Under the Mistletoe with U.A. Students, Class 1-A
The realization hits him like a sudden gust of winter wind. One second he’s happily discussing All Might’s vintage holiday merch with you, the next he glances up, spots the sprig of green and berries, and looks down to see he’s trapped you both beneath it.
His entire face transforms into a spectacular shade of crimson. A choked, wheezing sound escapes him—not quite a word, not quite a sob.
“I-I-I—! The mistletoe! It’s, um, a tradition rooted in Norse mythology, actually, b-but that’s not important right now—!”
He begins to mutter at lightning speed, a storm of panic and analysis. “Is it obligatory? What’s the proper social protocol? A handshake seems insufficient, but a kiss on the cheek carries significant social weight—what if I misread the situation? What if I offend—?”
He’s so lost in his spiral he doesn’t even notice you’ve taken pity on him. A gentle, fleeting peck on his flaming cheek finally shuts off his brain. He freezes completely, wide green eyes staring into the middle distance, steam practically wafting from his ears.
For the rest of the night, he’s in a blissful daze, occasionally touching his cheek with a soft, wobbly smile. He later spends two pages in his hero notebook analyzing the event, titled: “A Most Fortuitous and Nerve-Wracking Strategic Positioning: Incident Report.”
He’s backing you into a corner, arguing about who won their last training simulation when the back of his head gently bumps the mistletoe hanging from a doorway. He doesn’t notice. You do, and your eyes flick upward.
“What’s that look for, huh?” He follows your gaze. His explosive smirk instantly dies, replaced by a scowl of utter contempt. “The hell is this cheap setup? Who the fuck hangs weeds in a doorway?”
He scoffs, crossing his arms and looking away, a faint pink tinge high on his cheeks. “Tch. Dumb tradition for extras. Don’t get any ideas.”
But he doesn’t move. He just stands there, waiting, tense like a coiled spring. If you try to laugh it off and duck away, his hand shoots out to gently grip your wrist.
“Hey. I didn’t say you could leave.” His voice is a low grumble.
If you lean in, he meets you halfway. It’s not soft, but it’s purposeful and firm, over in a second. He immediately pulls back, shoves his hands in his pockets, and stomps off, grumbling about “stupid holiday crap.” But you’ll catch him glancing back at you from across the room for the rest of the party, a smug, satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
He’s standing beside you in comfortable silence, both of you watching the class chaos unfold, when someone points and giggles. He looks up at the mistletoe, then down at you, his bi-colored eyes blinking once in slow comprehension.
“Ah,” he states, with the same tone he’d use to identify a type of rock. “Mistletoe. It’s a parasitic plant. During Christmas, it’s customary for two people caught beneath it to kiss.”
There’s no panic, no blushing. Just calm, factual processing. He then turns to face you fully, his expression utterly serene. “We are currently beneath it. Therefore, the custom applies to us.”
He leans in, but pauses a breath away, his cool composure finally showing a tiny crack—a slight, questioning tilt of his head. It’s his way of asking for clear consent, of making sure this is okay with you. The gesture is incredibly earnest.
The kiss itself is like him: initially a bit cool and reserved, but surprisingly gentle and sincere. Afterward, he nods once, as if completing a logical task.
He’s in the middle of animatedly telling you a story about a "super manly" Christmas gift he's planning for Bakugo when he steps backward to emphasize a point and his head brushes the mistletoe. He notices immediately.
His story cuts off with a wide, sharp-toothed grin. “Whoa! Check it out! The mistletoe’s got us!” He points upward, his expression turning from excited to suddenly, genuinely flustered. A blush spreads across his cheeks, but he holds his ground, puffing out his chest a little.
“Well,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish but determined laugh. “A real man faces traditions head-on, right? No running away! That’d be totally unmanly.”
He’ll give you the most earnest, puppy-dog look, full of hope and a little nervous excitement. If you lean in, he meets you with equal enthusiasm. It’s warm, slightly clumsy in its eagerness, and over too quickly. He pulls back with a brilliant, sunshine-bright smile.
For the rest of the night, he’s practically vibrating with happy energy, throwing an arm around your shoulders whenever he gets the chance and declaring to anyone who will listen (especially a scowling Bakugo) that “Christmas traditions are the manliest!”
He’s the one who put the mistletoe there as a prank, hoping to catch two of his classmates. He’s hiding behind a couch, snickering, when you walk under it alone. He pops up to reposition it… just as someone else walks by and bumps into him, shoving him directly under the sprig with you.
His own trap has been sprung on him. His eyes go wide, then his signature dumbfounded, sparking grin appears. “Uh… Surprise? Jamming-whey!”
He starts to laugh, a little nervous and a lot goofy.
“I guess the Pikachu gets caught in his own Poké Ball, huh? Or—wait, that metaphor got away from me.”
He’ll absolutely milk the moment for all its comedic worth, posing dramatically and waggling his eyebrows. But if you play along and lean in, the bravado fades for a split second into genuine, sweet surprise. The kiss is quick and maybe a little electrically charged.
He pulls back, his face red, and immediately short-circuits. He spends the next five minutes with a dopey smile and sparking hair, giving a thumbs-up to a cackling Mina.
He’s using his Tape to hang decorations and accidentally tapes a piece of mistletoe to the ceiling directly above himself while he’s adjusting a string of lights. He doesn't notice until you walk over to hand him another ornament.
He looks down to thank you, follows your amused gaze upward, and lets out a surprised, good-natured chuckle. “Oops. My bad. That’s some prime tactical placement, if I do say so myself.”
He grins, a relaxed, playful smile on his face. There’s no panic, just a smooth, accepting amusement. “Well, you know what they say. When life—or your own Quirk—gives you mistletoe…”
He’ll make a show of offering his elbow as if escorting you into the "designated zone," his eyes crinkling with mirth. His kiss is likely on the cheek—soft, friendly, and accompanied by a warm, quiet laugh against your skin.
Afterward, he’ll keep the mistletoe taped right there as a fun little landmark for the party, pointing it out to other unsuspecting classmates with a wink in your direction.
“Careful, it’s a sticky situation.”
She glances up, spots the mistletoe, and lets out a tiny, high-pitched “Eep!”
Her reaction is immediate and dramatic: she slaps her hands to her cheeks in classic Uraraka fashion. On instinct, she activates her Quirk on herself and begins to float upwards towards the mistletoe, not away from it.
She fumbles, canceling her Quirk and landing lightly back on her feet, now even more flustered. Her face is the color of a ripe strawberry.
“S-sorry! That was— I mean, we’re…”
If you steady her or laugh warmly, she melts a little, her panic replaced by a sweet, wobbly smile. She’s the type to close her eyes tightly and lean in for a quick, chaste peck, so soft it’s like being kissed by a cloud.
Afterwards, she’s adorably floaty. She might accidentally make a plate of cookies weightless in her giddy daze. For the rest of the night, she finds excuses to stand near you, her smiles brighter than the Christmas lights.
She notices the mistletoe first. You’re talking when her large, perceptive eyes flick upwards, then back to you. She doesn’t get flustered; she simply points a finger up at it.
She states it as a simple, calm fact. “It’s a holiday custom to kiss underneath it. Ribbit.” There’s a thoughtful pause as she tilts her head. “Do you want to follow the custom? I don’t mind either way.”
If you say yes or show agreement, she’ll give a small, sincere nod. She’s straightforward and gentle. She might even put a comforting hand on your shoulder first, her touch is always cool and steady.
The kiss is just as direct and kind as she is. It’s not overly long, but it’s deliberate and leaves a sense of quiet fondness. She pulls back with a soft “Kero…” and a subtle, warm smile that reaches her eyes.
Later, if someone else gets caught under the mistletoe and is being awkward, she’ll say plainly, “It’s not so hard. [Reader’s Name] and I did it. Ribbit.” Leaving you both to deal with the ensuing chorus of teasing “Ooooh!”s from Mina and Kaminari.
She is the architect. She orchestrated this entire scenario. She saw you standing there, saw her target approaching, and “accidentally” bumped into them so they’d step right under the sprig she taped up five minutes ago.
The second you’re both trapped, she pops out from behind a potted plant, mischievous grin. “MISTLETOE ALERT! No moves allowed until the tradition is fulfilled! Them’s the rules!”
She’ll start a rhythmic clap, quickly getting the whole class to join in.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
She’s the ultimate hype-woman, her eyes sparkling with pure, unadulterated joy at creating this chaos.
If either of you looks too hesitant, she’ll switch tactics instantly, putting an arm around each of you and stage-whispering, “C’mon, it’s just a cute holiday thing! A little peck! For the spirit of the season! And for my entertainment!” She says the last part with a wink.
After the deed is done (and she’s taken approximately a million blurry photos), she throws her arms around you both in a group hug. “Aww! So cute! My heart is so full! Okay, who’s next?!”
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