Author are you making fan fiction I just wanted a crossover fanfiction featuring M!T/N as Mikey from the timeline where he’s the head of Bonten.
He enters the world of Assassination Classroom in his own body when he was fifteen.
And if possible, let it be yaoi.
Mikey, let him be the active one, and Karma the passive one
you ask you may receive I hope you like this
"If you keep staring at the ceiling like that, I'm going to assume you've finally turned into a piece of furniture," Karma said, his voice trailing off with a lazy, amused lilt.
The room was quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of a wall clock and the distant, muffled sounds of students chatting in the hallway. It was the kind of silence that felt heavy, as if the air itself were waiting for something to break. On the desk lay a stack of ungraded papers and a half-empty bottle of tea, the condensation dripping slowly down the plastic side. The sunlight filtered through the blinds in sharp, diagonal slats, cutting the room into slices of gold and shadow.
Mikey didn’t move, but a small, ghost of a smile touched his lips. He was staring at a singular, peeling flake of white paint on the ceiling, imagining it as a map of a city he no longer had to rule. The weight of the Bonten era—the sleepless nights, the suffocating scent of expensive cigars and old blood, the crushing loneliness of the peak—felt like a fever dream that had finally broken. Here, in this strange classroom, the only thing he had to manage was the peculiar curiosity of a red-haired boy who seemed to find the world as boring as he did.
"Furniture is too stationary," Mikey replied, his voice soft but carrying that innate, commanding gravity that fifteen-year-old bodies weren't supposed to possess. He finally shifted, sitting up with a fluid, predatory grace that didn't match his small frame. He looked at Karma, really looked at him, noting the way the other boy leaned back in his chair with a calculated nonchalance. Karma was a puzzle of contradictions, a mix of genuine intellect and a streak of mischief that felt dangerously familiar.
Karma didn’t flinch under that gaze, though his expression shifted from casual amusement to a flicker of genuine intrigue. He had spent his life reading people, categorizing them by their weaknesses and desires, but the boy sitting across from him felt like a book written in a language he hadn’t learned yet. There was a stillness to Mikey that wasn't the result of discipline, but of a profound, exhausted patience. It was the look of someone who had already seen the end of the world and decided it was tedious.
"You're a strange one, Mikey," Karma murmured, shifting his weight so the chair legs groaned against the linoleum. "Most kids here are vibrating with anxiety about the end of the world or trying to impress the teacher. You act like you're just visiting."
"Visiting is the only way to survive a place like this," Mikey replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He stood up, the movement effortless, and began to pace the narrow aisle between the desks. He didn’t walk like a student; he walked like a man who owned the building, the street it sat on, and the air everyone was breathing. He stopped just inches from Karma, invading his personal space with a boldness that would have been arrogant if it weren't so natural. He reached out, his fingers grazing the fabric of Karma’s sleeve, a small, instinctive gesture of possession that felt more like a habit than a choice.
Karma didn't pull away. In fact, he leaned into the proximity, his golden eyes narrowing as he studied the way Mikey’s gaze never quite seemed to focus on the present. He could feel the strange, magnetic pull of the smaller boy—a gravity that didn't just attract, but demanded. It was an intoxicating sensation for someone who usually held all the cards. For the first time in his life, Karma felt the sudden, thrilling urge to be the one who followed rather than the one who led.
"You don't even like being followed," Mikey observed, his voice humming with a low, knowing quality. He didn't pull his hand away; instead, his thumb traced the line of Karma’s wrist, a slow and deliberate pressure that seemed to anchor the red-haired boy to the spot. "You're used to being the one who orchestrates the chaos. The one who watches from the sidelines while everyone else dances to your tune."
Karma let out a short, breathy laugh, though he didn't move to reclaim his space. The air between them had shifted, thickening into something dense and electric. He found himself fascinated by the contrast of Mikey’s youthful appearance and the ancient, heavy shadow that clung to his spirit. It was a predatory sort of comfort, like being caught in the gaze of a lion that had decided, for the moment, not to eat. "And you're used to being the conductor," Karma countered, his voice dropping an octave. "Though you're playing a very different song here than the one you're thinking about."
Mikey’s smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. He stepped even closer, the distance between them now a mere breath of air, his chest almost brushing against Karma’s shoulder. He liked the way Karma’s breathing had hitched—a tiny, involuntary fracture in that polished facade of indifference. It was a subtle victory, the kind of small, tactile confirmation that Mikey craved in a world that felt too bright and too loud. "The song is the same," Mikey whispered, his voice like velvet over steel. "Only the instruments have changed."
He shifted his hand from Karma's wrist, his palm sliding upward to cup the side of Karma’s neck. It wasn't a tentative touch; it was decisive, the fingers curling slightly to pull the red-haired boy just a fraction closer. The gesture was an assertion of dominance, a silent claim that bypassed the need for words. In the Bonten era, Mikey had commanded thousands with a single glance; here, in the quiet of Class 3-E, he found a different kind of thrill in commanding the undivided attention of a boy who considered himself untouchable.
Karma felt a sudden, sharp spark of vertigo, as if the floor of the classroom had tilted beneath him. He was used to being the predator, the one who played with his food, but under Mikey’s palm, he felt a strange, dormant part of himself awaken—a desire to simply stop thinking, to stop calculating, and to let someone else take the wheel. The pressure of Mikey’s hand against his neck was warm and unwavering, a physical anchor that silenced the constant, humming noise of Karma's own analytical mind.
"You're surprisingly quiet," Mikey murmured, his voice vibrating against Karma's skin. He didn't pull away; instead, he tilted his head, studying the flush that had crept up Karma's cheeks. The expression on Mikey's face was one of genuine curiosity, as if he were discovering a new hobby. He leaned in, his forehead almost brushing Karma's, and for a moment, the classroom—the desks, the chalkboard, the looming threat of a yellow octopus-like teacher—ceased to exist. There was only the rhythmic beat of two hearts and the suffocatingly sweet tension of a space too small for two people.
"Is this where you usually keep your secrets?" Mikey whispered, his breath warm against Karma's cheek. "Right here, behind a smirk and a level of boredom that’s almost performative?"
Karma didn’t answer immediately. He couldn't. The analytical gears in his head had ground to a halt, replaced by a heavy, humming stillness. He had spent years perfecting the art of being the most dangerous person in the room, but Mikey wasn't playing that game. Mikey had already won a game Karma didn't even know was being played. He felt the smaller boy’s fingers tighten slightly against his skin, a possessive grip that should have felt restrictive, yet instead felt like a sanctuary. For someone who spent every waking hour calculating his next move, the sensation of being completely read—and completely claimed—was an intoxicating relief.
The bell for the next period rang, a shrill, mechanical scream that shattered the vacuum between them, but neither moved. The sound echoed through the room, signaling the return of their classmates, yet the silence Mikey had constructed around them remained intact. Karma blinked, his gaze drifting to the doorway where the distant chatter of students was beginning to swell. Usually, he would have already pivoted, sliding back into his persona of the lazy genius with a sharp remark ready on his tongue. Now, however, he found himself lingering in the gravity of Mikey’s touch, his muscles refusing to snap back into their usual guarded tension.
Mikey didn't pull away as the first few students began to trickle back into the room. Instead, he allowed his hand to slide slowly from Karma’s neck to his shoulder, a lingering trail of warmth that felt like a brand. He stepped back just enough to restore a semblance of normalcy, though the air still shimmered with the residue of their proximity. His expression had returned to that vacant, serene mask, but his eyes remained fixed on Karma, tracing the slight tremor in the other boy’s shoulders. It was a look of quiet ownership, the kind of look a king gives a prized possession that he knows is not yet fully aware it has been captured.
"You're late, Karma! And Mikey, I didn't see you in the hall!" Nagisa’s voice drifted toward them, accompanied by the rhythmic thumping of sneakers on the linoleum. The red-haired boy finally exhaled, a long, shaky breath that seemed to release the tension in his chest, though his eyes never left Mikey's. The shift in the atmosphere was abrupt; the oppressive, intimate silence was replaced by the mundane chaos of teenage energy. Karma felt a strange sense of mourning for that silence as it evaporated, leaving him feeling oddly exposed in the bright light of the classroom.
Mikey stepped away completely, his movements reverting to that deceptive, sleepy languor. He slid back into his seat with a sigh, resting his chin in his palm and staring out the window at the distant mountains. To any observer, he looked like a bored middle schooler daydreaming about lunch. But Karma, still standing by his desk, could feel the phantom pressure of those fingers on his neck. He sat down slowly, his movements uncharacteristically heavy, as he realized he was staring at the back of Mikey’s head with a hunger that bordered on desperation.
