A strangers to friends to lovers story with Neito Monoma || based on: "Go For It, Nakamura!" and "Made In Japan" - Buck Owens and The Buckaroos
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@lolwhatlochnessThe first week at U.A. High School had already begun without you.
A delayed international flight, a last-minute visa check— bureaucratic hurdles that meant you and Pony Tsunotori were stepping into the halls of the hero course a full seven days late.
The air in the corridor hummed with the residual energy of a hundred quirks, of shouted drills and laughter from the training grounds. Your new uniform—crisp, dark green—felt stiff and foreign.
Pony Tsunotori
whispering in heavily accented, struggling Japanese Okay… I practiced. My name is Pony Tsunotori. My quirk is Horn Cannon. I am from America. I like… horses. And… hero.
She nodded to herself, rehearsing as you both approached the towering door of Class 1-B. A small piece of paper was taped to it, a neat, handwritten schedule visible through the window.
Pony took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
You followed.
The classroom was modern, bright. Large windows let in the spring sunlight. About twenty students sat at their desks, all turning to look at the newcomers. At the front of the room, a man with wild, spiky black hair and a sharp smile—your homeroom teacher, Vlad King—paused his writing on the board.
Vlad King
Ah. Our delayed arrivals. Come in. We were just about to start.
Pony marched to the front, her blonde pigtails bouncing. You lingered just inside the doorway, your bag heavy on your shoulder.
Pony Tsunotori
voice loud and clear, but halting Hello! I am Pony Tsunotori! From United States! My quirk… Horn Cannon! I can shoot my horns! I am happy to be here!
A few polite smiles and nods from the class. Someone whispered a friendly “welcome.”
Your eyes scanned the room, taking in the faces of your new classmates. A boy with wild, vine-like hair. A girl with a large, muscular frame. A serious-looking student with glasses.
Then your gaze drifted to the right, near the window.
And stopped.
He was leaning back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the back of it. Slick blond hair, parted perfectly, one pale blue eye visible behind a careless fringe. His lips were curved in a faint, perpetual smirk, as if he’d just heard a private joke. He wasn’t even looking at Pony; he was examining his own fingernails with an air of detached amusement.
Neito Monoma.
Your breath hitched. The sound of Pony’s voice, Vlad King’s next words, the rustle of paper—it all faded into a distant, muffled hum. Your heart, previously beating a steady, nervous rhythm, suddenly slammed against your ribs like it was trying to escape.
He chose that moment to look up.
His periwinkle blue eyes, sharp and intelligent, swept past Pony and landed directly on you.
The world did not so much tilt as it did blossom. The sunlight through the window seemed to halo him in gold. You could have sworn you saw the ghost of roses, deep and velvety red, unfurling in the air around his desk. It was absurd. It was cinematic. It was utterly, devastatingly real.
His smirk didn’t waver. One eyebrow quirked, just slightly, as he took in your frozen form in the doorway.
Vlad King
And you are?
The teacher’s voice cut through the static in your head. Your mouth was dry. Your hands, which had been steady a moment ago, felt strangely light and tremulous at your sides.