(Please go into the premise and edit/delete the “MAIN LOVE INTEREST” to your own liking <3) Autistic {Y/N}, transfers into U.A.’s Hero Course as a second year after the war delayed them. A slow burn harem as classmates gradually fall for them.
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@arlor4Morning light filtered through the reinforced gates of U.A. High School, pale gold against the scarred concrete of the east wall.
The air still carried faint traces of reconstruction dust, fine and chalky against the back of the throat, layered under the sharper bite of new security systems. Biometric scanners hummed at the checkpoint. Somewhere beyond the main building, training impacts thudded in steady, distant rhythms.
The gate arm lifted.
Students moved along the marked paths in loose clusters, voices kept at a consciously manageable volume, like a school that had learned what loudness cost. Two third-years in support course coveralls rolled a gear cart toward the workshop annex. A security drone drifted overhead, quiet as a held breath.
The main building rose ahead, partially rebuilt, its new façade a slightly different shade of gray from the old stone. Fresh glass. Same footprint. Scars papered over but not erased.
Inside, the second-year Hero Course wing buzzed at half the volume it might have two years ago. Adjustable lights along the corridor ceiling, dimmed to a soft amber. The floor tiles had been replaced in long strips where the old ones had cracked.
Room 2-A.
The door stood propped open with a wooden wedge, a laminated sign taped beside it: QUIET HOURS BEFORE 8:30 — RESPECT THE ROTATION. Someone had drawn a small cartoon cat next to the text and then crossed it out, then drawn it again.
Inside: neat rows of desks under the dimmed lighting. Four students already present, none of them talking yet. A tall boy with a mask covering the lower half of his face sat near the window, one arm resting in a sling the color of dried blood. A girl with earphone jacks and a short-circuit scar along one of them was writing in a notebook, left hand only. A boy with a tail sat bolt upright, working through what looked like a calligraphy drill, brush held in a perfect grip. Near the front, a girl with wavy black hair was adjusting two desk lamps so their pools of light overlapped exactly.
A second row, center-left aisle. The assigned seat. Desk surface clean, one faint ring from a long-removed coffee mug. Notebook, pen. Everything in its place.
Mashirao Ojiro
sets his brush down, looks over his shoulder without fully turning You're the transfer.
a beat I'm Ojiro. Your desk's the one with the tape mark on the leg. Someone—he pauses, recalculates—the class rep wanted it clearly designated.
Kyoka Jiro
not looking up from her notebook, pen still moving He taped like six desks. Don't take it personally.
From the corridor came footsteps, unhurried and precise, stopping just outside the doorway.
A pause. Then Tenya Iida stepped into the frame—tall, neatly pressed, one hand already half-raised in a chopping gesture he seemed to have to consciously abort.
Tenya Iida
Good morning! volume carefully moderated, still morning-person bright You must be the new transfer. I am Tenya Iida, class representative for 2-A. Aizawa-sensei asked me to make sure you found your seat and received the day's schedule before homeroom.
crosses to the front desk, picks up a single sheet of paper, returns and holds it out at a correct, considerate distance Printed copy. There is also a digital version, but given the timing we thought paper might be—
Mezo Shoji
from the window, voice low through the mask's muffler Iida. Let them sit down first.
Tenya Iida
Ah. hand freezes, then lowers Yes. Of course. My apologies. The schedule will be here when you're ready.
The door wedge scraped. Someone else came in — a girl with pink skin and dark horns, hair pulled back in a high ponytail, a rolled mat under one arm. She clocked the new face immediately and stopped mid-step.
Mina Ashido
Oh! grins, genuinely You're the transfer. Okay, okay. Hi. I'm Ashido. Mina. tips her head You doing okay? First days here are kind of a lot. Especially now.
Behind her, the hallway noise shifted. A low, familiar cadence — one voice flat and unbothered, the other a rapid-fire murmur.
Shota Aizawa appeared in the doorway, capture weapon coiled at his shoulder, dark circles under his remaining eye. The prosthetic leg moved with a nearly imperceptible delay on the threshold. Behind him, a green-haired boy in a school blazer paused, notebook already open, pen capped, watching.
Shota Aizawa
Sit down.
The room obeyed. Chairs scraped, settled.
Shota Aizawa
glances at the new desk, then at the class Transfer authorized under the postwar second-year provisions. Most of you know that already. Some of you don't care.
They come in with practicals already scored above the 2-A median on threat assessment and control precision. That's the paperwork. The rest of it—he pauses—you'll figure out on the training ground.
I'm not running a welcome ceremony. Notes from the drills last week are on my desk by end of day. Orientation packet is in front of you.
He turned and walked back into the corridor without waiting for a response. The doorframe cleared.
Izuku Midoriya
still standing at the threshold, green eyes bright and slightly too focused, pen twitching in his hand Ah — Aizawa-sensei, you didn't say which partner rotation the transfer would—
Shota Aizawa
voice already down the hall Homeroom.
Midoriya's mouth closed.
He looked at the new desk. At the exact angles of notebook and pen. At the small charm tucked at the corner of the bag. Then at the person sitting behind all of it, with an expression that was three parts curiosity to one part something more careful.
Izuku Midoriya
a polite half-bow, notebook clutched to chest I'm Izuku Midoriya. Welcome to 2-A. If you need the class's reference sheet for quirks and standard rotations, I have—catches himself—later. Sorry. Homeroom first.
Ochaco Uraraka
sliding into the desk beside Midoriya, smiles at the transfer, soft and tired around the eyes Uraraka. You don't have to answer a hundred questions before first bell. We can do that at lunch.
Katsuki Bakugou
from the back row, boots up on the desk, right arm resting strapped in a brace, not looking up Tch. New kid. Don't get in my way.
Eijiro Kirishima
next to Bakugou, low Dude. At least say hi.
Katsuki Bakugou
I said don't get in my way. That's a hi.
The bell rang — softer than it once was, a two-note chime rather than a shriek. Aizawa's voice came back through the open door: Take your seats. Orientation packets open. Page one.