Fun with Class 1-A [pt. I]

The sunlight broke across the U.A. campus like a blessing—hot and golden, washing over rooftops, scattering off windows, and filling the halls with an energy that buzzed under your skin.
Final exams were creeping closer. The last internships were wrapping up. Everyone in Class 1-A had the sharp, bright focus of heroes-in-training on the verge of their next leap forward.

Everyone except me.

I was slouched in my seat in the far back right corner, just in front of the window. The corner of the room where light hit soft and golden in the mornings, and shadows clung just a little longer during afternoon homeroom. My desk was slightly skewed, thanks to a busted leg I never got around to reporting.

Behind me, in the very last seat in the row, sat Yaoyorozu.

Momo Yaoyorozu. Princess of Poise. Queen of Quirk Efficiency. And, more importantly, the proud owner of the most absurd pair of tits in the entire class, perfectly packaged beneath that crisp uniform blouse like they were some kind of national treasure.

The bell rang.

Aizawa shuffled in, eyes bloodshot, sleeping bag rolled under one arm.

“Alright. Settle down. Today’s lesson is on terrain-based rescue under hostile Quirk conditions. Open to page …eighty-three.”

The rustle of books and notebooks opening swept through the room like a soft wave. Chairs creaked. Pages flipped. The lazy hum of a typical Class 1-A morning.

“Hostile Quirk terrain isn’t just about villains,” Aizawa continued, dragging his sleeping bag toward the podium like it owed him money. “It’s about instability. Fire. Flooding. Broken infrastructure. You’re not just saving civilians. You’re navigating deathtraps.”

Midoriya’s hand shot up like a missile.
“Is this based on the Hosu incident response protocols or more recent analyses from Kamino?”

Aizawa gave him a flat look. “Yes.”

Iida adjusted his glasses with a crisp shing sound. “Proper response time metrics would still apply, regardless of Quirk influence. Should we prioritize structural triage or civilian evacuation?”

“Depends on if you want the building to collapse on the people you’re trying to save,” Aizawa muttered.

Across the room, Bakugo clicked his pen aggressively and muttered, “Tch. Just blast a hole and get it over with.”

Aizawa's tone was dry, “Right. And maybe we’ll call it the Bakugo Method—maximum casualties, minimum planning.”

As various student snickered and piled on to the prick and he snarled back, I was getting bored. Not at all interested in school work when I could look across the room at all the fine honeys I’d ogled for hours from this very spot, only Momo escaping my pervy survey like the end of the level boss tit-monster she was.

I could feel her presence behind me like heat on my neck—refined and calm and so absolutely stacked I didn’t need to see her to know how tight that blouse was across her chest.

I stretched lazily, arms up, back arching slightly—casual, natural—and then let my left arm drop back behind my seat.

Right into her personal space.

My fingers brushed her knee first. Smooth. Warm. The skirt fabric thin as tissue. Then I followed the curve of her thigh up, skimming along until my hand found the base of her torso—and then higher still.

No hesitation. No resistance.

Just soft give.

My palm landed squarely on one of those big, perfect tits, and I gave it a generous squeeze.
Weighty. Supple. Like the world’s best stress ball wrapped in silk.

Momo didn’t react. Didn’t jerk. Didn’t gasp. She just kept jotting down notes in that flawless script of hers, pen gliding smoothly down the page while my fingers massaged the underside of her breast.

I shifted my grip slightly, letting my fingertips slip between buttons on her blouse and roll upward until I brushed the underside of her bra. Then I dipped just beneath the cup, skin to skin, feeling that heavy globe fill my fingers like it belonged there.

It did. Because it was normal.

That was the beauty of the Normality Field. My magical earrings made it so. Nothing I did was weird anymore. Nothing was shocking. Not even this.

I pinched her nipple gently between two fingers, and felt it harden—responsive and warm and perfect.

Still, she said nothing.

She simply leaned forward a bit to reach the far edge of her desk, which—conveniently—pressed her breast even firmer into my grasp. I took that as a green light and rolled my wrist, giving her a slow, deliberate squeeze, thumb brushing in circles over the nipple.

Still nothing.

No shiver. No flush. No hesitation.

Just a faint shuffle of her papers and the subtle creak of the window beside us as it expanded in the morning heat.

I could see our reflection in the glass—her head bent over her notebook, my hand casually behind me, buried under her blazer, shamelessly groping her tit like I was adjusting my seatbelt.

My cock gave a lazy twitch in my pants.

Fuck, this was perfect.

I cleared my throat softly. “You change your shampoo? Smells fancy today.”

Momo didn’t look up. Her pen moved smoothly across the page, filling the margin with neat, efficient kanji as she summarized Aizawa’s lecture in bullet points. Her body remained still—serene—but the weight of my hand on her breast, the gentle roll of my fingers, was undeniably present. Her nipple, still firm between the pads of my fingers, twitched once when I brushed it again. But her expression didn’t change.

“It’s the same shampoo I always use,” she said softly, her voice level and matter-of-fact, as if we were discussing lab partners or lunch preferences. “Chamomile and citrus.”

She shifted slightly, leaning forward to grab a different pen from the far corner of her desk. The motion dragged her breast more firmly into my hand, and I instinctively adjusted my grip—squeezing again, slower this time.

Her eyes flicked down to my hand, then back to the page.

“…Your touch is too light,” she said calmly. “It tickles. If you're going to do that during lecture, I’d prefer a firmer grip.”

She didn't say it like she was flirting.

She said it like she was giving a lab partner notes on grip strength during CPR training.

My jaw went slack.

My cock twitched like a dog’s ear hearing a whistle.

This wasn’t a dream. This was Momo Yaoyorozu—a perfect balance of nobility and bluntness—giving me feedback on how to grope her more effectively.

I was already shifting to my right—just enough to lean into Yukinoshita’s personal bubble.

Yukinoshita Yukino.

The Ice Princess. Queen of Quiet Contempt. The kind of girl who could flay a man alive with a glance—and who now didn’t even bat an eye when I eased my hand under the hem of her blazer and slid two fingers inside her blouse.

Her hair—long, inky black and glossy enough to catch light like a blade—tickled my knuckles as I leaned in.

I snorted.

God, they were alike—Momo and Yukino. That same highborn posture. The same cool, clinical tone. You could switch their bras and they’d probably just write a peer review on the support quality. But where Momo’s tits were glorious, heavy coconuts, Yukino’s… were plums. Small. Subtle. Snug against her chest like a secret.

Didn’t matter.

I loved all titties. Big and small. Loud and quiet. Saucers or raisins, pillows or pebbles.
It was all art.

And I was the world’s most devoted museum-goer.

Her tits were small. Perfectly shaped, but understated, soft mounds with stiff little nipples that practically begged to be teased. They rose and fell with each careful breath, each subtle shift of her lungs.

I ran a fingertip in slow circles over the fabric of her bra.

Nothing.

No gasp. No sharp intake. Not even a shiver.

I pushed deeper, sliding under the fabric, skin to skin. Her nipple hardened immediately beneath my touch—tight and sensitive, a little bud of heat in that otherwise frosty body.

She blinked. Her pen paused.

Then resumed.

Not even a glance.

That should’ve driven me wild. And yeah, okay, it did—my cock was half-hard already under the desk—but it also pissed me off just a little.

I was Minoru Mineta, damn it. I knew it was the normality effect but I did miss the reactions (Okay, not the sudden vicious ****, but still!)

She should be squirming.

She should be biting her lip, letting out little breathy sighs, maybe whispering that cold-bitch “Don’t stop” with her eyes half-lidded.

Instead?

She was drawing neat kanji characters in her margins and acting like my fingers weren’t toying with her tits.

I pinched the nipple gently between two fingers.

Still nothing.

...Except maybe—just maybe—a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. A betrayal. A tick of pleasure leaking out from behind the ice mask.

I retrieved my hand, knowing that if I wanted I could just spend the day groping the girls at my leisure, but that definitely seemed kind of lame if they all were going to just ignore me.

Now what could I do….

I raised my hand, smirking.

Didn’t wait to be called on.

Didn’t need to.

"It’s normal, right?" I said casually, like I was reminding someone of an overdue assignment.
"For the girls to do, like, tit-stretches before class? Y’know. Part of the warm-up?"

A beat.

Aizawa blinked once. Then twice.

The hum of the classroom stilled—but only for a second.

Reality shifted.

“...Right. Stretch protocol,” Aizawa muttered, brushing a hand through his messy hair and glancing toward the back. “Yaoyorozu, go ahead and lead today’s warm-up.”