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To Be a Star

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Before I get into the real introduction, I'd like to introduce myself in case you haven't read my main book!

I'm e1ana, im 16, and this book is based on my own high school experience! No, my school isn't nearly as glamorous as you'll find UA Academy of the Arts to be. However, it's a performing arts school, and it's pretty  damn famous. This book started with me thinking "hmmm... what major would Bakugo be? Or Deku? or Todoroki? Or?? Or?????" And then I wrote what you'll read as the intro and didn't stop.

This really is one of my favorite things I've ever written, probably second to only Their Hero Academia (my main book that you can also find on here, heeheehee). That being said, it is a more leisurely project, so don't expect frequent and long updates. I'm writing this simply because I want to and I think it's gonna be a good time! 


Enjoy the intro!



The spotlight flickered on. Stood in the middle of the stage was a slight, green haired boy clad in a black, sparkling mesh top and flared pants. He holds his chin high, looking right into the audience. The audience applauds wildly as he shifts his foot and gaze up, arching deep into a slow attitude. 


Admittedly, Midoriya Izuku hadn’t expected to stand and dance on this stage, much less at his age. He was the youngest competitor at the World Dance Exposition’s Finale. Hundreds had entered - only 10 spots could be secured. At the ripe old age of 15, he was ready to take gold, to finish first in the finale with a bang.


Somewhere in the pit, a violin draws its bow across the strings. With a jolt, he bends one knee and leaps into the air.  He extends both legs into a grand jeté, his long legs opening into a perfect split in midair. Both arms splay out to his sides as if a gust of warm spring air pushes them up. He makes a show of landing, sweeping one leg back before he switches position. 


His body moves fluidly and easily through a sequence of small spins, all finishing in a small jump. He lands, finishing the move by pulling one leg into the sky and pulling it flush against his body in an upward split. The audience roars and he can’t help but smirk as he bounds back across the stage. No matter how many times he practices, he never gets bored of the slow annd admittedly impressive dace - that much is clear to see when is face lights up with each move. The audience is trapped in his blinding smile and his calm motion across the stage and back again. That’s when he sees it. 


He looks into the crowd for a dramatic second when a blinding white light fills his vision. He blinks, his smile deflating and mouth rounding into a soft ‘o’ before he shakes his head and stands back up. He bends back slowly, his arms reached over his head. He looks absolutely weightless, his green curls suspended and arms over his head as if he were draped across an invisible barre. 


The light flashes again. This time, the intense light sends him reeling. He loses his balance and topples over, landing on the floor with a loud thud. The crowd ‘oohs’ and winces in pity. He touches his hand to his lip. Sure enough, his finger is slick and red with blood from where he accidentally bit down. 


He swallows the lump and blood in his throat and stands. The room still spins slightly, the booming announcement of ‘no flash photography’ going in one ringing ear and out the other. 


There’s a final flash, and Midoriya Izuku falls unconscious to the floor.


“And by god, if I don't… if I don’t… god damn it! Line, please.”


Katsuki Bakugo shakes his head at himself. How the hell was he still forgetting lines? His audition was less than a month away. If he wanted to get into General Performance Arts at UA Academy, he’d have to perform a hell of a lot better than whatever this shit is. 


“Relax, Kacchan. Seriously! The more you overthink, the more lines you’re going to forget. The line is ‘And by god, if I don’t come out on top-’”


“Then there’s no reason for me to be here in the first place!” He pumps his fist into the air as practiced, a stone cold look on his face. His hand drops to his side and the expression melts when he looks to his friend for reassurance. 


Deku nods. “It’s good. I think you’re stressed out, though. Your movements are stiff and you’re taking long pauses. You need to relax, or you’ll be too stressed to perform when the day comes.”


Katsuki nods sharply. “I know. I’m just…” He runs a hand over his face, releasing the tension in his body with a gust of breath. His worries bubble to the surface all at once. Katsuki packs them neatly into a box before shipping them out of his mouth in a gust of words.


“I’m just nervous that I won’t bring the emotion factor, ya know? I’m worried that it'll seem forced, that I'll sound like a damn robot. And I'm worried about how I keep fucking up the lines. Like, it's been nearly a month with this god forsaken monologue. It should sound better than this shit.”


Izuku nods understandingly. Katsuki furrows his brow, looking at him quizzically.


“Hey, Deku?”


The green haired boy hums in response. 


“I really think you should audition for GPA. I know you’re down because of last week, but you need to overcome it!”


“What would I even do? I don’t have any choreo or a song, and none of my monologues are refined enough for that big of a task. Every single performance I do goes to shit since the Expo. I’d make a fool out of myself.”


“Eh? You sound like you don't think I'll be able to handle your oh-so-heavy burden. I’ll whip your ass into shape! Unless you wanna pussy out and never reach your dreams? That'd suck.”


Izuku sighs. He blinks slowly, skin pulling where he drags a calloused hand over his very contrasting baby face. “You're not gonna let me off the hook unless I do this, are you?”


“Come with your monologue from camp prepared tomorrow. And the dance from the Expo. I’ll find you an audition song by tomorrow, swear on it.”


“Kacchan, I can’t possibly-”


“You can.” He’s met with a steely glare. “You can possibly. If I have to beat it into your brain with my bare fists, I will. You bring out the best in my performances. You've literally sat around and listened to me fuck up my lines and songs and dances a million god damn times over, and I want to do the same for you. Well, maybe less of the sitting around part. But still. I’ll be damned if some extra passes me before you get the chance to. I wanna beat your ass myself, at your full potential.”


His narrow eyes are full of warm anger - not the cold, harsh, nipping words that forcibly cut through skin, but the subtle burn of motivation and ambition, the strive to do better. He holds his firm gaze, not letting up until the green eyes move away from his. Izuku sighs once more. 


“Fine. But that means you bring your all - no overthinking or stressing yourself out. You’re always going on about a ‘fair competition,’ so I expect the same from you.”


A wicked grin spread across Katsuki’s face. 


“Hell yeah.”

Chapter Text

The slow, steady vibrations that ring out from the amp are sort of like a sedative to Shoto Todoroki. The way the instrument buzzes beneath his fingers is quite soothing. He rolls his head back, falling further into the melody of his song. It’s easy enough to forget about what he’s supposed to be doing right now when he just feels so… content. 


He croons into the microphone of his (admittedly very expensive) headphones, the lyrics coming easily and the tune washing over him. He quickly finds himself lost in the music, but the song seems to last forever. He finishes with the final pluck of a string, a low buzz filling the room. He can’t help but smile as he listens to the recording over and over and over. It’s catchy enough to get stuck in his head even though he wrote it. 


He loves the grain of the low quality audio. He likes the way his voice sounds like this, low and slow and free of annoyingly complex runs and riffs. There was nothing cheerful about the song, and that’s what felt too good. No forced, teen pop, autotuned melody. Just him and one instrument, the notes rumbling from the bass and himself over the microphone.


It uploads to SoundCloud without an issue, the little ping telling him that the file has been exported. Shoto supposed that he should be nervous, uploading his very first single to somewhere that thousands - no, millions - of people could just log on and see. Okay, maybe he was a little nervous. But not as nervous as he ought to be. Maybe it was because he was under the very inconspicuous and very convincing code name of ‘sho’, or maybe it was because he’d been anticipating this for a while. Regardless of the reason, Shoto’s heart only sped up a little when he clicked the button finalizing his fate. 


“Shoto. When I tell you to go to bed, it means go to bed. You’ve got a big day ahead of you, and you simply can’t afford to be slacking.”


He looks at the figure of his father in the doorway. He looks almost regal with the soft glow of the hall light behind him. Todoroki Enjo glares at the electric bass, the computer, and twice as hard at his son before closing the door with a little more force than necessary. Shoto cringes, though he really should be used to the intrusion of noise. 


He packs away his instrument, rubbing his fingers over the laminated wood before he finishes zipping up the case. He closes the million tabs of editing software and “how to upload song to sndcld.” He lays against his finally clear bed, sinking slightly into the expensive mattress. His legs hang over the edge and he closes his eyes.


He wished he’d had just a few more moments to fiddle around until he felt tired. He knew the consequences of not getting a full night's sleep were dire, but somehow his nerves still hadn’t settled. He’d been preparing for this moment for nearly a year. Why the hell was he still nervous about his audition? There wasn’t anything for him to really worry about - his monologue was better than perfect, his song was perfectly practiced, and his dance moved exactly the way he wanted it to. So why was he losing sleep? 


Truthfully, he knew the answer. It wasn’t how practiced the material was. It was the material itselff. All handcrafted and choreographed by his father, designed to show off what he believed to be his son's greatest assets. Shoto would much rather do a soothing lo-fi song and play the music himself. He’d much rather pour his heart out into an on the spot interpretive dance. Instead, he was firmly boxed into an uppy pop song and a slow, stupid, boring ballet piece. Even his monologue was verging on uninteresting. He’d of course changed it a bit without his father’s knowledge, but it really didn’t make too much of a difference. Nevermind the boring work, he was still determined to get into UA.


He went through the motions of the dance, hummed along to the tune of the song, and ran through his monologue softly until his eyes grew heavy. Despite his creeping toward unconsciousness, the knot that had formed in his chest showed no signs of untangling.



He blinks and it’s morning. No, he didn’t sleep like a rock and would you look at that, my alarm’s going off! Shoto probably only spent maybe two hours sleeping. The rest of the time was spent tossing around in his covers and trying to find a middle ground between ‘too damn hot’ and ‘too damn cold.’


He strips off and takes a freezing shower, the cold water sufficiently waking him up a bit more. He leans into the biting chill, letting the cold water destroy the grease in his hair. When he steps out, there’s a note on the sink.


left for a bit. going shopping. 



Shoto scoffs and crumples the note, tossing it in the waste bin. “Shopping” his ass. Of course he wouldn't be here to support his son on what was potentially the most important day of his life. Of course he would write something like that as a “good luck, do well, i love you.” Whatever. 


He pulls on his leotard under his clothes and walks downstairs. 




Shoto jumps and lets out an undignified yelp as his siblings pop out from nowhere. Fuyumi is holding a plate full of breakfast while Natsuo holds a gigantic drink from Starbucks. They have matching grins on their faces, and Shoto feels one climbing to his own. He takes the drink from Natsuo and tastes it. He wasn’t typically granted access to such sugary and sweet things, as they were unfit for keeping up his looks. 


“We wanted to make this morning special, considering where you’re off to soon! Had a feeling you’d be up extra early.”  


“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”


Shooto tries to step into the dining room with his food, but is blocked by Fuyumi moving to one side.


“We, uh, have another surprise for you. A person surprise. But If you don’t wanna see him, you can just tell him to get out and he will. Promise.”


A person suprise? Fuyumi moves over again to reveal a black haired man staring at Shoto. His face melts into a small smile and he turns to face him fully. Shoto nearly drops his plate. 




“Shoto! Look at you go, man. You look so grown. It’s been a bit, hasn’t it?”


Shoto leaves his plate on the table and runs into his brothers open arms. It’s been at least five years since the last time he saw Touya, and those weren't exactly in the best circumstances. In that time, he knew his brother had risen to fame and fallen hard. Now, he was back climbing the ranks in some kind of rock music community. Shoto was embarrassed to know only that about someone he loved so dearly.


“I wanted to stop by and give my congratulations.”


“Touya! I didn't even go for my audition yet.”


“I know. I also know they’d be stupid not to accept you. Plus, this isn’t even a real audition, right? Big ol’ bastard’s probably gonna pay them to let you in.”


Shoto sighed and rested his head back on his brother’s shoulder. He was probably right - even if he failed miserably and didn't deserve to get in, his father would surely find some way to squeeze him in there.


“Whatever. He doesn’t matter right now. I want to know everything that’s happened since I left, right from the minute I walked out that door.”


So the Todorokis join in a family breakfast, the first proper one in a long time. It’s been years since anyone laughed at the dining room table, but the room could barely handle the soft chuckles from Fuyumi and Touya’s loud bellows. Everything is so good. Shoto feels like he’s enveloped in a warm hug.


The door clicked. The arms of the metaphorical hug retract. All laughter fades away as a hulking figure stood in the doorway. He stands there, just doing nothing in the doorway, before he clunks in angrily.


“What the hell is going on here?”


Instantly, Touya is on his feet, an arm in front of his siblings. “We’re just eating. You don’t want Shoto going in on an empty stomach, right?”


Enji sauntered over to where they sat. The familiar glint of rage sparks in his eyes as he sees both the forbidden drink and forbidden son at one table. He squints his eyes and glares at it, presumably trying to read what’s on the paper. Unsatisfied, Enji picks up the mostly full drink and promptly throws it in the trash. He looks back to his black haired son, his rage doubling and tripling in size.


“Get out of my house.”


Touya looks back at his siblings. They all stand. Shoto barrels into him again, his grip significantly tighter than the eleven year old hugs Touya was used to. Shoto didn’t want to let go. He didn’t want to face the possibility of another five year gap until the next time he’d see his brother. He wanted him here, with him, to pick him up from his audition and tell him what a good job he’d done. The rest of his siblings join in the hug, wrapping their arms around the other two while his father silently fumes at them. The man sways side to side lightly, as if someone is pushing and pulling him off balance.


“I said get-”


“Seriously. Calm down, I’m going.” He pulls away from his siblings and looks at them. “I love you. I already can’t wait to see you again.” He takes Shoto’s hands in his own. “Do well, alright?”


And then he’s gone. The one person Shoto had begged night after night to see, ripped from his grasp just like everything was. When the door closed, Shoto whipped around to face his father. His eyes brimmed with angry tears. He shrugged off Natsuo’s hand when it reached to him for consolation.


“What’s your fucking issue? Huh? I can’t have one good goddamn second in this house, can I?”


His father approaches him. He roughly grabs Shoto’s arm. Shoto isn’t anywhere near weak - in fact, he was probably among the most muscular people he knew. Even at his best efforts, he couldn’t pull away from his father’s grasp. He winced at the smell radiating from the herculean man. Jesus. It was barely eight. He notices the soft sway even as his father’s grip tightened around his arm. The way his eyes shifted in and out of focus. Fuyumi’s small voice rose above the nonsensical shouting coming from her brothers and father.


“Daddy… please tell me you haven’t been drinking, it’s only eight and Sho-”


“What’s it to you if I have, huh? You’re my daughter. it isn’t your place to tell me what’s right and wrong.” 


Shoto slaps his arm hard enough to leave a red mark. The tears have spilled many times over. His brows are arched high and his mouth is set in a firm line across his wet face.


“Don’t you EVER speak to her like that! Ever! I’ll kill you, you bastard! I’ll-” 


He’s silenced by a hand around his throat. Fuyumi screams and Natsuo takes out his phone. 


“Dad, let him go! Please! He didn’t mean it!” 


Shoto smiles slightly when his grip loosens at her words. It’s an involuntary response - there really isn’t anything funny about the situation, but he just can’t get the corners of his mouth to stay down. “What’re you gonna do, send me to my audition with a handprint around my throat? Tarnish your reputation, give me evidence to go to the cops? Do it. Do it, I dare you.”


He hits the dining table, breath slightly ragged. He’s lucky that his throat didn’t hurt too bad. His father’s unsteady gaze is still fixed on him. The rage has died down, quenched by the daily dose ov violence. He sways a bit on his feet again before clunking up the stairs.


Fuyumi is by his side immediately. Natsuo still hovers above the buttons.


“Don’t call. Who’s going to believe this shit anyway?”


The same thing Shoto says to his older brother every morning. Because if he called the cops and told him that Enji Todoroki - the man who’d won more Grammys than he had kids, more nominations than any of their fingers combined - liked to toss his kids around in the morning, who would believe them? Nobody, thats who. 


Shoto stood fully, wiping the small stain off his simple t-shirt. He slung the backpack over his shoulder. 


“I’ll see you later.”


He didn’t stop the wave of guilt crashed over him every time he left the house. Leaving them with him in that state made queasy bubbles rise in his stomach and bile coat his throat. He couldn’t stand it. Hopefully the old man would KO of a little while and cool down.


Shoto focused on his hopes as he made his way to the train station. He couldn’t just brush off the twisting feeling in his gut, but the couldn't let it get to him either. Something in him, a little twinge, wanted to act out and do something dumb. Maybe he could just not show up to his audition. 


He paused a second before laughing out audibly. No, that would be dumb. This wasn’t just for his old man. He paused for another short second. Could he pull this off?


He still had a few minutes before his train came. He turned on his heel and jogged back down the street to his house. God, he hoped he wasn’t being a fucking idiot. 


He brushed through the door as quietly as possible. Nobody was in the living room, and he could already hear the soft snores from upstairs. He crept into his room with practiced ease, slipping silently along the floorboards. 


When he made his way back downstairs, Fuyumi was sat at the table with her head in her hands. Her mouth was turned into a soft frown, one that didn’t even reach her eyebrows in a familiar crinkly. Shoto presses a kiss to her forehead, making her look at him. She gave him a once over before a grin spread across her previously sullen face, eyes lighting up like bulbs. 


Shoto didn’t say anything, but he returned the smile as he slipped out of his house once more with his bass slung over his shoulder. 

Chapter Text

Katsuki’s face is passive. Should he be nervous? Probably. Was he? Honestly, his pulse was barely faster than normal. He stared down the massive campus of U.A. If he performed well today, this place would be the start of his career. Clenching his teeth together, he strode into the building. 


He’d hoped to stick around with Deku for a bit, but they’d been in two separate groups. Whatever. Katsuki sure as hell wasn’t gonna let boredom stop him from giving the best auditions of his life. 


He flips out his phone. He was due for his drama audition, followed in order by his vocal audition and dance audition. He’d wanted to do dance first, to get a little motion in his body. Oh well. 


He walked confidently into the large holding area. If he wanted his emotion to be raw and real, he’d have to slip into character now. He jelly his brow intensely furrowed and set his mouth into a firm line. He wasn’t conscious about the links he was getting with his stilled over face -all that mattered was the success it would bring him. 


There were people milling about everywhere. Some bouncing off lines with friends (or a mirror), some drinking water and doing pre-audition rituals, and others still just sitting on their phones. Katsuki decided to join the latter group, whipping out his phone and scrolling to the monologue. 


He’d gone over it a few times and relaxed for a bit when a head popped out from the door. “Is there a Bakugo Katsuki in attendance?”


He stood and nodded. Now that the moment was drawing near, his heart was beginning to thunder. Wiping his hands on his sweats, he followed the tall woman into the room. 


“Your slate, please?”


“Good afternoon. My name is Bakugo Katsuki, and I will be performing a monologue entitled ‘Damn it if I don’t.’”


A nod from the teacher tells him to collect himself. He breathes deeply, closing his eyes. When he opens them, he’s a professional swimmer. 


“Don’t you understand? Time and time again I push myself beyond my limits.” His voice raises from a gritty growl to pushing at a yell. He takes a step forward and throws his hand in the air. 


“And you know what? Time and time again I fail! What the hell is second place? How in the name of God am I supposed to compete with people who don’t even have to try?” 


He gasps shakily - the combination of nerves and the facade of emotion. He pushes his voice forward, letting the emotion consume him. “I don’t care about breaking myself. I don’t care if I have to ruin my own life just to win! I’ll destroy my body over and over again to become the fastest, to reach the farthest, to be the best!”


He screams and points accusingly at a spot just above the middle judge. “And by God , if I don’t come out on top, what the hell am I doing here in the first place?”


He drops his arm and steps back, signaling the end of his short monologue. The passive faces of auditioners always bothered him. He didn’t like how someone could give no inclination as to how you performed. He noted however, as he left the room, that the black haired man in the middle gave him a barely noticeable nod. 


He smirks back.




Midoiya places outside of the dance room. The leotard was suddenly too tight. Doubt filled his mind, clouding all rationality. How the hell was he supposed to compete against people who’d been practicing their choreography for like half a year? He’d only had two months to finesse the choreo that he’d failed .


“You’re Midoriya Izuku, right?”


He whips his head around. He’s fully expecting to see a teacher glaring down at him, telling him something is wrong with his outfit or his shoes or something. Instead, a tall boy with split red and white hair looks down at him. He’s very interesting looking - not in a bad way, of course! His features are just so inexplicably halved. Hes got split hair, split eyes, and a large scar over his right eye. Midoriya gulps and blinks.


“Uh… yeah?”

The boy tilts his head and smiles slightly. “I went to see you at the semi-finals and finals for the Dance Exposition. You did an incredible job.”

With that, the boy saunters off, leaving Midoriya completely red in the face and stammering quietly. What the hell was that? He forced his breathing and heart rate to go back to normal, but he couldn’t shake the awkwardness that clung to him. The boy was probably looking for some kind of reaction, anyhow - who goes around complementing people’s failed performances?


With a visible shake, Midoriya trains his eyes on the goal ahead. He wasn’t going to let a weird encounter with a possible bully stop him from having an awesome audition! With that, he walked into the room with dozens of other dancers. He plopped down beside a relatively friendly looking girl with rosy cheeks. She grinned when she set her bag down. 


“Hi! I’m Uraraka Ochacko. What’s your name?”


“I’m Midorya Izuku.”


They stretch together in surprisingly comfortable silence. Midoriya even helps her tuck the last few stray strands of hair into her bun. It feels good, just being around someone so quiet. It nearly settled his pre-audition nerves. 



“Alright! Hi guys! My name is Mr. Yamada, and i’m gonna be watching you all dance! All right!”


The room breaks out into whoops and cheers. Midoriya smiles. Of course this school would be taught by the most capable. Yamada Hizashi was one of the biggest names in music right now. He crossed his arms and grinned again. 


“Yeah! So this is how this is gonna work. We’re going to have a quick warmup at the barre, and then we’re gonna get into rows by number.”


Midorya glances at the slip of paper on the Uraraka girl’s back. She was only a few numbers away from him, so she’d probably be near him. 


“After that, we’re going to play a game to test your terminology! I’m going to shout out random positions and movements, and you’re going to carry them out.”


He nodded. Easy enough. Midoriya was pretty sure he had a dictionary full of dance phrases lodged in the back of his head. 


“Lastly, were going to be narrowing down who actually gets through to private auditions. I’m going to give you choreography, and you’re going to do if. If I call your number, stand on the side please. Alright! Enough boring talking! Everyone find a spot on the barre - your number doesn’t really matter right now.”


Midoriya slid into place next to Uraraka and a tall, blue haired boy. He gave a sharp nod in response to Midoriya’s small smile. 


The stretch brought a pleasant warmth to Midoriya’s bones, the stress now almost completely dissolved. He found himself softening into the plinking notes of the piano. It was easy work with little strain, but being surrounded by passionate dancers always warmed Midoriya’s heart. 


“Right! You kiddos warm?”


The room gave a collective yes. 


“Coolio! You have two minutes to organize yourselves. Miss Kayama?”


The piano launched into an upbeat tune as the students organized themselves. This was possibly the weirdest audition Midoriya has ever been to. He can’t recall a time when loud laughter and a bustling room meant ‘I’m trying to get into the most prestigious arts high school in the country.’


The last note fell and the students looked at their rows. Just great, Midorya was wedged in between two people who were quite possibly the tallest in the room - the blue haired kid from before and the one who’d approached him outside.


“Woohoo! Hell yeah, awesome timing little listeners! Alright, slap on those thinking caps, because things are about to get a little mixed up! Right off the bat, where’s my rèleve?”


The students rise, hands billowing out to their sides and standing on their toes. Midoriya was right to wear his pointe shoes, thankfully. 




The slow commands soon turn into rapidfire yells, the moves getting faster and more complicated. Midoriya’s started to break a sweat, but it’s nothing he can’t take. He feels bad for the stragglers though. Some kids are already red in the face and practically stumbling over each move. When Mr. Yamada calls the last move, one of the kids literally leans over the barre, gasping for air and entireley red in the face.


Midorya takes a quick drink of water and shakes his limbs to the count of eight before heading back to the middle of the room. He situates himself not too forward and not too far back - just close enough to be seen if need be, and far enough to disappear in a worst case scenario. 


It’s all concentration from there. Watching Mr Yamada move and doing his best to copy the choreography. It’s a fun and fast paced dance, very well suiting it’s creator. Midoriya feels the lightness if it in his bones, his face breaking into a cheerful smile. He just can’t help it - the aura of the room isn’t heavy and even those who’ve been called aside seem to be cheering on. To his surprise, both people on either side of him get called to the side. He hadn’t expected it. Both dancers had been doing incredibly well. What did that mean for him?


“Number two-twelve, come down to the side!”


Ah. There it was. Midoriya tried not to let his shoulders droop as he made his way to the side of the large classroom. What had he expected, after watching such incredible dancers get called out? The dancing didn’t last much longer after he was pulled aside. A few minutes later, the classroom was empty save for the twenty or so who were called to the side. 


“Ah, you all look like you’re gonna piss your pants! I guess maybe pulling you aside wasn’t the most reassuring move, huh? Enough with the sulking - we’ve got news for you, little listeners.”


The group turned to the tall blonde, now flourishing a clipboard and sparkly pink pen. 


“You’re all probably freaking out right now. Take a deep breath and get ready to pass out.”


He takes a step closer and throws out his arms. 


“Welcome to U.A. Academy!”