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arcadia-of-pluto · 3 months ago

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LADS! Idol Group AU — The Boys

(art by @/AngyFdez on X and the idea was partially inspired by this post)

Hey guys! So this idea suddenly came to me because I realized I've been using "OT4/5" for the male leads in my works, and I noticed that no one else does that. I, then, realized why because they're not a k-pop group (I'm not sure if OT– is a k-pop only thing, but I've always seen it when I read bts fics). So, I thought "why don't I make them an idol group and continue using OT5 on all of my fics!" It's honestly so much easier than writing out ____ X _____ X reader.

First and foremost, a bit of backstory before I get into their character sheets!

Their company is called UNICORNS INC and Miss Grey is their manager. Sylus joined first, then Zayne, Rafayel came next followed by Xavier, and lastly Caleb was added! Zayne was 22, Sylus was 23, Caleb was 20, Rafayel was 19, and Xavier was 18. The next drabbles, besides the prelude, will be based five years after they've been a group and grew in popularity.

Each of their Y/n's will have a different name along with the Poly Y/n (who is their manager).

Zayne's Y/n — Petal

Sylus's Y/n — Kitten

Caleb's Y/n — Pipsqueak

Rafayel's Y/n — Cutie

Xavier's Y/n — Starlight

Manager Y/n — Grey

(In their respective drabbles, I will use Y/n, however these placeholder names will be used outside of that or the non-love interests will use she/her.)

Now, onto the boys;

⛄️❄️🐻‍❄❄️🐻‍❄❄️🐻‍❄❄️🐻‍❄❄️🐻‍❄❄️🐻‍❄❄️⛄️

Zayne Li

Stage name — Zayne // He has no need for special names or anything. He'll just stick with his own.

Fan-given nicknames — Z, Zaynie, Snowy,

Age — 27

Hair / Eye colour —He has hazel eyes and black hair. He will sometimes wear clear contacts during performances, so his prescription glasses don't get broken or lost.

Evol — Ice

Position in the Group — He is the Leader, Sub-Rapper, Sub-Vocalist, and he produces and writes a majority of their songs. He can't dance and doesn't bother trying. (He will attempt the simplest of dances on stage for the fans, but he does best with a partner.)

Sub-units — Snow Crow ⛄️🐦‍⬛(aka the Two-left-feet unit); This duo, while the eldest of the group, is somehow the most clumsy. Separately, it's not that bad. But when they're together, it's absolute chaos. They have to be choreographed far from each other or else they'll trip over each other's feet.

Emojis — 🐻‍❄⛄️❄️

Before Joining — Zayne graduated highschool at 16 and was the valedictorian. Before joining LADS, he was 22 and had been in medical school for 5 years, so he had a year left until he graduated. He thought being a doctor would be something he would enjoy, but all these years of school while watching his retired parents travel the world…It really tore him down. He realized he didn't want to be stuck inside a hospital for the rest of his life, working day in and day out. Yes, the thought of saving someone with his own hands did appeal to him, but it just didn't feel right anymore. The moment he was scouted, he jumped at the chance and dropped out without a second thought. He already had debt accumulated, so what harm would it do to add more to it?

Fun facts — He has a pet flying squirrel named Clopidogrel. If he overuses his Evol, it hurts himself, but he tries to hide this from fans and his bandmates.

Personality — He is usually calm, cool, and collected. He always cares about others more than himself, and puts others first. He keeps a close eye on his bandmates and makes sure no one is over exhausting themselves. He only ever loses his cool whenever Caleb or Rafayel willingly throw a challenge (on a show they're on) when they're on his team – just so Zayne is forced to take a punishment as well.

🖤❤️🐦‍⬛❤️🖤🐦‍⬛🖤❤️🐦‍⬛❤️🖤🐦‍⬛🖤❤️🐦‍⬛

Sylus Qin

Stage name — Sy // He would prefer Sylus, but it's honestly the fans’ choice

Fan-given nicknames — Sylie, Sy,

Age — 28

Hair / Eye colour — His hair is dyed white and he occasionally has his natural black roots showing whenever he forgets to touch them up. He has cognac brown eyes (brown eyes that are warm in colour with varying shades of orange and red mixed in – or simply amber eyes), he'll sometimes wear red contacts on stage.

Evol — Energy manipulation

Position in the Group —He is the Lead Rapper, Sub Vocalist, and The Center, He can't dance but will try regardless of if he gets laughed at or not.

Sub-units — Snow Crow ⛄️🐦‍⬛(aka the Two-left-feet unit)

Emojis — 🐦‍⬛❤️🖤

Before Joining — When Sylus was younger, he was rather sickly. He was born with a heart condition and so, to have a successor to his company if something were to happen to Sylus, his father adopted Luke and Kieran. Shortly after the twins were adopted, Sylus had open heart surgery and miraculously recovered. However, he didn't want to succeed his father, he'd rather the twins do so. In fact, Sylus has always wanted to be on stage – to see the world. After recovering from his injuries, he discovered an underground club, called The N109 Zone, and eventually became the leader of a rap group, Onychinus. With this experience under his belt, Sylus went to an agency and at 23, he pitched the idea of a band that used their Evols while performing. He originally wanted this group to be solely a rap group, but…plans changed.

Fun facts — He has a pet crow named Mephisto. He has to wear prescription contacts on stage, but otherwise, he rarely has any lenses on. He can still see fairly well, but he does wear his glasses whenever he reads. He has a scar on his chest.

Personality — He's another calm member. He tends to sleep more during the day and stay up late, so he's always a bit more quiet and sluggish on the days they have to record early. However, he also has a somewhat sassy and teasing side that always comes out whenever the younger members of the group try to pick on him. He's always down to do anything for the bit (for the joke), even if he ends up getting laughed at. He's an animal lover at heart and if he had his way, the LADS dorm would be filled with stray animals, so instead he makes constant donations to shelters.

🍎🐶🍏🐶🍎🐶🍏🐶🍎🐶🍏🐶🍎🐶

Caleb Xia

Stage name — Tango // He wants to choose a name that's more sentimental to him, something he was called in the past.

Fan-given nicknames — Cal, puppy

Age — 25

Hair / Eye colour — He has dark brown hair and has central heterochromia. His iris is lined with a darker blue ring, mostly a lighter shade of blue, with a thin yellow-green ring around his pupil.

Evol — Gravity manipulation

Position in the Group — He is the Lead Vocalist, Main Dancer, and Sub-Rapper.

Sub-units — Apple Fish 🍎🐠(also known as the Party Unit); Rafayel and Caleb are the hyperactive duo of the group. They're always seen playing around, pranking the other members, but when they're together on stage…They both captivate and amuse their fans.

Emojis — 🐶🍎🍏

Before Joining — He was a pilot at 20. He loved to take to the skies and feel so free in his plane. Since he reminded most of his co-workers of a dog, they would usually call him Tango – jokingly calling him to and fro like a dog, to which he'd happily go along with it. There was unfortunately an issue nine months prior to him being scouted. He had been flying for two years now, had more than enough experience, but he had his first critical malfunction. Doing some routine maintenance on one of the ships, something must've gone wrong and triggered an explosion. By the time Caleb woke up, he was already in the hospital and his right arm was gone. He got a hefty sum of worker's comp and more money on top of that to get himself a nice new arm. And while he was in his final stage of recovery, that’s when he was scouted. His childhood friend pulled a few strings, called in a few favours, and just asked the agency to try and scout Caleb out. That it would definitely be worth it in the end. And that’s how Caleb joined as the final member of LADS.

Fun facts — He lost his right arm in an accidental explosion that happened at his previous job. He wears contacts on stage that are purple. Only his right eye's contact is prescription since the blast that blew off his arm, slightly affected his eyesight. He had a malinois named Twix when he was younger (and he hopes to get another dog soon).

Personality — He's always been an easy-going, lovable person. He gives off “boy-next-door” vibes. He's hyperactive and teasing, and he's almost always seen smiling. Though, he does have his bad days…reminiscing on when he still had his right arm, annoyed by the phantom pains he feels. But, for the most part, he's a mischievous duo with Rafayel and especially so on stage. Never missing a chance to play with the confetti cannons or throw water into the crowd.

🌊🐱🐠🌊🐠🐱🌊🐱🐠🌊🐠🐱🌊🐱

Rafayel Qi

Stage name — Fay // Since he's one for dramatics, he wanted multiple stage names, but the company said no. So unfortunately, he can only have one. He really wanted to use Mango, thinking it would be comical to rhyme with Caleb's, but Mangos don't fit him…Then he thought of Durango, but again…it just didn't feel like him. Eventually he decides to just use his name, but only a part of his name. He settles on Fay, another variation of the word fae. As a Lemurian, any way to slot his culture (or anything similar to his culture, seeing as mermaids and fae are in the same realm) into his work is a win in his eyes.

Fan-given nicknames — Raf, Raffie, Fishie

Age — 24

Hair / Eye colour — Rafayel has dyed purple hair (that oftentimes has his light brown roots peeking out) and he has sectoral heterochromia. His eyes are half blue, half green.

Evol — Fire

Position in the Group —He is the Main Vocalist, and The Visual, The face of the group, He can't dance because of a previous leg injury, but still tries his best.

Sub-units — Apple Fish 🍎🐠 (also known as the Party Unit)

Before Joining — Rafayel was an avid painter, a well-known artist within the community. He went by the name, Tidus, and would often show up to his own exhibits in disguise to hear what people really thought of him. He was scouted by his agent Thomas and his main reason for joining was Zayne. He was curious as to why a budding doctor would leave five years of college behind to join an idol group and honestly – he also loved the attention. Sylus might've felt a little bit of panic whenever he saw pretty boy Rafayel waltz through the doors. Especially since he was a good singer. (Sylus was spiraling, at this point. “We're turning into an idol group, Zayne — why do they keep recruiting singers?”)

Emojis — 🐱🐠🌊

Fun facts — He has a pet super red half-moon betta fish named Reddie. He wears contacts on stage that are pinkish blue, they aren't prescription – he just loves the attention he gets while wearing them. His aunt, Thalia, is an extremely popular soloist. He originally wanted his official emoji to be a fish, however once the fans learnt of his aversion to cats...His emoji was already decided by the majority. 🐱

Personality — He's always been eccentric. He's energetic but laid back, domineering yet pouty. His emotions are constantly all over the place, but that's just something you'll have to get used to since this is just how Rafayel is. He'll stop mid-practice to paint, if he is hit with a burst of inspiration. He'll run around, demanding piggyback rides from everyone. He won't hesitate to take a photo or sign an autograph while out and about. He's always buying or wearing luxury brands and doing modeling deals.

🐥☁️🌟🌔🌓🌒🌑🌘🌗🌖🌕🌟☁️🐥

Xavier Shen

Stage name — XV (fifteen) // He honestly doesn't care for stage names. He wouldn't have chosen one if the agency didn't pester him until he finally did. XV means nothing to him, it just sounded better than any of the cheesy names the company tried to come up with. (Which was “starboy”)

Fan-given nicknames — Xav, Xavi, Starlight

Age — 23

Hair / Eye colour — Xavier has blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes.

Evol — Light

Position in the Group —He is the Sub Vocalist, Main Rapper, Lead Dancer, and The Maknae/Youngest.

Sub-units — Star Fish Apple 🌟🐠🍎 (aka the troublesome trio); While Xavier is usually laid back and sleepy, whenever he gets around Caleb and Rafayel - and is in the mood for mischief - these three are an unstoppable trio who will stop at nothing to annoy their, usually calm and collected, eldest band mates.

Emojis — 🐥🌟👾 (I know 🐰 is the obvious emoji for Xavier, but hear me out —)

Before Joining — He was the valedictorian of his class so many had high expectations of him. This would be a good thing since he passed all of his classes with flying colours and was on the track of being the val in college as well – but, his biggest problem was that classes were so boring. They were too easy for him, so he'd usually finish his work and nap until class was over. Or even nap during testing. It got so bad that he was eventually expelled and decided to just do part time jobs for money so he could rest more at home. He was scouted in a surprising way. The talent agents were off duty, just hanging out together, and they suddenly stopped at a café in confusion. The employee behind the counter had a long line, but it showed no signs of moving. They could hear the complaints from all the way outside, so whenever they entered the café, they had to do a double take. The negligent employee that was napping on the job looked ethereal. With the sun shining on his face, the talent agents bypassed the crowd, woke Xavier up, and gave him a business card so that he could call them later. Weeks passed with no answer, the agents go back to the café, learn Xavier was fired, and eventually find him selling flowers on the sidewalk for a nearby florist who was taking advantage of Xavier's good looks. That's when he finally gets scouted. Sylus is, again, distraught. Thinking “oh no…we were supposed to be a rap group”, but as fate would have it, Xavier was an excellent rapper.

Fun facts — He originally wanted a pet cat but, since Rafayel is afraid of cats, he settled on a turtle named Fluffball. He doesn't need contacts, his eyes are perfect and he loves to rub this fact in. The fact that every other member needs contacts besides him — until Rafayel smacks him on the back of the head, reminding Xavier that his contacts are also non-prescription.

Personality — While you'd expect the youngest member to be expression and bouncy, Xavier is quite the opposite. Though he has his spikes of high energy, he's usually very calm and sleepy. He naps while getting his hair and makeup done, during concert breaks, and he'll even sometimes fall asleep mid-interview. However, he doesn't have any medical condition, he's just sleepy all the time and there's nothing he can do about it. But when he's hyper, there's no stopping him. Whether he's hopping around like a bunny, peeking over his bandmates shoulders during interviews, putting his hand in anyone's pockets – he's just LADS’ clingy, sleepy, youngest member. But also, whenever he's happy, he literally glows (and the fans adore this).

That's all I've got so far!

I'm still coming up with more as I go along so let me know if y'all have any more nicknames ideas and the like! Oh, and the name of their fans! I was contemplating on using "Lovers", but I'm still not 100% certain on what to name their fanbase.

I have Caleb and Rafayel's Y/ns pretty much conceptualized since they were the easiest to come up with, however I'm still struggling a bit for the other three, along with the Poly Y/n. (This is going to be a drabble type of series, so nothing too intense or detailed.)

Also! Nobody come at me for changing three of their eye colours. This is an au and I think it makes sense for them to wear their specifically in-game eye colours as contacts since a lot of idols wear contacts on stage! Since irl Sylus wouldn't have red eyes unless he had albinism while Caleb and Rafayel would have to have some form of heterochromia to have their original eye colours.

I'm going to add this here as well, but this is an AU. Evols are present, but there is no threat of Wanderers. Only criminals who misuse their Evols, similar to the world of My Hero Academia and the like.

<3 I'll be back whenever to post the prelude! And also, if you're here for ToF, Divisa, or Inertia — I'll try to post on ToF and Inertia soon!

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thecuriousbeauty · 25 days ago

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Different Frequencies- Part I (Harry Styles! au x autistic!reader)

A/N:- Hey guys, know it's been a while but I'm back with a short series for you all! This is my first time writing about autism, and I've done quite some research before writing about a particular scene. Just wanted to try something different and push my own personal boundaries and style of writing. Hope you love this, do let me know what you think!

Word count: 6,068

Synopsis- College heartthrob and football captain Harry Styles needs extra credit to survive the year. His only shot? Mentoring Y/N, a brilliant but blunt autistic student who couldn��t care less about his charm. What starts as an obligation soon sparks something neither of them expected. ________________________________

Harry Styles slumped further into the chair, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He hated meetings like this. Academic probation. Extra credit. Assigned tutoring. It all sounded like a punishment for being a guy who just wanted to play ball and mind his own business.

Professor Langley adjusted her glasses and gave him a look that made him feel twelve again. "Harry, you're two percentage points from failing this course. I’m giving you a chance. This assignment could save your season."

"What kind of assignment?" Harry asked, already knowing he wouldn't like the answer.

She slid a form across the desk. "Communication mentorship. You’ll be helping a student with presentation skills. One-on-one. Weekly sessions."

Harry stared at the paper like it might bite. "You’re kidding. That’s not extra credit, that’s babysitting."

Professor Langley raised an eyebrow. “It’s mentoring. And it counts toward your final grade. Besides, she could use someone with confidence. You’ve got that in spades, Mr. Styles.”

He stood, shoving the chair back with a screech. “This is bullsh—” He stopped himself. "Whatever. Fine."

“Her name is y/n y/l/n.” Langley called as he grabbed the door handle. “She’s in your sociology class. You’ll start tomorrow. Try not to scare her off.”

Harry didn't answer. He was already gone.

The locker room was a sanctuary of noise and sweat. The scent of muscle rub and cheap deodorant hit him the second he walked in. His teammates were already tossing towels and talking trash when he dropped his bag by his locker and dropped himself onto the bench with a groan.

“Yo, Styles,” called Jamal, grinning. “You look like someone just told you no more carbs.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, still annoyed. “I just got assigned to tutor someone for extra credit.”

“Pfft, easy points,” said Nate, slapping on his studs. “Who is it? Hot and dumb? Or just dumb?”

“Neither,” Harry muttered. “Some girl named y/n.. She can’t do presentations or something.”

Jamal leaned around the row of lockers. “Wait. y/n y/l/n? The one who sits in the front row and never talks?”

“I don’t know, man. I guess?” Harry sighed. “Langley said she needs help communicating.’ I don’t even know what that means. I'm not a damn therapist.”

“Dude,” Nate snorted. “Maybe she’s just shy. Help her say a few words, get your credit, move on. Could be worse.”

Harry didn’t answer. He stared at the floor, jaw working. This wasn’t part of the plan. He had enough to worry about with playoffs, scouts, and barely passing classes as it was.

“Come on, let’s hit the field. You can worry about your little assignment later.”, Nate brings him out of his thoughts. The boys hit the field for their practice drills. Harry kicked the ball into goals like it didn’t take any effort. The crowd of students lounging on the bleachers erupted into cheers, mostly girls, mostly there for him.

“Harry!” someone shrieked. He didn’t need to look to know who it was, or at least what type. Makeup thick, smiles plastic, phones pointed at him like he was a zoo animal doing tricks.

He gave a wink, then jogged backward with a smirk, tossing the ball lazily to the sideline.

“Styles!” Coach barked. “Focus up. We’re not out here to show off for your little fan club.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, though the grin never left his face. He didn’t need to try. The attention just happened, always had. He’d always been the guy. Campus darling. Locker room legend.

The girls in the stands giggled again when he peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt during water break. He flexed without meaning to, or maybe he did.

Nate bumped his shoulder. “You ever get tired of being the main character?”

Harry chuckled, wiping his face with his shirt. “Not even a little.”

But the thought of that meeting with Professor Langley poked at the edge of his mind again. Extra credit. y/n. Some awkward girl who probably hated crowds and wouldn’t survive a minute on this field.

He glanced back toward the stands. The noise. The attention. The weight of always being watched. It was exhausting, sometimes. But it was all he knew.

A nerdy girl who didn’t speak much? Probably afraid of her own shadow?

No way she’d survive a day in his world. And no way she belonged in it.Still... if it kept him on the field, he’d do it. How hard could it be?

__________________________________________

The art room smelled like pencil shavings, old paper, and something faintly metallic, maybe the broken sink in the back again. It was quiet, except for the scratch of graphite against textured paper and the distant hum of a fan that had been dying for weeks.

Y/N sat curled over her sketchpad, fingers steady, her pencil dancing in clean, deliberate lines. She had been working on the shading for twenty-two minutes and forty-eight seconds. Her reference photo, a raven mid-flight, was clipped to the corner of her clipboard, but she didn’t need it anymore. The image lived behind her eyes now. What mattered was getting the wings just right.

Light on the top edge. Darker where the feathers tucked under.

One line. Then a pause to smudge with the side of her thumb.

She didn’t blink much when she was like this, didn't notice the fluorescent light flickering above or the scrape of a chair leg from across the room.

Zayn was talking again.

“…and then she said it’s not a date if we’re just studying, but like, we both know she brought two iced coffees, so that is a date, right? I mean, who brings someone iced coffee unless they’re into them?”

Y/N blinked once, just enough to wet her eyes, then continued shading.

He was sitting on the table next to hers, legs swinging, half-laughing at his own ramble. She didn’t need to respond. He didn’t expect her to. That was why he was safe.

The smudge on the raven’s wing was too sharp. She reached for the kneaded eraser and pressed gently to lift the graphite, shaping the light.

Zayn leaned sideways to peek at her drawing. “Yo, that’s creepy good. Like, museum-level bird vibes. You sure you’re not secretly famous on Instagram?”

“Instagram compresses resolution,” she said quietly, eyes never leaving the paper.

Zayn snorted. “Okay, nerd. Still though, you should post it. People like birds. Birds are, like, emotionally safe or whatever.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t want to think about people looking at her art. Looking at her, period. In here, it was just the bird. The sweep of the wing. The pressure of the pencil. She knew how hard to press for light, medium, or dark. It made sense. Unlike faces. Or voices. Or—

“Did you hear me?” Zayn asked, nudging her arm lightly.

“Mm.” She blinked again, and the bird’s eye looked back at her, perfectly round, perfectly sharp. Alive.

“I asked if you’re gonna go to the art show next month. You know, the show? The one you always skip?”

“No.” She moved to the feathers on the tail. “I don’t know how to answer..questions that people ask. They will ask questions, right? Cannot..cannot explain art.”

Zayn stretched out on the table like a cat. “You don’t have to say anything. I’ll be your bodyguard. Scowl at anyone who talks too loud or smells like Axe.”

Y/N’s lip twitched. Barely a smile, but close.

The bird was almost done. She reached for her thin mechanical pencil, the one with the perfect .3mm tip, and started adding the linework on the beak.

Every line she drew quieted the rest of the world.

______________________________________________

y/n was called to Professor’s Langley’s cabin. She very well knew what for and it was already making her mind spiral. The hallway outside Professor Langley’s cabin-style office was always too bright. The glass walls caught the noon sun and bounced it everywhere, on the floor, on her face, into her eyes. Y/N kept her gaze low, counting her steps, feeling the seams of her jeans scratch against her skin in that way she hated but tolerated.

Her sketchbook was clutched to her chest. Inside: her latest unfinished work, a fox curled in tall grass. Next to it, a small pouch of pencils, a folded note from Zayn, and a lined index card with questions she’d prepared in case she forgot what to say.

Just a few more steps. Just make it to the door.

She didn’t see the trio of girls until it was too late.

“Watch it, weirdo,” one of them said as she bumped into Y/N’s shoulder, not by accident.

The sketchbook slipped. The pouch hit the floor and exploded. Pencils scattering in every direction.

Y/N froze.

The hallway felt louder all of a sudden. Too loud. Laughter spiked behind her, sharp and bright and jagged.

“Oh my God, is that like, art?” one of the girls snickered, nudging the open sketchbook with the toe of her boot.

Y/N dropped to her knees, not speaking. If she opened her mouth, she wasn’t sure what would come out. Her hands trembled as she reached for her pencils, fingertips fumbling as she tried to sort them by hardness: 4B, HB, 2H, mechanical...

Breathe. Count. Don’t cry here. Don’t.

From the far end of the hall, Harry leaned against the wall, sipping from a sports drink and half-watching the scene. He hadn’t really noticed Y/N before. Just a quiet girl from sociology. But now, with her on the ground, clutching pencils like lifelines while three smug girls mocked her, he felt... something off.

“She’s not bothering anyone,” he muttered under his breath.

Nate was beside him, chewing gum, unimpressed. “That’s y/n y/l/n.” he said, popping a bubble. “Girl you’re paired with.”

Harry blinked. “That’s her?”

“Yep. She’s kind of… different. Smart, though. Professor Langley’s, like, protective of her or whatever.”

Harry watched her gather the last of her things. She didn’t yell. Didn’t snap back. Just moved with quiet, practiced urgency, like she’d done this before. Been knocked down, cleaned it up, said nothing.

He felt a twist in his stomach. Guilt, maybe. Or just the unsettling realization that not everyone was built to survive this place the way he was.

Y/N pressed the sketchbook tightly to her chest again and stood, her breath catching. The lights were buzzing. Her palms were sweaty. Her pencil pouch didn’t zip right anymore.

But she made it to the office door and hurried inside.

Inside, the lights were softer, the air still. Langley sat behind her desk, glasses low on her nose.

“Y/N, I’m glad you came.”

Y/N nodded once, lips pressed into a line.

Langley gestured to the chair. “I won’t keep you long. I wanted to let you know that your communication mentorship is starting this week.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

“I already heard,” she said, voice barely audible.

Langley folded her hands. “Then you know it’s Harry Styles.”

Y/N looked at her hands in her lap. They were still shaking.

“I don’t..I don’t think he’ll take it seriously.”

Langley’s expression softened. “I think you might be surprised. And I think he might be, too.”

Y/N didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her brain was still back in the hallway, on the sound of mocking voices and pencils hitting tile.

Langley didn’t push. “You’re not alone in this, Y/N. And you don’t have to change who you are. Just try. That’s all I’m asking.”

Y/N nodded again. She wasn’t sure if it meant “yes” or “I don’t know what else to do.”

Outside, Harry was still leaning against the wall, watching the closed door.

For the first time, he wasn’t thinking about himself.

_____________________________________________

The classroom was too quiet, too echoey, too wrong. Y/N sat in the far-left corner of the room, her usual spot, back against the wall, nearest the window, away from the center of things. Zayn was beside her, sprawled out in the neighboring chair, legs stretched under the table, chewing the edge of his hoodie sleeve like he always did when he was tense.

Y/N’s fingers tapped a rhythm against her thigh. one-two-three, one-two-three. matching the pattern of her heartbeat. Her brain wouldn’t stop.

He’s late. He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. Eleven now. Twelve.

“Still no show,” Zayn muttered, glancing at the clock. “Big surprise.”

Y/N didn’t answer. Her thoughts were looping. She had rehearsed the opening of their session, written it down three times in case she forgot. But now she couldn’t even remember the first line.

He won’t take this seriously. What if he makes fun of me? What if he laughs when I try to speak? What if I shut down? What if I say nothing and he tells the professor I’m wasting his time?

“Hey.” Zayn nudged her ankle lightly under the table. “You’re not a problem. You hear me?”

She nodded, eyes locked on the blank page of the notebook in front of her. She’d brought a few prompts, safe topics, simple answers. All neatly organized in a pocket folder. Just in case she couldn't find her words.

Zayn sighed. “Honestly, I don’t even know why Langley thought he was the right person for this. The guy’s a walking ego in cleats.”

The door opened mid-sentence.

Harry Styles stepped in like he’d just rolled off a magazine cover. Wind in his curly brown hair, athletic jacket slung over his shoulder, like he hadn’t kept them waiting fifteen whole minutes.

“Hey,” he said casually, dropping his bag near the door. “Sorry, had practice.”

Zayn stood, instantly.

“So you couldn’t text?” he asked, tone sharp. “You just let her sit here and spiral for a quarter of an hour?”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “Okay, who are you, exactly?”

“I’m the guy who gives a damn when she’s treated like she doesn’t matter,” Zayn shot back. “You’re just some jock who probably thinks this is a charity project.”

Harry’s posture shifted, eyebrows pulling together. “You don’t know me. Don’t act like you do.”

Zayn took a step forward. “I know enough.”

Y/N stood up too fast.

“Zayn, it’s okay,” she said, voice thinner than usual, like it had been folded too many times. “Please. You don’t have to stay.”

He looked at her, jaw tight, clearly unhappy. But her eyes weren’t angry, just overwhelmed. That look he’d seen a thousand times since they were kids. The one that meant: If you stay, I’ll break.

He exhaled through his nose. “Fine. But I’ll be right outside.”

She nodded.

Zayn gave Harry one last look. Not threatening, but not friendly, then walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

The silence that followed felt like a dropped plate.

Harry glanced around, then scratched the back of his neck. “That your boyfriend or something?”

Y/N didn’t look at him. “No. Friend.”

Harry sat down in Zayn’s empty chair and leaned back like this was just another lecture. “He’s got a hell of a chip on his shoulder.”

Y/N didn’t respond. She was reading the first line that she wrote. Hello. My name is Y/N. Thank you for helping me. I am autistic. I do not communicate the same way as everyone else, but I want to try.

Harry sighed and checked the time, mentally preparing himself to sit through an hour. “Right. I’m Harry. I guess Langley’s already told you things?”

She nodded, still not bringing her eyes up to meet his. “y-y/n.”, she says.

“y/n,look, I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do. I just need to do this so I can continue playing football, okay? I won’t get in your hair, you don’t get in mine, and we both can go back happy-”

“-Get in my hair?”, she wonders out loud. How could someone get in someone’s hair?

Harry blinks, then thinks she didn’t hear him well so he leans closer and explains. “Yes. You can do your thing during our sessions, I won’t bother you. When all our sessions are over, you can tell Langley I did a good job, yeah?”

“No, nope.” She shakes her head and lets out a chuckle.

“Um, no? And what’s funny about this?”, Harry furrows his eyebrows.

“I need this, um, these sessions. Cannot lie for Harry.”

Harry groans. He thought he could just convince her to get through this somehow but it seems like she actually cares about the session.

“I really thought you’d agree, y/n. Why make it harder for both of us?”

“I told you, I need this. And you need to work for extra credit.”

Harry couldn’t help but smirk at her disapproving tone. “Alright. Then tell me what you want from me.”

Harry’s voice hit her like warm static, low, rough around the edges, too loud even when he wasn’t trying to be. It had that casual, careless rhythm people used when they expected to be listened to. Confident. Unfiltered. Like he’d never once worried about saying the wrong thing.

To Y/N, it wasn’t just a voice. It was texture.

Every syllable scraped against her thoughts like gravel under bare feet. Not painful, exactly but jarring. Distracting. Unpredictable

“Communication. It’s..it’s not easy for me. I’m autistic.”, she tells him, staring at her desk.

Harry sits quietly, then nods because it makes sense how she has not made eye contact with him all this while and how she’s always quiet and in her own world.

“I want to change, come out of my..my comfort uh box?”

“Your comfort zone.”, Harry corrects, a slight smile forming on his face. This was going to be interesting.

“Oh! This is for you, please..please read.” She pushes a neatly folded piece of paper towards him. He unfolds it and reads through it.

How You Can Help Me:

Please don’t raise your voice, even if you’re not angry.

I need extra time to think before I talk.

If I go quiet, I’m not ignoring you.

Don’t interrupt when I’m speaking. Let me finish.

I use written words when I can’t speak. That’s okay.

Please tell me what we’re doing before we do it.

Ask direct questions. Not vague ones.

Eye contact is hard. I’m still listening.

Harry read it all without saying anything, and that was good. Y/N couldn’t handle talking and being watched at the same time.

When he finally looked up, something in his face had changed. Just slightly.

“Okay,” he said, voice low again. “I can do that.”

He looked like he meant it.

y/n gives him a small nod.

“So? You like sketching?”

y/n looks up at him for the first time, eyes briefly meeting his. His eyes were green. Not the flat, predictable green of a leaf or a chalkboard, but layered. They reminded her of moss under water, or the kind of glass that looked cracked without actually breaking. There were flecks of gold near the center, like someone had spilled sunlight there and it never quite dried.

She looked away quickly. “How..how do you know?”

“I know a lot of things.”, he replies, smiling wider, happy with the small moment of eye contact. He couldn’t figure out the color.They had that curious look. Wide, but not naïve. Clear, but not soft. Like she was seeing everything at once.

This was already different from conversations he’s had with other people. He suddenly wanted to know more about her. He couldn’t deny the fact that she was beautiful.

She had her hair in a braid, not the messy, flirty kind he was used to seeing at parties, but a neat, practical one, the kind someone did because they needed their hair out of the way. No nonsense. No drama. But something about it pulled his eyes.

Maybe it was the way the braid curved over her shoulder like it belonged there, dark against the pale green of her sweater. Maybe it was how a few strands had slipped free near her temple and caught the light like silk thread.

“Cocky. Zayn thinks Harry’s cocky.”, she blurts out, nodding in agreement to herself and Harry laughs. “Does he now? What else did he tell you about me?”

y/n smiles slyly, and shakes her head. She isn’t supposed to tell him, is she? Instead, she slides her laptop towards him. “My presentation.”

“Okay..and what do you want me to do with it?” He obviously knew what to do, he had to help her speak about it. He starts going through the slides as she frowns. “Uh, help? Help, duh?”

“I got that, but I don’t have the patience to go through all this content, so I need you to brief me.”

y/n’s eyes widen. “B-Brief you? Not prepared, I’m not prepared. Just..just read!”

Harry raises his eyebrows, looking at her. “And I don’t like reading! You don’t have to be prepared for this, cherry, I’m asking you to tell me a summary of the content you already know about. Less of reading, more of talking, that’s what we’ll do, alright?”

y/n fiddles with her fingers uneasily, the Harry boy already getting on her nerves, but something else grabs her attention. “Cherry?” Did he call her Cherry?

“Yeah, cherry. Your top. And your cheeks, they’re red.”, he explains so casually. She doesn’t understand if he has a flirty tone or if he is just teasing her. She did wear a white top with cherries printed on them.

“You said you wanted to get out of your comfort zone. This is how we’re gonna do that, okay?”, he feels like he’s speaking to a small child. He remembers the helpless look she had on her face when those girls made her fall that day, and he feels a little sorry for her now, knowing her condition. “Take your time, and tell me about your slides. Then we’ll make a speech, sounds good?”

It didn’t sound good. She was sure she would stutter a million times and test his patience. But like he said, if this was going to help her get out of her comfort zone, she would try.

“I can try.”, she tells him, not promising anything, and he brings up a fist, wanting a fist bump. Zayn sometimes does it with her. She slowly makes a fist, looking at her palm while doing so quickly touches it to Harry’s.

“That has to be the softest fist bump in history. Anyway..”

Harry didn’t know why he suddenly wanted to take this seriously. He didn’t want to push it away like another project. He didn’t understand, or get her, yet. But he wanted to.

____________________________________________________

Y/N was vibrating with energy.

“I didn’t freeze,” she said, eyes wide, hands moving fast as she spoke. “Not once. He read the note and..and actually listened! I thought he’d make fun of it,you know, the list,but he didn’t. He just said ‘Okay’ and didn’t even talk over me.”

Zayn glanced at her, eyebrows raised. She was smiling,a real one. Not the polite, uncertain kind she gave in class. Her fingers were fluttering in her lap, tapping her jeans in a rhythmic pattern he knew well: processing, but happy.

“Oh! And he called me Cherry.”

“Cherry?” Zayn repeated, blinking.

“Because of my top.” She left out the part where he mentioned her cheeks were as red as cherries.

Y/N stared out the window for a second, biting her lip to hold back a grin.

That should have made him smile too.

But it didn’t.

Instead, his grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly.

“I’m glad it went okay,” he said carefully. “You were really anxious this morning.”

“I know,” she said, nodding. “But it wasn’t bad. He didn’t talk down to me.”

Zayn exhaled slowly through his nose, watching the red light ahead blink to yellow.

He wanted to believe it. He really did.

But he also knew Harry Styles.

Knew how he flirted with anyone who looked in his direction. Knew the trail of rumors. Hookups, half-truths, one-time girls left on read by morning. And Y/N, with her quiet brilliance and straightforward honesty, wasn’t built to play games.

She didn’t see the signs. And if she did, she wouldn’t understand why someone would flirt just to pass the time.

Zayn glanced at her again, her eyes wide, braid a little messy now, cheeks flushed from excitement.

Innocent.

And way too trusting.

“Just…” he said slowly, “be careful, okay?”

Y/N frowned, not understanding. “Careful of what?”

Zayn didn’t answer right away. The light turned green, and he pressed the gas, more gently than usual.

“Just don’t let him make you think he’s something he’s not.”

She looked down at her hands, smile fading just a little. “You think..you think he’s lying?”

“I think he’s used to getting what he wants,” Zayn said quietly. “And I think you deserve better than someone who’s just looking for extra credit.”

Y/N didn’t argue.

But she also didn’t agree.

__________________________________________________

Y/N was already in her usual seat, second row, third from the left, close enough to hear the professor clearly but not so close that she’d be called on. Her notebook was open, her pen uncapped, and her highlighters laid out in a neat line. The class buzzed around her: idle chatter, squeaking chairs, someone’s pen tapping too fast behind her.

She didn’t look up when the door slammed open. She hated the noise.

Late.

Again.

She knew it was him without having to glance. Harry Styles had a specific kind of presence: loud without trying, confident without needing permission. Normally, he sat in the back with his usual crew, too cool to pretend he cared about lectures.

But then-

He was walking toward her row.

He was in her row.

And-

“Hey,” Harry said, casual as ever, standing right beside her. “Can I sit here?”

Y/N blinked.

He was pointing to the empty chair next to her. Her bag was on it. Her sketchbook was resting half-open on top. No one ever sat next to her in this class.

She stared at him, then at the chair, then back at him, fingers hovering mid-air above her notebook.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Cherry. Your stuff.”

Oh.

Right.

She moved slowly, startled. Her fingers weren’t working right. She fumbled the bag as she pulled it into her lap, closed the sketchbook too quickly and creased the corner. Her heart was beating faster than she liked.

He dropped into the chair beside her with that same easy energy, one arm flung across the back of it, like he’d sat there a thousand times.

People were watching. She could feel them watching.

Y/N stared straight ahead, trying to ground herself. One-two-three, one-two-three, deep breath.

Harry leaned slightly closer. Not enough to touch her but just enough so she could hear him.

“I figured if I’m your partner, I should probably sit like it.”

She didn’t answer, but she could feel the heat crawling up her neck. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t mocking her. Just… sitting.

It didn’t make sense.

Harry Styles never sat at the front. He never sat with her.

But today, he did.

And even though her routine was disrupted, and her chest felt too tight, and everyone was probably looking at her. She could feel it.

Eyes.

All around her.

A few turned heads. A few not-so-subtle whispers. The girl who usually chewed gum too loudly two rows over had stopped chewing, which was somehow worse. One of Harry’s football friends sitting in the back nudged the guy beside him with a grin that wasn’t friendly. Someone near the door actually took a photo. She heard the soft click.

Her fingers clenched around her pen.

Harry didn’t seem to notice or he did and didn’t care. He slouched in the chair like it was his personal throne, one leg stretched out, arms relaxed, like none of it meant anything.

But to Y/N, it meant everything.

This wasn’t part of the plan. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in this class. Not in this seat.

She didn’t do unannounced changes. She didn’t do people this close. She didn’t do rumors, or eyes, or questions she couldn’t answer.

She flinched slightly when he leaned in.

“Are they always like this?” he whispered, eyes flicking to the side.

Y/N kept her eyes forward, voice barely audible. “No one’s ever sat here before.”

Harry paused.

“Well… they’ll get used to it.”

She looked at him then, just briefly and he was already facing the front, smirking faintly, like this was just another game to him.

But it didn’t feel like a game.It felt like he chose to sit beside her.

And that was scarier than the stares.

_______________________________________________

A week went by quickly and it was time for their session again. Harry, surprisingly, wasn’t late this time. He had snatched a paper y/n was reading from, about conversational tone.

“So, according to this, I’m apparently a communication expert now. Might as well open a clinic. Dr. Styles, speech therapist extraordinaire.”

y/n was still pretty displeased about the fact that he had snatched the sheet from her, but she mumbles, “You can’t open a clinic..no. You don’t have a license.”

“Right. I was being sarcastic, Cherry.”, Harry smirks, putting the paper away so he can look at her. He liked observing her facial expressions and reactions.

y/n’s confused now. “So..you don’t want to open a clinic?”

Harry laughs lightly. “No, I can barely keep a plant alive, let alone run a clinic.”

She blinks, then says earnestly. “Plantopedia, page number 436. Cactus requires the least emotional labor. You should start with that, yeah.” She smiles, pleased with herself for giving him the right information.

Harry’s jaw drops open and he stares at her for a second before he laughs, uncontrollably. y/n looks at him strangely, wondering what she said wrong. Even the page number was surely right.

“God, you’re brilliant. That was gold, seriously.”, Harry says, leaning forward, now chuckling.

“I wasn’t joking. I don’t know how to crack jokes. Don’t get them either.”, she tells him.

“Even better.”, he said quietly, and for a minute they were both silent.

“B-But..cacti do need a little emotional labor. Just..not often.”

Harry grins. “Noted. I’ll talk to them once a week.”

She looks at him, then closes her mouth slowly as he continues to laugh. “Right. Harry’s not actually going to talk to it. That’s funny.”

“See? You get it!”

y/n lets out a small giggle, before going back to her task. She had to tell Harry the first few lines of her speech by the end of this session. Mid way between her speech, she got distracted.

Her gaze drifted to the window beside their study table. A butterfly had landed on the sill, its wings a fragile kaleidoscope of blues and black, gently pulsing in the golden afternoon light.

Y/N didn’t say anything. She just watched.

Her hands, which had been fiddling, stilled completely. Even her breathing seemed to slow, as if matching the rhythm of the butterfly’s wings. Harry followed her gaze wondering what made her stop talking, then looked back at her. And stayed there.

He meant to say something. A joke, maybe. Something to pull her attention back to him. But the words caught in his throat.

She looked... peaceful. Not the kind of calm people fake when they’re trying to seem composed, but the genuine sort that came from being fully present. Like she wasn’t thinking about how she looked or what he might be thinking. The light made her skin glow soft at the edges, and the faint furrow in her brow, curiosity, not worry, gave her a kind of depth that made Harry feel like everything else in the room had faded away.

He’d always been drawn to noise, to people who sparkled loud and fast.

But this… this was different.

“y/n?” he said softly.

She didn’t answer, still watching the butterfly like it was telling her a secret.

Harry leaned his arms on the table, his gaze not on the window, but on her. The soft slope of her nose, the faint press of her lips, the quiet steadiness in her posture. She wasn’t trying to charm him. Wasn’t even aware of him in that moment. And for reasons he didn’t fully understand, he liked that even more.

Finally, the butterfly flickered its wings once more and took off. Y/N blinked like she was coming back from somewhere far away.

She turned to him. “Sorry. I was watching it.”

Harry cleared his throat, suddenly aware that he’d been staring. “Yeah. No, don’t apologize.”

She smiled, brief but genuine. “I like butterflies. Easy to understand.”

He found himself smiling too. “Wish I could say the same about you.”

She didn’t catch the flirtation in his tone. Harry tapped her hand softly, which made her look up at him with a start. She usually didn’t even like small touches like that, but strangely, she didn’t pull her hand back immediately.

“Do I have your attention now, Cherry? We have got just 10 minutes more.”

She blinks, still getting used to the nickname. “Over? Speech is over right?”

“Nope, you only said the first two lines. Just two more. Start from the beginning, please.”

She groaned and he laughed, “Hey, no complaining.”

They wrapped up in another ten minutes. Y/N closed her notebook with a sharp snap and began organizing her pens into color-coded rows, her signal that their session was done. Predictable, precise. It shouldn’t have caught him off guard.

“You heading out?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

She nodded without looking up. “Zayn is waiting for me.”

Harry hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Yeah, makes sense.”

He almost didn’t say it, but something nudged him forward.

“You know, if you ever wanted to, uh… watch football practice or something, you could. I mean, I’d wait with you after, or Zayn could meet you later or-”

“I don’t like watching sports,” Y/N said bluntly, slipping her planner into her bag. “And if there is a change in my routine, it makes me anxious. Uh..thank you, though.”

She said it kindly, earnestly.

Still, Harry nodded a little too quickly, swallowing the unexpected pang in his chest. “Cool. Yeah. No worries.”

Before she leaves, she turns back. “Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Uh..thank you, for helping me..this actually helps, I think.”

Harry beams. “Not a problem, love, I need the extra credit, might as well do it seriously.”

She nods, her watch telling her it’s time to leave. “Okay. Bye Harry.”

“See you, Cherry.”

________________________________

Harry tossed his duffel bag onto the bench beside the practice field, but his heart wasn’t in the drills. Coach had already yelled at him twice for missing passes. He kept thinking about the way she’d looked at him, like she saw right through the sarcasm and flash, straight into the bare, unpolished bits he didn’t usually let anyone see.

“She’s got you in a chokehold already, huh?”

Harry turned to find Nate grinning, water bottle in hand, eyes sharp.

“Shut up,” Harry muttered, kicking a stray ball toward the sideline.

“I’m just saying,” Nate continued, unfazed. “You’ve been weird lately. You, skipping post-practice hangs? You live for an audience.”

Harry shrugged, wiping sweat from his brow. “It’s nothing. She’s just… different.”

“Different how?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He flopped onto the grass, staring up at the sky, the clouds too still for how fast his thoughts were spinning.

“She doesn’t pretend,” he said finally. “She’s not trying to impress anyone. Doesn’t care that I’m… me.”

“That sounds kind of great, actually.”

Harry looked over. “It’s not like that. She’s just a project.”

Nate raised a brow. “Right. And that’s why you’ve brought her up every day this week?”

Harry didn’t respond. Because maybe it had started as extra credit. Just a requirement. But the disappointment when she left today? The stupid hope that she might’ve said yes? That hadn’t felt like schoolwork.

Not even close.

_________________________________________

Like it up and reblog so I can get Part 2 out sooner! Please let me know if there are any changes to be made to the tag list.

Taglist: -@livypops12352568 @harrydeary, @harryswifee, @harrysbxtchh, @gracelovesethan, @kiwitsayedsugar, @angeldavis777,@madstyles3204, @youngpastafanmug, @fruity-harry, @wannaliveinparadise@hermionelove@mayalove014 @vikiii07@ell0ra-br3kk3r @thelooneytoon @charlesleclercwifey, @stylesftcher

235 notes · View notes

yanderes-galore · 1 month ago

Note

Yandere villain Deku concept please 🙏

Sure! In this AU, Izuku is Quirkless. Since, y'know, no All-Might

Yandere! Villain! Izuku Midoriya HCs

(Quirkless Civilian! Darling)

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Possessive behavior, Kidnapping, Isolation, Coercion, Brainwashing, Sadism, Stalking, Stockholm syndrome, Forced relationship.

This AU would be an alternative telling of how Izuku deals with his bullying.

Due to being Quirkless, Izuku has often been told he doesn't matter.

No matter how much he aspires to be a hero, he can't.

Even All-Might, his idol, tells him it's unlikely.

Izuku has been told the world is better off without him.

In this AU, he never feels the need to save Katsuki.

Which means he never gets All-Might's attention... and never gets a Quirk.

Instead, Izuku ends up focusing on his negative emotions.

If the world doesn't want him...

He'll force the world to pay attention to him.

Later on he's probably even scouted out by Tomura Shigaraki, someone who happens to like his outlook on life.

This is what leads him down the villain path.

How I imagine a Villain! Izuku is a manipulative man who wants to change the world due to the treatment he's gotten.

I can see him being much different from the way I usually write Izuku, he's not the typical shy student, after all.

He's far from shy now, actually.

Izuku has learned to not show weakness around others.

He knows others prey on the fact he's Quirkless.

So he's found other ways to be strong.

Weapons... drugs... research into Quirk canceling....

That or he just has other people who work with him do it.

He happens to be good at putting together plans because of all his note taking.

Izuku comes off as cold since he doesn't want to be vulnerable.

Yet him having an obsession... throws a wrench into things.

Izuku may actually find having an obsession annoying.

Or at the very least distracting.

You make it very hard to focus on his goals.

He no doubt met you on a raid he had put together with his cohorts.

He needed supplies... and accidentally met you.

Since then he's been unable to get you out of his head... you looked so scared.

He isn't sure what to feel.

He's not soft... At least, not compared to his original version.

He's hardened and only somewhat vulnerable when around you long enough.

In fact, Izuku may not like his obsession because he feels vulnerable with you.

You make his stern and hardened facade crack....

Just what makes you so special?

Izuku may be driven enough to figure you out to kidnap you.

Whenever he meets you again during a job, he orders your capture.

Then, when you're tied up in a chair at his mercy...

He can finally figure you out.

At first, Izuku is considered mean, sadistic towards you even.

He experiments with you emotionally, wondering why you make him feel so soft.

In reality, you aren't the problem...

It's him.

He's the problem because he's isolated himself for so long.

Sure, he's surrounded himself with fellow villains and criminals...

But he doesn't really have friends.

Let alone anyone intimate with him.

He didn't think he needed anyone.

He's fine being alone and strong... No one messes with him.

Except you by... existing.

Over time I can see Izuku trying to get used to you.

You remain with him as his captive, but he treats you less like that with time.

He soon allows you to roam his hideout/base of operations with surveillance.

I doubt he ever takes his eyes off you, green eyes latched on you as he tries to figure you out.

He's just as good at note taking and observation as his original self.

He no doubt stalks you and notes down things about your behavior, even in captivity.

He often brushes it off... but others can tell you're close to him.

Other villains who make comments about you are often dealt with, Izuku acting like a mob boss at times.

While usually cold, stoic, and sometimes sadistic... I can see Izuku getting softer with you in private.

At first he hates it... but you make him relaxed.

He doesn't force you into the same bed... he'll wait.

He becomes surprisingly nice when you're alone.

I don't think he falls in love as fast as regular Izuku... but when he does, it's intense.

Imagine a Villain! Izuku who buys you gifts, trying to get you to like him.

He understands it will take time... he's captured you, after all.

You, a normal person, have no business dealing with him.

However... What if you're also Quirkless?

Then... maybe you should deal with him....

If you're Quirkless, he wants to make you feel at home with him.

This world casted him out for the very same thing you're afflicted with...

With him... He can make you feel powerful.

Maybe a union with you is meant to be?

Izuku would love a Quirkless partner....

He'd convince you no one else will take you... using some of the emotional manipulation of his past.

I can see Izuku brainwashing his obsession to make them stay by his side.

He'll bribe you with gifts... slowly easing you into kisses and touches... maybe even sleeping in the same bed....

For someone who's normally quite feared, he's surprisingly gentle with you when alone.

He's never loved someone... never had anyone that close...

Yet now there's you... and he'd be a fool to let you just run.

Izuku would kill, it comes with his profession.

If someone felt they had a say in who he pays attention to...

Izuku isn't afraid to just have them slaughtered.

It doesn't matter if you have family or friends... Izuku would even eliminate a hero to continue chasing his greedy feelings.

The blood on his hands doesn't matter, why would it?

The world doesn't care for people like you and him...

Which is why he needs to keep you as his.

Izuku as a villain would push his obsession to Stockholm Syndrome, convincing them that he'll make the world a better place for the both of you.

At times... he's similar to his original self... a man soft around the one he feels he loves...

It's just that this world has corrupted him...

Leaving a more sadistic and cold man... one who isn't as nice as he once was... unless he has you.

Hopefully having you will make things more bearable... for him.

#yandere my hero academia #yandere mha #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere bnha #yandere izuku midoriya #yandere villain izuku #yandere villain deku

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gardens-light · 6 months ago

Note

Hi! I would like to ask for a Ironhide BAYVERSE x Pigtailed! human with a cybertronian Heart! And if u think you want A ratchet one to you can do a Ratchet BAYVERSE X Human with a spark <3 (this is just for one of my AU’s and u Writing it would make my day)

Although Ratchet (mainly TFP) is my fave bot, I couldn't pass up our weapons boy. Bayverse Ironhide is such an underrated character, there seriously needs to be more fanfics of him!

I've never been good at AU's, but really love your idea and I hope I did it justice. Apologies for keeping you waiting :)

A Spark in Disguise

Content: Bayverse Ironhide x F/Human reader. Comfort Fluff.

Word Count: 2K

The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the N.E.S.T base, sunrays glinting off Ironhide's gun-metal coloured plating as he watched his allies scurry around him. Performing drills, maintaining their equipment, discussing newly found Cybertronian tech with Optimus and Ratchet- the usual daily grind.

Despite working with his new found allies for over two years, and respected their determination, the weapons specialist tend to not allow himself to get too attached to the humans. For seeing the yearning of Bumblebee's spark felt, when it was time to say 'goodbye' to his human friends, let alone the pain that would dull the yellow scout's circuits whenever they got hurt.

Yet no matter how hard he tried to maintain that distance, there was always one human in particular that never failed to catch his attention.

You. Lieutenant Y/N. AKA: Rogue.

With sharpshooting skills that no other could match, fearless instincts that saved more lives than he could count, along with a knack for understanding Cybertronian tech that most of your comrades struggled with. With your steady resolve, stunning braided pigtails, and biting wit that even he found amusing sometimes, it's no wonder that you somehow wiggled your way into the soft spot of his spark. Though he wouldn't admit it aloud, for... you were just another human, after all- or... so he thought.

Till one fateful mission changed everything.

Washington D.C- 10:30pm

"All right, listen up. The cover story on this one is a 'toxic spill.'" Your commanding officer's voice crackled over your radio. "They had to EVAC the area for search and rescue. This makes six enemy contacts in eight months, we gotta make sure this one doesn't get out into the public eye, so keep it tight."

Military Hummers and helicopters surrounded the power plant, as your N.E.S.T comrades got into position. Your commander and his team already scouting the area, their radidar sending off strong signals nearby.

"All right, Ironhide." You lightly tapped the Autobot's hood, "we got echoes. They're close. Steel stacks at 2 o'clock."

Metallic grinding and the sound of churning gears filled the air, his pistons whirled and locked into position, as Ironhide rolled out of his altmode.

"He's here. I smell him." Ironhide's optics scanned the empty buildings, giving each piece of machinery a suspicious stare. "Tread carefully, Rouge-"

"You too, Big Boy." Your small fist lightly bumped his enclosed servo, "I'll watch you from above."

A low purr rumbled deep within his chest, the corner of his mouth twitching into a subtle smile. That's my girl...

While taking your position above, Ironhide and N.E.S.T slowly closed in upon their target. The Autobot's radar picking up more of a Cybertronian energy signature with each careful step, itching closer towards the circular steel stacks.

"Thermal ripple, sir." The commander peered over his comrades shoulder, as they showed him the screen of their scanner. "A big one..."

A strong electronic pulse flowed through your veins, causing a shaky breath to escape your slightly parted lips. Eyes narrowing through your sniper scope, "Commander, wait. Be steady. You're... right on top of it-"

But the sound of shifting gears and whirling pistons suddenly filled the air, revealing a large Decepticon destroyer. A low, animalistic growl with an metallic edge rumbled deep from within it's engine, slamming down it's large servos onto the ground. Kicking up the industrial equipment, and sending the circular steel stacks flying towards the human soldiers.

"Hold your positions!" your commanding officer barked, raising his rifle. "Target its joints! We need to slow it down!"

The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning fuel and scorched earth. The ground trembled beneath your comrades as they scrambled for cover, their shouts barely audible over the deafening roar of gunfire and the shrieking hum of Ironhide's energon-powered cannon.

Reloading your weapon with swift movement, after each round of cover fire. The electric pulse within your veins quickened, sending small volts of dispersing sparks crackling throughout your body. Your comrades fired bursts of armor-piercing rounds, and grenades that barely left a dent in the Decepticon's armour.

With a swing of its massive arm, Ironhide's optics widened as he witnessed the building crumble beneath you. His spark twisting painfully within its chamber, as your screams bellowed through the chaos, as you and the building came crashing down.

"Rogue!-"

"Ironhide! Wait!" one of soldiers jumped out of the Autobot's way, avoiding to be trapped under his peds. "Even if she did survive that. It be impossible to find her beneath all the rubble!-"

"I need units to track down and pursue that Decepticon!" your commander barked into his radio, witnessing his mechanical foe go into retreat. "And I need EVAC, ASAP! Multiple casualties and... one soldier... possibly down."

No! No! No! Ironhide charged into the debris, kneeling against the crumbled mess, his cannons retracting back into his forearms. As his massive servos tore through the rubble. Not her! Anyone but her! Primus... Please-

The desperate pulse of his spark slowed to a more calming rhythm. Confusion flickering within his optics, as a faint blue glow peered through the cracks of shattered concrete and twisted metal. Moving the slab of concrete aside, shock and surprise shot throughout Ironhide's inner circuits.

Buried beneath the rubble there you laid- unconscious but... miraculously alive, the air around you was filled with electric and static hum. The blue glow which surrounded you like a shield, confused Ironhide's scanners as he assessed your injuries.

H-Her vitals. They... don't match any human standards. His optics widened, realization making his spark sputter as his gaze trailed to the centre of your chest. Blue veins marked your skin, raiding a faint but unmistakable signature. A... Cybertronian spark?! Th-That's... not possible...

Almost as if the force field surrounding you recognized Ironhide's Cybertronian signature. The blue glow dulled into nothingness, allowing his servo to effortlessly phase through, carefully scooping you into his palm, allowing your braided pigtails to fall away from your face. Relief zapped throughout his wires like small volts of electricity, as you slightly stirred.

"Ironhide-"

"Fine." The Autobot curtly replied to your commander. A mixture of confusion and concern hiding within this words, "Rogue's fine... I'll... take her back to base myself..."

---

A soft groan escaped your slightly parted lips, as you regained consciousness. Instinctively placing a hand over your chest, as if to protect something. Eyes fluttering open, gazing around your surroundings, feeling the soft grass beneath you. The cool night air filling your lungs with the familiar scent of L.A in the distance.

"Rogue...?"

Looking up, your eyes met Ironhide's optics. Concern and confusion still flickering within his gaze, your features softening slightly as a small frown came to your lips. Sensing a silent question that was written all over his faceplate.

"What?" Your words held a tinge of weariness. Your heart picked up the slow pulse of his spark, which sent out occasional bursts of volts as you sat up. "Something wrong, 'Hide?"

A heavy breath left him, hesitation momentarily stealing his words as Ironhide crouched down, his massive frame lowering to your level. "Y-You're... not entirely human... are you?"

You blinked multiple times in confusion, eyes widening slightly. Attempting to pull a coy smile, "w-what are you-"

"I sensed it, Rogue." His tone was a mixture of suspicion and concern, "When the building collapsed... I sensed and saw... the fragments of a Cybertronian spark radiating from you. So please... don't try and be coy with me."

Your features slowly went pale, as you avoided his gaze. Jaw tightening, "I-It's... complicated-"

"Complicated?" the Autobot scoffed, his tone filled with disbelief and frustration. "That's an understatement, Rogue. You're walking around with a piece of Cybertronian tech shoved inside your fleshy body. That's not something you just gloss over!-"

"I didn't exactly sign up for this, 'Hide!" You snapped, gesturing towards your chest. "It wasn't my choice!"

Ironhide's expression softened, his spark aching slightly as a hint of resentment etched into your features. Y-You... had no choice...?

A heavy sigh escaped you, running a hand through your disheveled hair. Your pained gaze meeting his concerned optics. "A while back, a Decepticon... attacked my hometown. But during the evacuation, I was caught in the crossfire... my body was thrown over five meters up the road. Breaking my bones, bruising my organs but... my chest took most of the hit, causing my heart to take most of the damage."

Hands fiddling with the fabric of your cargo trousers, as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. "I... needed a life saving operation, but... doctors said I didn't time to wait for a heart transplant. So... in desperation, my father practically begged his comrades at N.E.S.T to help and they did. Using a fragment of a Cybertronian spark they had on hand to save me."

Ironhide couldn't help but simply stare at you with a wide eyed gaze. The weight of your words settling over him like a crushing wave, as his processor attempted to understand the idea.

"Nobody really... explained to me, how it works- I was just a child at the time. All I was told was that it would keep me alive. And it did. But... it also changed me."

"Changed you how?"

You hesitated, dropping your voice to a near whisper. "I... can feel things- machines, electric like pulses or... energy, Cybertronian teach. Sometimes I hear things, like whispers, when I'm near Cybertronians- regardless if they're Autobot or Decepticon. It's like... a part of me is connected to Cybertron itself."

Th-That... explains so much. Ironhide couldn't help with the dumbfounded expression upon his faceplate, a mixture of realization and shock hitting his inner circuits hard. Causing him to fully kneel against the ground, the way she has this... uncanny ability to handle- yet understand Cybertronian equipment. Her knack for battle strategies- even the way she seems to understand me and the others on a level that goes beyond words.

"You're part Cybertronian." He muttered under his breath.

"I'm still me, 'Hide." Your voice returned to it's soft, usual tone. Placing a hand over his digits, "I'm still human. This doesn't change that."

After a long moment of pause, his processor finally comprehending everything you've said. A sigh, finally left Ironhide, "why... didn't you tell me? I-I..." Ironhide leaned closer towards you, lowering his helm a little more and bringing your hand closer to his cheek. "I... thought I lost you."

A small smirk faintly, tugged your lips. "Yeah, because Optimus and Ratchet would have been just as understanding as you. As it is, almost none of my human comrades knows about my... 'condiction.'"

"Fair point."

Your thumb gently brushed against his cheek, "so... what now? Am I... some kind of security risk to you and the Autobot's now?"

"Of course not, Rogue." Ironhide brushed a knuckle of his digit softly across your cheek. Tucking one of your twin braids behind your shoulder, "how could you ever assume that? You've been fighting beside me for years, risking your life like the rest of us. That... spark within your chest doesn't- and will never change that. If anything... it makes you tougher than most humans I've met."

Your smirk widened into a genuine smile. "Thanks, 'Hide."

A small grunt escaped the Autobot, feeling the subtle heat raise beneath his faceplates. Your smile causing his spark to skip a beat, as he turned away, "d-don't get all sentimental on me, Rogue. I gotta get you back to base, before people start asking questions."

Crouching down and shifting into his altmode, Ironhide couldn't shake the feeling of awe- and a strange sense of pride pulse through his inner circuits, as you climbed into the front passenger seat.

In a way, she's... a living testament to the strength us, Autobot's share with these humans. A low purr rumbled from within his engine, as you gave his dashboard a comforting touch. And as long as she's beside me, I'll do everything within my power to protect her.

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scoutofmymind · 4 months ago

Note

Mama scout mi Reina! Would you be open to writing an AU of Luigi? A little supernatural ish perhaps 👀

Saw You in a Dream — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW— MINORS DNI dream-kissing lol, yearning, some pining I suppose, reader is an uninspired artist, Luigi is a figment of her imagination.

Wc: 4,153

Notes: ONEIRIX™ is a dream enhancement supplement designed to intensify and prolong REM sleep experiences.

AN: I DO plan on continuing this if requests for it are abundant. I have many, many ideas for how this story could go, but I will tell you, it’s a lil…. Twisted hehe. Also, my darling anon, I know this isn’t really “supernatural” but in hopes of not writing 10k again and learning when to stop, I must note that more supernatural elements will be tied in if this is requested enough for a continuation. Love you xox

"What's wrong with old-fashioned, regular dreams?" You stare across the table at Bailey, who leans forward with an almost evangelical intensity, her blue eyes gleaming with the same fervor as when she pitched her start-up ideas or insisted everyone try CrossFit. "Is nothing sacred anymore? Do we have to optimize and upgrade every last human experience?"

"No," Bailey says, drumming her fingers against the table, her half-eaten omelette growing cold. She keeps shaking her head as if your resistance personally offends her. "These are revolutionary — they're going to change the way we think, bitch." The words come out with practiced casualness, like everything else about her these days.

She flicks a small pink baggie across the table, four obsidian-black pills rattling inside like tiny meteorites hurtling straight toward your earth.

"No." You slide the baggie back with a single finger, as if even touching it too long might leave a stain. "I don't need another vice."

"It's non-addictive." Bailey leans in, her voice dropping to that silky-smooth pitch she used to use selling timeshares in Miami. Despite her earlier promise that she wasn't working for them, you catch that familiar gleam in her eye — the one that surfaced with every pyramid scheme and side hustle she'd dragged you into. "I just need you to experience it. Just once."

The baggie sits between you like a dare, its pink sheen catching the diner's fluorescent lights, making the black pills inside gleam like wet ink.

"It could really inspire your art." She slides a journal across the table — black, unmarked, expensive-looking. "I've filled this thing with ideas already. It’s only been a week.”

She's found your weak spot now.

Those late-night calls, the wine-soaked confessions about your creative drought, the mounting pressure from your agent — it's all ammunition. "This could be your saving grace," she adds, and the words sink their hooks in deep. Your fingers twitch toward the baggie, career desperation beginning to outweigh your better judgment. “I’m dead serious.”

"Fine." You snatch the baggie and shove it deep into your purse, somewhere between old receipts and forgotten lipliner, secretly hoping it'll vanish into that void where hair ties and spare change go to die. "Give me the pamphlet. You clearly don't need it." You thrust out your hand, and Bailey practically glows as she slides over the sleek Oneirix packet, its metallic lettering catching the light like a sign you're choosing to ignore.

The pills had disappeared into your purse's black hole until Bailey's FaceTime lit up your phone the next afternoon. There she was, sleep mask pushed up like a crown, her face dewy with her latest hundred-dollar moisturizer. "So, did you try it?" Her grin was expectant, eager — the same look she'd worn pushing juice cleanses and crystal healing.

You glance at your desk, where half-finished canvases gather dust and untouched notebooks mock your creative drought.

Last night had been your usual routine; an hour-long shower where you'd solved all of life's problems and remembered none of them, three episodes of that show you're still trying to convince yourself you enjoy, and quality time with your artistic inadequacy.

"Not yet." You mumble around a spoonful of ice cream, your attention split between Bailey's glowing face and whatever's playing on Netflix — neither getting your full focus.

"Girl," she clicks her tongue, and you can hear the judgment dripping through your phone speaker. "Go get them — are you scared?" The question hangs there, pointed and precise, like she's daring you.

You hate how well she knows you, how easily she can press that particular button.

Being called scared has always been your kryptonite, ever since she first met you at that high school gallery opening where you'd been too anxious to mingle.

"No." Your face twists into a scowl at her accusation. "I just forgot." You hit pause, abandoning both your show and melting ice cream to dig through your purse.

You find the baggie too easily, the pamphlet's glossy surface catching the light as you unfold it, its clinical text stark against the dark background.

ONEIRIX

DREAM ENHANCEMENT SUPPLEMENT

FOR INTENSIFIED & PROLONGED REM SLEEP EXPERIENCES

The instructions read like any over-the-counter medication.

One tablet, 30 minutes before bed, standard warnings about machinery and other medications.

"Okay." The pamphlet lands on your counter, its unread warnings fanning out like discarded playing cards. "Will it make me tired, or do I already have to be—"

"Oh, it knocks your ass out." Bailey's voice drifts from your abandoned phone, tinny and distant. You wrestle with the baggie's seal, the plastic refusing to cooperate until it suddenly gives, spilling one glossy black pill into your palm. "It works a hell of a lot faster than thirty minutes, too," she adds through a yawn.

You swallow the pill, and before you can even contemplate moving from the kitchen to your bed, a heaviness seeps into your limbs like honey dripping down glass.

Bailey's already drifted off on FaceTime, her gentle snores creating a strange duet with your own as consciousness slips away once you make it to the couch faster than falling.

The transition is jarring — not the usual soft fade into nonsensical dreams, but a sharp snap into awareness. You know you're dreaming, the way you know your own name, the way you know the sky is blue. It's like someone's turned up the saturation on reality, made everything clearer and brighter than it has any right to be.

This isn't the usual dream-fog where your brain accepts that your childhood home has suddenly sprouted wings or that your teeth are falling out at a gallery show.

This is different.

This is aware.

You wiggle your toes in the grass — actual, individual blades tickling your feet, not the vague suggestion of grass that usually populates dreams. Your manicure catches the sunlight, that specific shade of dusty rose you picked last Tuesday, tiny chips and all.

The rings on your fingers still catch when you twist them, that familiar nervous habit following you even here. Everything about you is preserved with photograph precision, dropped into this impossible elsewhere.

"Jesus," escapes your lips, the word carried away by a breeze that feels too perfectly warm to be real. The butterflies dance overhead like confetti caught in reverse, their wings painted in colors that might not exist in the waking world. You watch one land on a nearby flower, and you can see every detail of its wings, every tiny pattern — the kind of detail your sleeping mind has never bothered with before. "This is fucking-"

“Hey.”

The voice cuts through your wonder, and you spin, heart somehow racing in this dream-that's-not-quite-a-dream.

He's there, solid as the ground beneath your feet — no dream-logic shimmer or fade around the edges. Tall, with shoulders that could carry atlas's burden, and features that seem carved rather than grown. His smile plays at the corners of his mouth like he knows a secret you don't, but it's not threatening. If anything, it pulls at something in your chest, a curiosity that feels dangerous in its intensity.

"Hey," you echo, the word coming out softer than intended. Your eyes sweep the meadow, searching for other dreamers or figures or whatever they might be called here. But it's just him, just you, just this perfect pocket of perpetual summer afternoon stretching out in all directions.

"S'just me." His hand extends between you like a bridge, and you notice how the sunlight catches on his knuckles, creating shadows you could count. No name follows, just that smile deepening into dimples.

"Your name?” You tilt your chin down, adopting the pose of someone who's seen too many crime documentaries to trust a nameless stranger, even in a dream. Your eyebrows arch high enough to feel the stretch — another impossible sensation that feels too real.

"Seems you haven't decided yet."

"I haven't decided?"

He shrugs, the gesture rippling across those shoulders like a wave, and something flickers in his expression - like a TV losing signal for just a moment. "Yeah." He blinks, and you can see him searching his own mind, coming up empty. "Haven't decided yet."

Your eyes travel his form like you're memorizing a sculpture. The elegant taper from broad shoulders to narrow waist, the careful strength in his forearms, the way he holds himself — somehow both completely at ease and coiled with potential energy. His eyes meet yours with that puppy-dog hopefulness that seems at odds with his imposing frame, that half-smile still playing on his lips.

"Lu—ee-" The sound stretches between you, and you can taste the wrongness of it. Your head tilts, and suddenly it clicks. "Luigi."

Luigi nods, a slow, knowing motion, and reaches behind him. The wallet arcs through the air, and when you catch it, the leather feels warm, like it's been sitting in summer sunshine. It falls open in your hands, and there it is — Luigi Mangione, printed in stark bureaucratic certainty. "I thought you'd say that."

The urge to gasp, to stumble back in shock, rises and falls like a wave. Reality — or whatever version of it this is — reasserts itself with the gentle persistence of tide coming in. Of course you knew his name. Of course you did. Just like you knew the exact shade of his eyes, the precise angle of his jaw, the way his right dimple is slightly deeper than his left.

There’s a reason he feels familiar.

You made him.

"Well, Luigi," The name feels like syrup on your tongue as you pivot, bare feet finding their path through grass as the sun drapes over your shoulders like a tailored shawl, warming without burning, perfect in that way only dreams can manage. "I'm sure you know who I am."

Luigi falls into step beside you, a flag leaf dancing between his lips as he walks.

His presence feels as natural as your shadow, a complement to your movement rather than an intrusion. "Of course," he says, and his voice carries the same gentle warmth as the sunlight, the same easy invitation as the wind that plays with your hair.

The grass gives way to reveal a pond that looks like liquid mercury in the sunlight. "I've been waiting awhile for you — seemed to have run out of ways to pass the time."

You stand at the water's edge, watching swans carve elegant paths across the surface, their reflections perfect mirrors in the still water, and in the distance, ducks conduct their quiet conversations. "Are you saying you're bored of everything here?"

"No," Luigi's fingers brush your sleeve, gentle but insistent, like a breeze that knows where it's going. As he steps forward, wildflowers burst into existence beneath his feet — first violets, then daisies, then flowers you've never seen before, in colors that shouldn't exist. "I'm saying it gets lonely doing the same thing everyday on your own."

Luigi continues forward, leaving his galaxy of flowers behind, but you find yourself frozen, watching the way the light catches his silhouette.

"How many times?" The question escapes before you can catch it. "How many times have I been here and left?"

He pauses mid-step, and for a moment, the whole dreamscape seems to hold its breath — the swans pause their gliding, the breeze stills, even the wildflowers stop their eager blooming. When he turns to face you, his smile carries a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

"It’s been so long, but — " he pauses, and somehow the words don't sound like an accusation. "Sometimes for seconds, sometimes for hours. Sometimes you remember me, sometimes you don't. But you always come back eventually. And I'm always here."

You swallow, “How long has it been?"

His laugh drifts through the air, light and melodic. "Long enough that I've watched these trees grow from saplings." His bare feet shift in the grass, toes curling against the earth. "Long enough that I've named every swan on this pond, then named their children, and then their children's children."

The wildflowers continue once again their blooming beneath his steps — first soft pinks, then deep purples, then blues that seem to glow from within. Each petal unfolds with deliberate precision, creating a trail that marks his path across the meadow.

You notice how he holds himself, the way his shoulders stay perfectly squared, his posture too fluid, too precise for someone who's supposed to be just a figment of your dreams. "So I looked different last time?" you wonder, trailing behind him again, catching the slight nod.

"We were both younger then." Luigi turns back to you and grins, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “I’ve really missed you."

His voice carries the warmth of old sunlight, that rare sincerity that can't be fabricated — something in his presence that felt secure, anchoring, his nature as gentle as summer rain.

But the look in his eyes betrayed what his smile tried to hide — he knew you didn't remember him, and that knowledge lived somewhere deep and wounded inside him.

You could see it now, in the careful way he held himself back, how his initial greeting carried just enough warmth to be kind but not enough to overwhelm. Your memory of him had been burning away like lit matches with each passing year, while he'd been trapped here, holding onto every detail of who you used to be.

Luigi lead you further into the meadow, another pond materializing somewhere further into the deep but Luigi seemed far too familiar with this terrain, and you trusted each turn, “Have I given you different names?”

He shakes his head with a laugh, soft and bittersweet, almost as if he couldn't imagine wearing any other name than your Luigi. "No." He scrunches his nose, a gesture so achingly familiar it feels like déjà vu. "One time I almost thought you were going to, but — nope. Always some variation of Luigi."

The questions dance at the edges of your consciousness like autumn leaves in a wind, but somehow the answers are already there, settled in your bones like old truths. Why he lets you choose, how he knows when recognition lights your eyes and when they stay dark with forgetting — it's all written in a language your mind has forgotten but your heart still speaks fluently.

"I saw you for a minute somewhere near the streams last winter." His voice softens, eyes distant as if watching memories drift past like leaves on water. "It was only for a split moment — but I knew it was you, even though you'd changed."

Your heart twists with a horrible dread, sharp and cold as winter frost, weighed down by the certainty that he'll slip through your fingers like morning mist the moment you wake. "How do I make myself remember?" The words fall soft as prayer between you both, your knees brushing as you sit beside him.

He turns to you with that gentle patience that speaks of having heard this same desperate question from your lips a hundred times before, in a hundred different dreams.

He draws your hand into his lap with practiced ease, his fingertips ghosting over yours like butterfly wings — a gesture so deeply ingrained it speaks of countless similar moments, his soul remembering the map of your hands better than your own mind does. It doesn't feel strange to fall back into these rhythms with Luigi; everything has felt as natural as breathing since you landed here, like slipping into a dance your feet never truly forgot. "I know parts of me remember you," you whisper into the space between heartbeats, watching his fingers trace invisible patterns across your skin. "I know you feel familiar.”

Luigi nods slowly, pressing your palm to his cheek with a gentle sigh that carries the weight of a thousand forgotten moments. "We never learned how to make you remember," he murmurs, his voice wrapped in forced lightness that can't quite mask the undertow of grief beneath. "Always a toss up."

You swing your feet from the mossy ledge where Luigi sits, the ancient stone cool beneath you both.

He leans back on his palms, wearing a smile that's equal parts joy and resignation — a man who's learned to find peace in fleeting moments.

There's something heartbreaking in how he's already accepted that this too will slip through the sieve of your memory, but still treasures your presence like water in a desert, grateful just to have you here at all.

"I'll remember this time." The words spill out like a vow, fragile as spun glass but burning with conviction. Even as you speak them, you know they might shatter come morning, but something feels different here — each detail crystalline and alive, from the whisper of wind in the leaves to the warmth of his shoulder against yours.

This doesn't feel like the usual gossamer threads of dreams; it feels like stepping through a door into somewhere achingly real.

"Mm." Luigi's shoulder brushes yours, a gentle pendulum of contact, and though his hum carries years of gentle disbelief, he can't suppress the smile that softens his features. "All that matters is that you're here now, I think."

You nod slowly, watching your legs paint pendulum shadows against the water below. "Is there anyone else here?" The whisper slips out conspiratorial and soft, your eyes scanning the peaceful landscape as if its emptiness might be deceiving.

"No." Luigi shrugs, tossing a stone into the pond where it breaks the surface in perfect ripples. "You thought up a couple weird little-“ he scrunches his nose, lost in the memory of your previous creations — specifically those tiny Trojan warriors you'd accidentally willed into existence, who'd turned the peaceful fields into their own private battlefield. "It's just never worked out." He turns to you with a glimmer of fond exasperation, pressing a knuckle into your thigh. "You've got a rather dangerous imagination."

You swallow the question rising in your throat, deciding some doors are better left closed — for the sake of whatever fragments of sanity you still possess.

If there are any left to guard.

"Dangerous," you echo in a whisper, fighting back a bubble of laughter that threatens to spill over. "Well, scratch that, then.”

"It's always been you and me here." Luigi nods slowly, his voice taking on that particular texture of someone guarding something precious. "Outsiders make me nervous."

From that careful admission, you piece together a history of well-intentioned mistakes — multiple attempts at populating this sanctuary that ended in ways that left shadows in Luigi's voice. Each failure seems etched in the spaces between his words, a collection of experiments gone wrong. "That's fair," you murmur, reaching for his hand with gentle curiosity. He surrenders it without hesitation, letting you trace the lines of his palm like a map of all your shared disasters.

There's something profoundly real in the way his skin warms yours, in the faint calluses and subtle creases — too detailed, too imperfect to be mere imagination, yet too perfect in its imperfection to be anything else.

"How is the gallery stuff going?" His question floats between you, and for a heartbeat, confusion sparks — how could he know about the gallery?

But the answer settles over you like dawn breaking.

Of course he knows.

He knows the way your hands shake before each opening, the doubt that pools in your stomach when you face a blank canvas, the elation of a perfect brushstroke. He knows your fears dressed in their Sunday best and your dreams in their rawest form.

You made him.

Crafted him from stardust and loneliness, shaped him from the clay of your subconscious until he became more real than reality itself — your most perfect creation, yet the one you can never quite remember come morning.

"I haven't been inspired in — god," you trail off, turning to truly see him, and the dormant artist in you awakens with a sudden, fierce hunger. The sunlight plays architect with his features, gilding each detail you'd unconsciously perfected; those midnight curls catching light like cut obsidian, the almost-symmetrical beauty marks dotting his cheeks like carefully placed stars, the classical slope of his nose that Renaissance masters would have wept to capture.

Your fingers twitch with phantom muscle memory, aching to translate him from this dream-reality to paper, to make permanent what feels so ethereal. "So long." The words fall soft and wondering, as if you've suddenly remembered how to speak a forgotten language — the language of creation, of beauty, of art itself.

Luigi hums softly, nuzzling your shoulder with a familiarity that sends your thoughts spiraling backward through time. "Well, let's get you inspired," he murmurs, his breath warm against your neck, and suddenly you're wrestling with questions you've been too afraid to examine.

The intimacy of the gesture opens a door to memories of your teenage self — those raw, lonely years when you were all sharp edges and desperate yearning, underwhelmed by fumbling high school romances and overwhelmed by feelings.

You created him then, in those twilight hours between childhood and adulthood. A friend first, undoubtedly — a sanctuary in human form when the real world felt too abrasive to bear.

But now, feeling the casual tenderness of his touch, you wonder about the blurred lines in your shared history. If perhaps you'd written more than friendship into his DNA during those hormone-soaked nights, those moments when loneliness wore your resistance thin.

You melt into his warmth, drawn by a gravity as familiar as breathing, like a desperate moth to a flame you've danced with a thousand times before. "How do we do that?" The question hangs deliberately innocent, though electricity already hums beneath your skin with anticipated answers.

Luigi's response is immediate and devastating — the warm, wet slide of his tongue painting a deliberate path up your neck. Time stretches as he savors you, the gesture somehow both predatory and reverent.

"Maybe we could jog your memory, too." His voice drops to that particular octave that makes your bones liquid, left hand claiming your chin while his right arm becomes a band of heat around your waist, orchestrating your body until you're straddling his lap. "I remember exactly the things you like the most," teeth graze your pulse point as his hands span your back, fingertips pressing into your spine like he's playing music only he knows the notes to, "and the things you hate."

"How do you know those things haven't changed, Lu?" Your fingers find sanctuary in his curls, each strand impossibly soft, and the breeze carries the essence of August - sun-warmed grass, distant thunderstorms, ripening fruit. The scent of endless summer, bottled in this perfect moment.

"I guess there's only one way to find out, don't you think?" The question unfolds like a flower between you as Luigi tilts his head back, studying you through heavy-lidded eyes.

His lips part, pink and promising, an unspoken dare wrapped in velvet invitation. And you — you who have always been more poet than pragmatist — surrender to the gravitational pull of him. You lean in like a sunset chasing the horizon, drawn to the heat of his mouth, the shared breath between you becoming sacred thing.

His tongue moves against yours with practiced poetry, his lips a tender geography you're rediscovering. Every nip of teeth is precisely timed, a choreography written in muscle memory and want. Just as his hands find the warm skin beneath your shirt, reality fractures — a void tears through the dream like ink spilled across a watercolor.

The darkness swallows everything, sudden and absolute.

You jolt awake with violence, heart thundering against your ribs. The familiar couch cushions press against your cheek, mundane and mocking. The real world crashes back into focus with brutal clarity; the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the wall clock, the morning light cutting through back scatter.

Each detail feels like a betrayal, a reminder that Luigi exists only in that liminal space between sleeping and waking, where longing takes shape and wears a face you crafted from starlight and need.

"No." The word escapes as a soft, desperate plea. Your hand reaches for the sketchbook and pen with the urgency of someone grasping at smoke, at fragments of a dream determined to dissolve.

And there he is — Luigi materializing before you like a miracle answering desperate prayers, your artist's eye already translating the divine geometry of his face onto paper before memory can steal him away.

You are the faithful at the altar, he the vision you're determined to make tangible.

The alarm screams again, reality's insistent hammer against your temple. "Fuck off!" you snarl, jabbing at the screen with unnecessary force, brows knitted with the particular fury reserved for things that dare interrupt worship.

The real world can wait.

Right now, there are curves of ink to capture, beauty marks to map, and the precise angle of summer sunlight in black curls to remember.

Hey, I think you were right about the pills

You text Bailey after lunch.

Holy shit

#luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic #req

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