YVES₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎♡

𝄞⨾💿✮˚.⋆𝄞⨾💿✮˚.⋆𝄞⨾💿✮˚.⋆𝄞⨾💿✮˚.⋆𝄞⨾💿✮˚.⋆𝄞⨾💿✮˚.⋆𝄞⨾💿✮˚.⋆𝄞⨾💿

Synopsis:Nanami Kento is a man of routine. Work. Responsibility. Long hours and dangerous missions. But no matter how exhausting the day becomes, there is always one place he wants to return to. One person who makes everything worth it. And on a quiet evening at home, Nanami realizes once again that loving you is the easiest choice he has ever made—even if it means risking everything.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The lock clicks softly.

Nanami Kento exhales the moment he steps inside the apartment.

The day had been long. Curses were relentless, paperwork even worse, and his tie had felt suffocating for most of the afternoon. But the moment the door closes behind him, the tension in his shoulders loosens slightly.

Home.

A soft melody drifts through the apartment.

Nanami pauses while removing his shoes, listening carefully.

Music.

Warm, slow, gentle.

The kind that fills the room without demanding attention.

He follows the sound into the living room and finds you standing near the kitchen counter, humming quietly while stirring something in a pot. The lights are dim, the city glowing through the windows behind you.

You sway a little to the rhythm, completely unaware that he’s watching.

Nanami feels something in his chest soften.

“You’re home already?”

You turn when you finally notice him, your face lighting up immediately.

“There you are,” you say, smiling. “How was work?”

“Long,” Nanami answers honestly.

He loosens his tie with one hand, his gaze never leaving you. “But manageable.”

You walk closer, noticing the faint exhaustion in his eyes.

“You look tired.”

“Occupational hazard.”

You laugh softly. “Dinner’s almost ready. I thought music might help make the apartment feel less quiet.”

Nanami glances toward the speaker.

The song playing is slow and sentimental, the kind meant for lingering moments.

“…It’s nice,” he says.

You tilt your head. “You like it?”

“Yes.”

A simple answer.

But Nanami Kento has never been a man who wastes words.

You smile, satisfied, and turn back toward the kitchen.

Nanami watches you for a moment longer before quietly setting his briefcase down.

Then he walks toward you.

“May I borrow you for a moment?” he asks.

You blink in confusion. “Borrow me?”

Nanami gently takes your hand.

Your brain immediately stops working.

“Kento…?”

Without another word, he pulls you slightly closer.

His hand settles carefully at your waist.

Your eyes widen.

“Are we… dancing?”

Nanami adjusts his glasses slightly.

“Yes.”

“But dinner—”

“Can wait.”

Your laughter bubbles out immediately.

“That’s very unlike you.”

“I’m allowed exceptions.”

The two of you begin swaying slowly in the middle of the living room.

Nanami is steady and precise in every movement, guiding you effortlessly with quiet confidence. Your hands rest against his shoulders while his hold on your waist remains gentle but secure.

You sigh happily.

“You’re good at this.”

“I took ballroom lessons when I was younger.”

“…Of course you did.”

Nanami allows himself a small smile.

The music continues playing softly around you.

Outside, the city hums with distant life, but inside the apartment everything feels calm and warm.

You lean your head slightly against his chest.

Nanami’s heart stutters.

“You work too hard,” you murmur quietly.

“It’s part of the job.”

“I still worry.”

Nanami looks down at you.

Concern lingers in your voice—the same concern you show him every time he returns home.

It always surprises him.

After everything he faces in the world of sorcery, you remain the one person who looks at him like he’s something fragile.

“…You shouldn’t,” he says.

You frown slightly. “Why not?”

Nanami pauses.

His thumb brushes gently against your hand.

“I am careful.”

“I know.”

“But sometimes careful isn’t enough.”

The words slip out before he can stop them.

You pull back slightly to look at him.

“Kento?”

Nanami exhales quietly.

There are many things he does not say often. Many thoughts he keeps locked away behind calm logic and professionalism.

But tonight feels different.

“If something were to happen,” he says slowly, “if a mission went wrong…”

Your expression tightens.

Nanami gently squeezes your hand.

“I would still make the same choice.”

“What choice?”

His gaze softens.

“Returning to you.”

Your heart skips.

“You say that like it’s dangerous.”

Nanami gives a faint, thoughtful hum.

“In some ways, it is.”

You blink.

“How?”

Nanami studies your face carefully, as though committing every detail to memory.

“Because loving someone means accepting risk,” he says quietly.

The music continues playing behind you.

Soft.

Steady.

“But if it meant having this life with you…” Nanami continues, his voice low and sincere.

His hand tightens slightly around yours.

“I would risk everything.”

Your breath catches.

Nanami leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss against your forehead.

The song fades softly into the background.

And for the first time all day, Nanami Kento allows himself to truly relax.

Right where he belongs.

In your arms.

Synopsis:

You’ve spent countless nights together as friends. But something about New Year’s Eve—about endings and beginnings—makes Katsuki Bakugou wonder if tonight is when everything finally changes. ⋆꙳•❅‧₊⋆☃︎‧❆₊⋆⋆꙳•❅‧₊⋆☃︎‧❆₊⋆⋆꙳•❅‧₊⋆☃︎‧❆₊⋆⋆꙳•❅‧₊⋆☃︎‧❆₊⋆⋆꙳•❅‧₊⋆☃︎‧❆₊⋆

New Year’s Eve doesn’t start with fireworks.

It starts quietly—with dim lights, a ticking clock, and the strange awareness that time is slipping through your fingers whether you’re ready or not. It’s the kind of night that makes people reflective, even the ones who swear they don’t care about dates or milestones.

Katsuki Bakugou tells himself he’s one of those people.

But sitting beside you on the couch, knees brushing, warmth shared so naturally it doesn’t even register as new, he realizes he’s been lying to himself.

You’ve been friends for years. Real friends—the kind built on trust, shared exhaustion, and moments that don’t need explaining. You’ve seen him at his worst and never flinched. He’s seen you tired, vulnerable, laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe.

Friends.

The word has always been enough.

Until tonight.

You’re curled up comfortably beside him, scrolling through your phone, unaware that Bakugou Katsuki is painfully aware of every second passing. The TV murmurs in the background, counting down to a moment that feels heavier than it should.

He notices everything tonight.

The way your knee brushes his when you shift. The way you hum softly without realizing it. The way being here with him feels… easy.

Too easy.

He swallows, jaw tight.

“You good?” you ask suddenly, glancing at him.

“Yeah,” he answers too quickly. “Why?”

“You’ve been staring at the clock like it personally offended you.”

He scowls. “It’s loud.”

You laugh softly. “It’s not even midnight yet.”

That’s the problem.

Time keeps moving, dragging him closer to a choice he’s been avoiding. He finds excuses to touch you—handing you a drink, nudging your shoulder when you tease him, tugging the blanket higher when it slips from your legs.

Each touch lingers longer than it should.

“You’re being weird,” you say gently, not teasing this time.

“…I know.”

You turn to face him, curiosity replacing amusement. “Katsuki?”

He exhales slowly, like he’s bracing himself.

“There’s something I gotta say,” he mutters. “Before the year ends.”

Your heart skips. “Okay.”

The countdown starts on the TV—voices growing louder.

Ten… nine…

He doesn’t look at you yet.

“I’m bad at this,” he admits. “And I don’t wanna mess it up.”

Eight… seven…

You shift closer without thinking. “You won’t.”

Six…

He finally meets your eyes. There’s no fire in them tonight—just nerves and something frighteningly sincere.

“I think,” he says carefully, “that somewhere along the way… you stopped being just my friend.”

Five… four…

Your breath catches.

“I didn’t plan it,” he continues. “Didn’t want it at first. But now I—” His voice drops. “I don’t wanna start another year pretending I don’t feel this.”

Three…

You reach for his hand, squeezing gently. He freezes—then grips back like it’s instinct.

Two…

“Katsuki,” you whisper.

One—

Fireworks explode outside, light flooding the room.

He leans in—not kissing you yet—just resting his forehead against yours, breath warm, uneven.

“Happy New Year,” he murmurs. “If you’ll have me.”

You smile, heart full and steady. “I already do.”

That’s when he kisses you.

It’s hesitant. Soft. Like he’s asking permission with every movement. When you kiss him back, his relief is immediate—his hand sliding to your waist, grounding himself.

When you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours again.

“…So,” he mutters, ears pink. “Guess we’re not just friends anymore.”

You laugh softly. “Guess not.”

Outside, fireworks continue to light up the sky.

Synopsis:

You never chased attention. You never needed it. And somehow, that was exactly what pulled Katsuki Bakugou in. ⋆𐙚❅°⋆❆.ೃ࿔:⋆𐙚❅°⋆❆.ೃ࿔:⋆𐙚❅°⋆❆.ೃ࿔:⋆𐙚❅°⋆❆.ೃ࿔:⋆𐙚❅°⋆❆.ೃ࿔:

You were never loud.

You didn’t dominate rooms with your voice or presence, didn’t force yourself into conversations. You existed comfortably in your own space—shoulders back, gaze steady, confidence woven into the way you carried yourself.

Untouchable.

That was the word people used when they talked about you.

Katsuki Bakugou noticed you because you didn’t try to be noticed.

He saw it in training first—the way you moved with certainty, no wasted motion, no hesitation. Strong, but controlled. Confident, but never arrogant. You didn’t look to others for approval after a successful hit. You simply reset and moved on.

That pissed him off.

And intrigued him.

He started watching you more closely after that.

Not in the obvious way—Bakugou was too proud for that—but in the quiet moments. The way you listened more than you spoke. The way you met criticism with a calm nod and improvement instead of defensiveness. The way you never shrank yourself, even when standing next to people louder or stronger than you.

You didn’t compete for space.

You owned it.

One evening, after training ran long, you stayed behind. Stretching. Breathing. Existing in that calm way of yours.

Bakugou found himself sitting beside you before he realized he’d moved.

“You don’t act impressed,” he said suddenly.

You glanced at him, expression neutral. “Should I be?”

He huffed. “Most people are.”

“I know.”

Not smug. Not dismissive. Just… honest.

Something in his chest shifted.

“You’re confident,” he said slowly. “But you don’t shove it in people’s faces.”

You shrugged lightly. “I don’t need to.”

That did it.

From then on, Bakugou was done for.

He admired you the way he admired strength—quietly, intensely, with no room for doubt. He noticed how people gravitated toward you without you lifting a finger. How you offered support without overstepping. How you never begged to be chosen.

And god—how you never assumed he’d want you.

That was the hardest part.

One night, after a mission well done, you sat beside him on the steps outside the agency. Close, but not clinging. Present, but not demanding.

Bakugou finally spoke.

“You know,” he said, staring ahead, “you don’t try to win people over.”

You smiled faintly. “I don’t believe in convincing someone to choose me.”

He turned to look at you then—really look at you.

“Good,” he said. “Because I chose you on my own.”

Your eyes widened just slightly. Not shock. Just surprise.

“Bakugou—”

“I like you,” he said, firm but raw. “The way you are. The way you don’t bend. The way you don’t reach.”

He stepped closer, careful not to crowd you.

“You don’t chase,” he continued. “You wait. And somehow, that made me want to come to you.”

You met his gaze, steady and unflinching.

“…If you’re here,” you said softly, “it’s because you want to be.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

Midoriya Izuku loves Christmas in a way that feels almost embarrassing.

He loves the lights, the music, the way everything seems a little softer around the edges. He loves the excuse to be thoughtful, to show care without feeling like he’s overstepping. Mostly, though, he loves Christmas because this year, he gets to spend it with you.

He starts preparing weeks in advance.

There’s a notebook hidden in his desk, filled with messy handwriting and crossed-out ideas. He’s written your name at the top of more pages than he’d like to admit. He remembers the way your eyes lingered on something in a shop window, the casual comment you made about liking winter nights, the way you always hold warm mugs with both hands.

He wants to get it right.

On Christmas Eve, the world is quiet.

Snow falls outside in slow, drifting flakes, coating the streets in white. You’re sitting beside him on the couch, sharing a blanket that’s technically too small for two people but somehow works anyway. Your knee brushes his, and Midoriya’s heart skips like it always does when you’re close.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks softly.

You hum, leaning just a bit closer. “Yeah. Are you?”

He nods, though his hands are a little stiff in his lap. Being near you still makes him nervous—not in a bad way. Just in a careful way, like he’s holding something precious and doesn’t want to drop it.

You talk about nothing and everything. About classes, about silly holiday traditions, about how snow always makes things feel quieter. At some point, your head rests against his shoulder, and Midoriya forgets how to breathe for a second.

He doesn’t move.

He just lets himself be there, warmth spreading through his chest, the kind that has nothing to do with his quirk.

When midnight comes, he clears his throat.

“I, um,” he starts, sitting up a little straighter. “I have something for you.”

He hands you the gift with both hands, eyes wide and hopeful. He’s wrapped it carefully—too carefully—and tied the ribbon three times to make sure it wouldn’t come loose.

As you open it, he watches your face like it’s the most important thing in the world.

When you smile, genuinely and warmly, something inside him settles.

“You like it?” he asks, already leaning forward.

You nod, reaching for him without thinking. “I love it.”

The words hit him harder than any punch ever has.

You lean in and kiss his cheek—soft, lingering, full of warmth. Midoriya’s entire face goes red. He freezes, then laughs quietly, a little breathless, eyes shining.

“I’m really glad,” he says, voice gentle, “that I get to be here with you. I—I hope I can keep doing this. Holidays. Ordinary days. All of it.”

You rest your forehead against his. “I’d like that too.”

Christmas morning comes slow and bright.

You wake up to sunlight reflecting off the snow and the smell of something warm. Midoriya is already up, hair messy, wearing a sweater that’s definitely not his. He looks shy when he notices you watching him.

“Good morning,” he says, smiling like he can’t help it.

You spend the day together—making breakfast, exchanging small gifts, laughing over burnt toast. At one point, he shyly reaches for your hand, and this time, he doesn’t hesitate. His grip is warm and sure

Outside, the snow keeps falling.

Inside, Midoriya thinks—this. This is what happiness feels like. Quiet. Warm. Shared.

And he hopes, with everything in him, that he gets to love you like this again and again.

Synopsis:

Bakugou Katsuki comes home—no explosions, no crowds, no expectations. Just smudged eyeliner, heavy exhaustion, and you waiting to take care of him.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Bakugou comes home looking like himself—but softer.

No hero costume. No gauntlets. Just a worn hoodie, loose shirt, and the faint smell of smoke that never quite leaves him. What catches your attention, though, is his face.

The eyeliner’s still there.

Smudged beneath his eyes, uneven like he tried to wipe it off and gave up halfway. It makes him look tired in a way that hurts your chest—beautiful, yes, but worn thin by the night.

You don’t comment on it.

“Hey,” you say gently.

“…Hey.”

That’s all he has in him.

He drops his bag by the door and lets his forehead rest against your shoulder the moment you step close. No words. Just weight. Trust.

Your hands come up instinctively—one at his back, the other sliding into his hair. He exhales, long and shaky, like he’s finally allowed to stop holding himself together.

“You eat?” you ask softly.

He shakes his head.

You click your tongue quietly, guiding him inside. He follows without complaint, shoes kicked off wherever they land. When you sit him down, he stays put, elbows on his knees, eyes half-lidded.

You kneel in front of him.

Your thumb brushes gently beneath his eye, careful not to sting. He flinches at first, then stills when he realizes it’s you.

“…Didn’t get it all off,” he mutters.

“I can see,” you say, smiling softly.

You grab a warm cloth and slowly clean his face, touch light, unhurried. He watches you like this is the only place he’s meant to be. When you’re done, you press a kiss to his cheek—right where the eyeliner used to be.

His hand finds your wrist, grounding.

“Stay,” he says quietly.

You don’t answer. You just climb into his lap, arms sliding around his shoulders. He wraps around you immediately, face tucked into your neck, breathing evening out with every second.

Your fingers trace lazy lines along his back. His thumb rubs small circles into your side.

“I hate taking it home,” he admits, voice muffled. “The noise. The looks.”

“I know,” you whisper. “You’re safe here.”

He nods against your skin.

You stay like that for a while—no hero, no battlefield, just the two of you breathing together. Eventually, he shifts, forehead resting against yours.

“…You make it easier,” he says. “Everything.”

You smile and press your lips to his—slow, soft, lingering. He kisses you back like it’s the last quiet thing he gets before morning.

When you pull away, he rests his head on your shoulder again, eyes closed.

The eyeliner may be gone.

But the night still clings to him.

Synopsis:

Katsuki Bakugou isn’t good at asking for things—especially not you. But loving you has made him careful, quiet, and willing to wait… even if every part of him is yearning.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Katsuki Bakugou loves loudly in his own head and quietly everywhere else.

It’s in the way he always knows where you are in the room.

The way his body automatically positions itself closer to you during group study sessions—never touching, but there.

The way he notices when you forget to eat, when your shoulders tense, when your voice sounds smaller than usual.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Katsuki waits.

Because you’re important.

Because rushing you would be unforgivable.

He’s never been scared of explosions, villains, or pain—but standing in front of you with his heart in his hands? That terrifies him more than he’ll ever admit.

You think he doesn’t notice the way you look at him sometimes.

You think he doesn’t hear the hesitation in your voice when you laugh with him.

You think he doesn’t feel the space between you when things almost—almost—feel like more.

But he does.

God, he does.

That night, it’s quiet. Too quiet. You’re sitting beside him, knees pulled to your chest, staring at nothing in particular. Katsuki hands you a drink without looking.

“Drink,” he mutters.

You blink. “You didn’t even ask if I was thirsty.”

“Didn’t need to.”

You take it anyway. He watches you drink like it’s the most important thing in the world.

Minutes pass. Then—

“…You ever think,” he starts, voice rough, “that maybe you deserve someone who chooses you every day?”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

He finally looks at you. Really looks at you. There’s no anger there. No fire. Just something raw and aching.

“I’m not good at this,” he says. “I know that. I don’t say things right. I don’t always show it the way people expect.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself before a jump.

“But I’d choose you. Every time.”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t need you to decide right now,” he adds quickly, almost panicked. “I’m not asking for promises. I just—” His jaw tightens. “I just want you to know I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Silence stretches between you, warm and fragile.

“…Katsuki,” you whisper.

He flinches like you might say no.

“If I took a chance,” you say softly, “would you catch me?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Always.”

He reaches out then—not fast, not forceful—just his pinky brushing yours. A question. A hope. When you hook your finger with his, his breath shudders.

Katsuki Bakugou smiles.

It’s small.

It’s rare.

It’s yours.

And in that moment, you know—

this is what it feels like to be chosen.

synopsis

When stress starts eating you alive, Bakugou Katsuki notices long before you say anything. He doesn’t ask many questions—he just stays. Water within reach, food pressed into your hands, quiet presence grounding you when everything feels too heavy. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Bakugou Katsuki knows something’s wrong the moment you stop eating properly.

You’re quieter than usual. Focused to the point of exhaustion. You sit hunched over your notes like the world will fall apart if you look away for even a second. Finals week has you wound tight, stress bleeding into everything you do.

You tell everyone you’re fine.

Bakugou doesn’t buy it.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just starts hovering—subtle enough that you don’t notice right away. He sets a bottle of water beside you while you’re studying, clicks his tongue when you forget about it.

“Drink,” he mutters.

You blink, confused. “Oh. Right.”

He watches until you do.

When hours pass and you still haven’t eaten, he gets irritated. Not loud—controlled. The dangerous kind.

“You eat yet?” he asks.

You shake your head absentmindedly. “I’m not hungry.”

“Bullshit.”

Before you can argue, he’s already in the kitchen. He comes back with something simple. Warm. Easy to eat.

“Open your mouth,” he orders, holding it out to you.

You stare at him. “Bakugou—”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You hesitate, embarrassed, overwhelmed—but you comply. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t tease. Just waits until you’ve taken a few bites before pulling his hand back.

“Good,” he mutters, like it’s a victory.

Late nights become routine.

You’re buried in notes, eyes glazed over, hands shaking slightly as stress eats away at you. Bakugou sits nearby, pretending not to watch—except he notices everything. The way your breathing changes. The way your shoulders tense. The way your leg won’t stop bouncing.

At some point, you rub your eyes and whisper, “I’m tired.”

That’s all it takes.

Bakugou stands, grabs a blanket, and drapes it over your shoulders without a word. He presses another glass of water into your hands.

“Hydrate,” he says again, softer this time.

You finally crack.

“I feel like I’m failing,” you admit quietly. “No matter how much I study, it’s not enough.”

Bakugou’s jaw tightens.

He crouches in front of you so you have to look at him.

“You’re not weak for being stressed,” he says. “And you’re not failing just because you’re tired.”

You swallow. “You don’t have to do all this.”

“Yes, I do.”

The answer is immediate. Certain.

“You push yourself until you disappear,” he continues. “So someone’s gotta make sure you don’t.”

When you start nodding off over your notes, he doesn’t yell. Doesn’t scold. He gently takes the pen from your hand.

“That’s it,” he says. “You’re done for tonight.”

You want to argue—but you’re too exhausted.

Bakugou guides you to bed, sits you down, and makes sure you drink water one last time. When you lean into him without thinking, he stiffens—then relaxes.

His hand rests on your back, solid and grounding.

“I’ve got you,” he mutters. “Even when you don’t.”

And for the first time all week, you sleep.

Bakugou doesn’t say goodnight.

He clicks his tongue instead, annoyed, when you yawn for the third time and don’t move from the couch. “You gonna sleep or just rot there?”

You scoot closer anyway.

He stiffens for half a second—then doesn’t move. Doesn’t shove you away. His arm stays where it is, heavy and warm against your shoulder.

A few minutes pass. Then he mutters, barely audible, “You’re drooling.”

You don’t answer. You’re already half asleep.

Bakugou sighs, sharp and irritated, but he reaches for the blanket and pulls it over you anyway. Tucks it in too tight, like everything he does.

“Idiot,” he says quietly.

synopsis

Todoroki Shouto has always believed he is meant to stand alone—cold, distant, and untouched by warmth. You, on the other hand, are everything he is not: gentle, steady, and quietly radiant. As he begins to pull away, convinced that loving him will only hurt you, the space between sun and moon grows painful. But even the longest night cannot exist without light.

Todoroki Shouto has always thought of himself as the moon.

Not because he’s admired, or mysterious, or beautiful in the way people like to romanticize—but because he is distant. Quiet. Cold in a way that feels permanent. The moon does not choose solitude; it simply exists apart.

He learned early on that warmth comes with conditions.

That love demands something in return.

So he keeps himself contained. Balanced. Careful.

Then there’s you.

You don’t blaze like the sun. You don’t demand attention or light up rooms just by entering them. Your warmth is softer than that—steady, patient, lingering. The kind that stays even when things grow quiet.

Todoroki doesn’t understand how someone like you keeps choosing to stand beside him.

He notices the way you slow your steps to match his, how you wait after training without saying why. He notices how you never force conversation, never fill silence just to ease your own discomfort. You sit with him like the quiet is something to be respected.

That makes it dangerous.

Because the more he notices, the more it hurts.

Little by little, he starts pulling away.

He answers slower. Keeps his distance. Leaves earlier than usual. You notice—of course you do—but you don’t chase him. You assume he needs space. You give it to him, even though it aches.

What you don’t see is the way Todoroki stares at his phone after walking away. Or how his chest tightens every time he almost turns back.

One night, the sky is heavy with clouds. The campus is quiet, snow barely clinging to the ground. You find him sitting alone outside, staring into the dark like he’s waiting for something to appear.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you say softly.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t deny it.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he admits.

You sit beside him anyway. Close—but not touching.

“Why?” you ask.

He exhales slowly, like the answer has been weighing on him for days. “Because I don’t know how to stay without hurting you.”

That finally makes him turn toward you.

“You’re warm,” he continues, voice low. “You care easily. You give without hesitation. And people like me…” He swallows. “We go cold. We disappear. Eventually.”

The words sink deep, not because they’re cruel—but because they’re honest.

“You don’t disappear,” you say.

“I do,” he insists. “You just haven’t seen it yet.”

You reach for his hand. He tenses, instinctive, then stills when you don’t pull away.

“Shouto,” you whisper, “the moon doesn’t steal the sun’s warmth. They don’t cancel each other out. They just exist differently.”

He watches your joined hands like he doesn’t trust them to be real.

“I don’t want to be the reason you dim,” he says.

You shake your head gently. “You don’t dim me. You ground me.”

Silence stretches between you. The clouds shift slowly, and moonlight spills through—pale, steady, enough.

“I don’t know how to love without fear,” Todoroki admits. “Every time I get close, I think of what it cost before.”

You squeeze his hand. Firm. Reassuring.

“Then don’t love alone,” you say. “Let me stay while you learn.”

Something inside him gives.

He leans into you just slightly—testing, tentative—like someone who’s been cold for so long they’re afraid warmth will burn.

But it doesn’t.

You stay there together, sun and moon beneath a quiet sky. Not fixing each other. Not changing each other.

Just existing—

and for once, not alone.

Todoroki watches you from across the room like he’s trying to solve a problem.

You catch him staring and raise an eyebrow. “What?”

He blinks, startled. “You look cold.”

“I’m fine.”

He nods, clearly unconvinced. A minute later, he stands up, walks over, and drapes his jacket over your shoulders anyway. It’s warm on one side, cool on the other—balanced, like him.

“You didn’t ask,” you say, smiling.

“I know.” He pauses, then adds, very honestly, “I wanted to.”

You lean into him without thinking. He freezes for exactly one second—then relaxes, careful and unsure, like he’s handling something fragile.

After a while, he speaks again. “If you’re uncomfortable, you can move.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh.” A beat. “…Good.”

He doesn’t pull away.

synopsis

Bakugou Katsuki doesn’t believe in Christmas miracles—but he believes in you.

While the holidays bring lights, laughter, and mistletoe, Bakugou watches you from the sidelines, convinced that whatever you’re wishing for couldn’t possibly be him. After all, Santa doesn’t see the late nights, the quiet loyalty, the way Bakugou loves too hard and says too little.

And if Santa really knew you like Bakugou does… maybe he’d understand why Katsuki keeps his feelings locked away—burning, aching, and unsaid.

Bakugou Katsuki hates Christmas.

He hates the noise, the forced cheer, the way everyone suddenly expects him to be nice. He hates the stupid decorations strung around the dorms, hates the music looping endlessly through the halls.

But most of all—he hates the way Christmas makes him think about you.

You’re everywhere this time of year. Laughing with friends in the common room. Offering hot chocolate to people who don’t deserve it. Standing under the lights with that soft expression that makes his chest feel tight in a way explosions never could.

Bakugou tells himself it’s nothing.

It’s just proximity. Just habit. Just annoyance.

That’s what he tells himself when he snaps at Kaminari for joking about mistletoe. That’s what he tells himself when he looks away a second too late after catching you smiling at someone else.

He doesn’t do wishes.

Doesn’t believe in Santa, or miracles, or the idea that wanting something badly enough makes it yours.

Because if that were true—you’d already be his.

Christmas Eve hits quietly.

The dorms settle down, lights dimmed, snow falling outside like the world’s trying to soften itself. Bakugou stands out on the balcony, hands stuffed into his pockets, breath fogging in the cold.

He hears the door slide open behind him.

“Thought I’d find you here,” you say gently.

He clicks his tongue. “Tch. It’s quiet.”

You step beside him anyway, close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t lean in either. Just stands there, rigid, like holding himself together takes effort.

“Everyone’s doing gifts,” you say. “You didn’t come.”

“Don’t need that crap.”

You hum, unconvinced. After a moment, you hold something out toward him—a small, neatly wrapped box.

“I know,” you say softly. “But I wanted to.”

Bakugou stares at it like it might explode.

“…You’re an idiot,” he mutters, but he takes it. Carefully. Like it matters.

Inside is something simple. Something him. Something you noticed when no one else did.

His throat tightens.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snaps.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Still.”

He clenches the box in his hand, jaw tight, chest burning with words he refuses to let out. Because how the hell is he supposed to explain that he knows you better than anyone? That he notices when you’re tired, when you fake smiles, when you give too much of yourself away?

How is he supposed to tell you that he loves you in a way that’s rough and unpolished and real?

Santa wouldn’t understand that.

You turn toward him, eyes soft. “Katsuki… you’re not hard to care about, you know.”

That breaks something.

He looks away, breath sharp. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

Silence stretches. Snow keeps falling.

Finally, he speaks—quiet, raw, honest in a way that scares him.

“I know you,” he says. “I know what you like. What you hate. I know when you’re lying about being okay.” His hands curl into fists. “And I know I’m not… what people picture for you.”

You stare at him.

“Katsuki,” you whisper.

He turns then, eyes blazing. “Santa doesn’t know you like I do. He doesn’t see the real shit. So yeah—maybe I don’t believe in Christmas miracles. But I believe in you.”

The words hang in the cold air.

You step forward and kiss him—slow, sure, warm. No hesitation. No doubt.

Bakugou freezes for half a second.

Then his hands are on you, gripping tight like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. The kiss is rough around the edges, but desperate, full of everything he’s been holding back.

When you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“…Stay,” he mutters.

You smile. “I was planning on it.”

For the first time, Bakugou thinks—

maybe Christmas isn’t total bullshit after all.

This is my first time using Tumblr, so please bear with me while I’m still getting the hang of things. I hope you enjoy my writing—everything here is new to me and I’m still learningヾ(≧ ▽ ≦)ゝ