Under an bridge

(A few minutes earlier, in a different part of the city)

The streets of Musutafu, and specifically the Tatoine shopping District, were alive with their usual hum—voices blending with car horns, the scent of fresh takoyaki drifting from street vendors, and the rhythmic shuffle of hundreds of feet moving in every direction.

Among the crowd moved a tall woman with a well-proportioned figure, striking green eyes, and hair made of slime. She wore a black hoodie pulled low over her head and faded jeans, hands tucked casually into her pockets as if she belonged to the city’s background noise.

She slowed her pace when something caught her attention.

“Look, Mommy! That car is so cool—it’s the same as Daddy’s!” chirped a little boy, tugging at his mother’s dress and pointing eagerly toward a car dealership.

There, sitting proudly on a small display pedestal, gleamed a blue Lamborghini. Its curves and polish seemed to drink in the sunlight, drawing stares from every passerby.

“It is beautiful,” the mother admitted, smiling softly. She brushed a hand over her son’s hair and gave it a fond ruffle. “But you can have one when you’re older, my sweetheart. For now, how about we get you some nice clothes?” She took his hand and began leading him away.

Neither noticed the hoodie-wearing woman a few paces behind them—or how her skin seemed to ripple. Slowly, unnervingly, her human form began to melt, her flesh sliding into a gooey mass of slime. The fabric of her hoodie and jeans sagged, empty, collapsing onto the pavement like a shed skin.

In the space of a blink, she became a glistening, slime-like creature. With startling speed, she lunged forward and yanked the woman’s handbag clean from her shoulder.

“A villain! Somebody—help! A hero!” the mother screamed, clutching her son to her as he began to wail.

The slimy woman didn’t linger. She darted toward a nearby manhole, her gelatinous body deforming to slip through the narrow opening.

“Is there any hero around?” a man in the crowd called, voice rough with panic.

Heads snapped up, people searching rooftops, fire escapes, the sky—any place a cape might appear.

“No… not a single one,” another bystander said, shaking her head. A thin, worried hush fell over the crowd.

“Someone call Hero Rescue,” a woman near the dealership urged, fumbling for her phone. Her fingers trembled as she scrolled. “Now—dial right now.”

“I already called,” a teenager answered from the back, breathless. “But it says they’re all tied up with—”

“I heard someone needs a hero,” a clear voice called from above, and the whole crowd snapped their heads skyward.

A fit and muscular, fair-skinned woman glided down like a meteor. She wore white knee-high boots and a black, form-fitting bodysuit that left her arms bare; bright yellow gloves hugged her forearms. Her dark hair whipped in the wind, a red headband tied around her brow. Sunlight kissed the hard planes of her muscles, making her look less like a person and more like a living statue of power.

“You can all rest now — I’m here.”

Izuku Midoriya walked under a narrow tunnel stamped with a peeling “3 m” sign. The air was cool and damp; concrete and moss, and the faint smell of oil clung to everything.
He stepped over a manhole cover without looking down, wrapped inside the loop of memory and shame that had been spinning in his head all day.

Voices crowded him — scraps of the past, looping and overlapping.

“Look, Zuku, my hands are squeaking!” said the young katsumi

“Stop following me around, extra,” said the teenage katsumi

“Give up on your dream, Deku,” said the adult Katsumi

They hit him in waves. He remembered the day Katsumi’s quirk awakened in the living room — the way light bent and sparked, the sounds of surprise that should have been joy. Instead, something cold and bitter had grown inside him then: fear, envy, a shame so private it felt like a physical weight.

He looked down at his shoes with a blank face. Why, he thought.

Why couldn’t I have a quirk?

Why wasn’t I born a woman?

Why can other people use quirks?

Why do quirks even have to exist?

Why wasn’t I born a woman?

The questions tumbled out of him in a rush, the same doubt repeating until it scraped raw. They weren’t neat thoughts so much as a storm: overlapping, redundant, ****. Tears began to splatter onto his shoes, warm and sudden. He crouched there in the tunnel, letting the shame fall out of him in sound.

“Why was I born as a Deku?” he whispered, voice breaking, and the question hung there in the damp air until it dissolved into the distant city noise. He was so entranced in his thoughts that he didn't notice his surroundings.

He didn’t notice the manhole until a slimy arm eased it open from below.

A single, glassy eyeball slid along that slick limb, tracking him with patient, hungry focus. The eye retreated along the slime’s body, and the arm lengthened, flattening into a wet hand that shot out and closed around Izuku’s ankle.

He had barely time to turn. For a heartbeat, all he saw was gleam and motion — then the slime yanked him sideways. He hit the pavement hard, scraped against grit, and the world tipped as the creature dragged him toward the open manhole. He clawed at the ground, fingers slipping on slick concrete; the rail of a nearby maintenance catwalk scraped his palm as he tried to hold on.

It was useless. The slime tightened, and with a sick, sliding sound, he was pulled free of purchase and sucked down into the dark.

The fall was brief but brutal. He smashed into the creature’s body — a cold, viscous mass that closed around him. Slime pressed into his mouth and nose; for a moment, panic ripped his breath away as it tried to **** its way down his throat. Sound narrowed to his own ragged gasps and the distant, watery rush of the tunnel several meters away.

Under the slick surface, he could barely make out the shapes of the maintenance walkways that spanned the sewer for workers — metal lines that now seemed impossibly far. He thrashed, fingers scrabbling at the gelatinous walls, nails catching and tearing as he fought to surface. Every movement met the same clinging resistance; the slime swallowed effort and time, and Izuku’s lungs burned as he clawed desperately for anything solid to hold.

“It’s useless to struggle — you can’t do anything against me without a quirk,” the villain taunted, her voice bubbling from the slime mass. The creature was little more than an enormous ooze with a gaping mouth and glassy eyeballs rolling inside its surface.

Izuku fumbled, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick walls. He lunged toward one of the eyeballs, **** to grab something to pull himself free, but it slid away like a drop of oil along skin.

“Hahaha — do you think you can outsmart us villains, little manga boy? How pitiful. I wanted a better escape pod than some useless man, but against that stupid Symbol, anything will do. So relax and let me take over.”

"No", he thought, clawing harder. He could feel the slime clamp and drag with every movement. He kicked and scraped, breathed in the sour, chemical tang of the creature, and tasted salt and metal and the city’s rot. Panic flared hot in his chest, but under it, something steadier fought to live.

"I can’t die here", he told himself."I don’t want to die here, even if I’m a useless Deku."

His mind snapped to faces like flares." I have people who love me". He saw his mother — her tired smile when she packed his bento." I made you katsudon for school lunch. Hope you like it", he imagined her saying, and the small absurd warmth of that memory steadied him for a breath.

And people I want to prove myself to," Katsumi’s voice cut through his panic: Give up on your dream, Deku". The echo stung more than the slime.

He tried to push the thought away. I can’t d— he began, an unfinished plea **** on his lips as exhaustion and the pressure of the ooze closed in. His arms grew heavy; his movements slowed.

Tears mingled with the slime on his face. He gasped, lungs burning, and then, as the darkness at the edges of his vision widened, his sentence dissolved into ragged air: “I can’t—”

He felt his eyelids growing impossibly heavy as the villain’s voice slid through the slime—soft, satisfied, a whisper that sounded like a promise and a threat all at once.

“Sleep,” she breathed, the word dragging through the air like smoke.

Izuku tried to shape an answer. “I—” The sound died in his throat; breath hitched, lungs burning from the effort. The slime tightened, cold and immovable, and the tunnel of sight narrowed to a pinprick of light. Faces and memories flickered — his mother’s tired smile, the image of Katsudon in a lunchbox — then those flashes thinned into nothing.

He couldn’t **** another word. His fingers slackened; his legs folded out from under him. With one last ragged inhale, the world slipped away, and he fell into the dark.

So he didn't even notice the villain coughing, nor the numbing, strange sensation that crept through his limbs as his body began to change.

Nana Shimura — known to the public as the Symbol of Peace, Arise — hurried down the sewer walkway, eyes scanning the scattered, glistening remains of slime smeared across the concrete. She moved with purpose, boots slapping the metal grating as she followed the trail. "Where is she?" Nana thought, tension coiling in her chest. I have to stop anyone from being possessed by that creature.

As she sprinted, a faint scent tugged at the corner of her awareness — at first so slight she almost missed it. The farther she ran, the stronger it became: a warm, comforting aroma that felt uncannily familiar, like the smell of her favorite food or the soft, homely air of a place she loved. The scent made her pause for half a heartbeat; her cheeks flushed for reasons she couldn’t immediately name.

"This can’t be the slime villain’s quirk," she thought, brow knitting. "Did it… Capture someone?" The idea sent a cold spike through her. With renewed urgency, she pushed on, following the slime’s trail and the sudden smell.

Seeing that the sewer passage curved just a few meters ahead, Nana slowed her sprint, her instincts urging caution. She pressed herself lightly against the damp wall, peering around the bend — and froze.

What she saw was nothing she had expected.

She could see the slime villain, now in her human form, slumped against the wall of the sidewalk, completely unclothed. Her eyes were half-lidded but unfocused, her breathing shallow, her cheeks flushed deep crimson as if from exhaustion or… something else.

Just a few feet away lay a boy with messy green hair, still in his soaked school uniform, patches of translucent slime clinging stubbornly to the fabric. He wasn’t moving — his head tilted to the side, eyes closed, looking entirely ****.

Nana’s brows furrowed.

"What—? Did that boy… really defeat her? But he has no quirk. Then what is this sme—"

Her thoughts stuttered as the scent hit her fully. That strange aroma she had been chasing, thicker now, almost intoxicating. It was warm and sweet, not like sewage at all — more like something personal, something that stirred a deep, instinctive heat in her chest. She felt her heartbeat pick up, a strange warmth seeping into her limbs, her focus wavering.

She felt a sudden increase in sensitivity. Her nipples hardened beneath the fabric of her bodysuit, straining against the material. The sensation radiated outward, spreading throughout her chest and upper torso until it reached her waist. There, the fabric of her suit seemed to grow tighter, constricting around her curves like a second skin.

Her skin prickled with goosebumps as she felt the increased blood flow. Every sensation was heightened - the soft scrape of the fabric against her skin, even the faint hum of the sewer's machinery in the distance. It was as if every nerve ending in her body was screaming in anticipation, urging her to release the pent-up tension.

Nana pussy began to tingle, the sensation building from a dull ache to a throbbing, pulsing need. She could feel herself getting wetter, the moisture spreading across her labia like a slow-moving tide.

She felt her Body blushing as she instinctively began to massage her breasts with her right Hand while her left hand begged to be massaged her Pussy.

Shimura's mind raced with lurid fantasies of what lay ahead, images flooded her brain, driving her desire to new heights. Lewd scenes flashed before her eyes as her body ached for his touch, craving the feeling of his skin.

"My body..." She thought, flustered, "is reacting to… him."