(Girl/Sir/Whatever you are, give me your discord at this point XD. You request so much I'd like to get to know you if that's alright.)

It was one of those rare mornings where the League of Villains wasn’t bleeding, plotting, or running from someone. No alarms, no explosions, no “we have to move now.” The hideout felt… tired, but in a contented way.

The couch cushions sagged under the weight of too many bodies over too many nights. The floorboards groaned in protest at every step. A single radio hummed faintly from a corner table—not quite music, not quite news, more just background noise so the silence wouldn’t feel too loud.

Everyone had splintered off into their own little worlds.

Tomura sat in his usual corner, knees drawn up, hunched over a handheld game console. The dim blue light flickered over his pale face, his fingers moving with fast, nervous precision. Occasionally, he’d mutter something sharp under his breath when the game didn’t go his way, but otherwise, he was oddly quiet.

Dabi had claimed the arm of the couch like it was his throne, lazily flipping a lighter open and shut with a steady click, shhh… click, shhh…. His eyes tracked the flame each time it sparked to life, before he’d snap it closed again, smirking at some private thought.

Toga sprawled across the opposite couch, swinging her legs in the air as she leaned over a notebook, sketching something in frantic, messy lines. She hummed an unrecognizable tune, tapping her pen against the paper.

Mr. Compress, ever the gentleman, had claimed a wooden chair near the window and was quietly mending a tear in his long coat. The rhythmic sound of thread sliding through fabric was oddly soothing.

Magne was parked at the dining table, leaning back with one arm draped over the back of her chair, sipping something from a chipped mug. She looked relaxed, eyes half-lidded, just… listening.

Mustard sat cross-legged on the floor with a stack of comic books he must’ve dragged out from somewhere in storage. His gas mask rested beside him, leaving his short hair sticking up awkwardly. Occasionally, he snorted at a panel, flipping the page with a speed only an impatient reader could manage.

Muscular—surprisingly—was on the far side of the room, hunched over a deck of cards as if trying to figure out a game. A single muttered curse made it clear it wasn’t going well.

Kurogiri polished glasses behind the bar, moving like a shadow with purpose, though his smoky form seemed a little less… rigid today. He had no particular rush in his movements, as though even he allowed himself this slower pace.

Twice paced along the length of the rug, holding a conversation with himself that veered between cheerful and agitated, depending on which “voice” answered. He didn’t seem particularly distressed, though—more like he was entertaining himself.

And then there was you.

You weren’t in the center of the room, nor entirely tucked away. You’d claimed a spot on the floor near the couch, surrounded by whatever had caught your interest that day — maybe a puzzle, maybe an art project, maybe just a collection of small objects you were sorting in your own way. You were quiet, but focused, occasionally bouncing one leg or humming under your breath without realizing it.

It was comfortable like this—a rare quiet that didn’t feel fragile. Everyone simply existed together.

But after a while, someone noticed.

It was Magne who broke the comfortable hum of the day. She leaned forward at the table, setting her mug down with a soft clink. “Hey, kid,” she called gently, her voice warm, but curious.

You looked up from what you were doing, blinking at her.

“Not to pry,” she started slowly, “but… are you, maybe… neurodivergent?” She said it without teasing, without judgment—like she was asking if you liked tea or coffee.

For a second, the room didn’t change. Then, slowly, the question rippled outward.

Toga tilted her head, smiling faintly, though there was no malice in it. “Ohhh… that explains a lot.”

Dabi raised a brow, pausing mid-click of his lighter. “Explains what, exactly?” he asked.