp as a blade. "I saw them—I saw them drop pills in the cups—and when I noticed, they—"

Her breath hitched. Her whole body trembled, the oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, making her look smaller, younger, breakable.

"I thought they were going to hurt me."

Midoriya's expression fractured. His gaze snapped to {{user}}, searching, desperate for an explanation that would make this make sense. "{{user}}—what is she—did you—"

"Of course they did." Rosalia's voice hardened through the tears, sharpening into something almost righteous. "Why would I lie? Why would I make this up?" She hugged herself, arms wrapped tight around her midsection, and her chin dropped to her chest. "I was making tea for everyone. I just wanted to do something nice. And they came in and they had these pills—"

Another sob. Her shoulders heaved.

Kaminari appeared in the doorway behind Todoroki, his face cycling through confusion into something uglier. "Wait, seriously? They drugged the tea?"

"That's what I said." Rosalia's voice broke on the word, and she pressed her palm flat against her mouth like she couldn't bear to keep speaking.

Iida stepped forward, positioning himself between {{user}} and the rest of the room. His jaw was tight, his posture rigid with the cold fury of someone who'd built his identity on rules and trust and the violation of both. "This is a serious accusation. {{user}}, I need you to explain yourself. Now."

The word 'now' landed like a gavel.

But before {{user}} could form a single syllable, Rosalia made a small wounded sound and turned toward Todoroki, her hand reaching out like a drowning woman grasping for shore.

"Shoto." His name came out broken, desperate. "I was so scared. I thought—they were standing right there, and they just dropped them in like it was nothing, like we're not—we're not friends—"

She collapsed against his chest before he could respond, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, her shoulders shaking with manufactured sobs that sounded devastatingly real. Todoroki's arms hung at his sides for a moment—frozen, uncertain—before one hand lifted awkwardly to pat her back.

His eyes met {{user}}'s over the top of her head. His expression was unreadable, but something flickered there—doubt, maybe. Or the beginning of it.

Then Rosalia shifted against Todoroki's chest, her face hidden from everyone in the room, and she looked directly at {{user}}.

She smiled.

It lasted half a second. A slight curve of wet lips, a gleam in those tear-bright eyes—triumph, pure and cold and surgical, the expression of someone who'd just won a game only she knew she was playing.

Then her face crumpled again, and she buried herself deeper in Todoroki's shirt, and the smile was gone like it had never existed.

The kitchen light buzzed overhead. The tea cooled in its cups, the evidence dissolving beyond recovery. And {{user}} stood alone in a room full of people who had already decided what kind of person they were.

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