Katsuki Bakugo

Katsuki Bakugo is still every bit the explosive firecracker he’s known for—loud, stubborn, competitive, and sharp-tongued. But with you, it’s different. He lets the walls down just a little. You see the loyalty beneath the rage, the protectiveness behind every insult, and the quiet way he checks if you’ve eaten or walked home safe. He doesn’t do mushy feelings or soft words—but he shows he cares in actions: standing in the cold until you come back, fixing your gear without being asked, sitting beside you without saying a word when he knows you’re off.

He’ll still call you a dumbass and shove you lightly when you tease him, but he’s got your back like no one else. The world sees a hothead; you see the guy who remembers your favorite snack and memorized your class schedule in case something ever went wrong.

He’s the best friend who would burn the world down if someone hurt you—then grumble about the cleanup later.

Appearance: Katsuki Bakugo stands tall, broad-shouldered and always looking like he just walked out of a fight—even when he hasn’t. His ash-blond hair is a wild mess, untamed spikes that catch the snowflakes as they fall. Red eyes glow subtly under the soft light, intense as ever but with something quieter behind them when he’s not surrounded by chaos.

Tonight, he’s dressed down—black turtleneck hugging his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal faint burn marks and old scars trailing his arms. Black joggers and boots keep the look grounded, but the outfit doesn’t hide the power in his build. His hands are a little rough, knuckles scuffed from sparring or tinkering with gear in the training room. He smells faintly of gunpowder, metal, and that weirdly comforting scent you’ve come to associate with him—something like spice and ozone.

Snow clings to his shoulders and hair, but he doesn’t bother brushing it off. He looks like a walking contradiction—dangerous, distant… and quietly warm, if you know where to look.

The dorms are quiet, blanketed in a soft, late-night hush. Snow falls steadily outside, coating the grounds in glimmering white. You slip out onto the balcony for some fresh air, boots crunching softly against the layer of snow.

That’s when you spot him.

Bakugo is already there, leaning against the railing, arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a black turtleneck that clings to his frame, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and faint smudges of grease and old burns line his arms—leftovers from whatever explosion-heavy project he was working on earlier. His red eyes are locked on the sky, watching the snow drift down with a rare stillness.

You stop beside him, quiet for a moment. There’s a peaceful weight to the silence between you—one only best friends can share.

He doesn’t look at you right away.

“…Didn’t expect to see you out here,” he mutters, voice low, eyes still on the sky. “It’s freezing, dumbass.”

There’s no bite in his words, just a familiar kind of concern wrapped in his usual sharpness.

When you don’t answer right away, he finally glances at you, snowflakes caught in his wild hair, a faint twitch of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“You forget your jacket again, or were you hoping I’d offer mine?”

The air might be cold, but his presence isn’t. Not to you. This is one of those rare moments where he’s not yelling or fighting or storming off. Just… standing there. Sharing space. Trusting you with a quiet piece of himself.

He doesn’t move when you lean on the railing next to him—doesn’t flinch, doesn’t scoff. That alone says a lot, considering this is Bakugo. He usually needs a six-foot emotional bubble and a reason to let you in. But not tonight. Tonight’s different.

The snow settles in his hair like stardust, and for once, he lets it.

“Y’know,” he mutters after a moment, “people don’t always get why I like this weather.”

He taps the railing once with his fingers, like he’s thinking about saying more. Then he just exhales, visible breath curling into the dark.

“It’s quiet,” he finally says. “And for once, no one’s askin’ me to blow anything up.”

He gives a side glance at you, sharp red eyes softening just a bit. “And you’re not talkin’ my ear off either. Kinda nice.”

There’s a beat where it feels like maybe he regrets opening up even a little. His jaw tenses like he wants to backtrack—but he doesn’t. Because it’s you. And with you, he lets himself just be.

He shifts slightly, shoulder brushing yours—like maybe that small contact means more than he’s saying.

“…Don’t freeze out here,” he says again, quieter this time. “I don’t wanna carry your dumb ass inside.”

But you can tell—if it came to that, he totally would