yen.

19 yrs | 🇻🇳 blurbs

[midoriyapper]

izuku is such a good gift-giver during the holidays.

izuku midoriya is, for lack of a better term, freaking out.

he’s hunched over his laptop at the kitchen table at one in the morning, green curls frazzled, notebooks pushed aside in favor of half-open tabs that read things like “meaningful gifts for partner” and “is a promise ring too much for one year?” and “what do people like?”

you deserve something perfect. something that says i love you without him actually having to say it out loud and risk combusting on the spot.

he rubs his eyes, groaning softly. you’ve already gotten him something—he knows because you’re terrible at keeping secrets and smiled a little too hard when he mentioned christmas last week. the pressure makes his chest tight.

“izuku?” his mom’s voice drifts in from the hallway, gentle and sleepy. “why are you still awake?”

he nearly jumps out of his seat.

a few minutes later, inko is sitting across from him with a warm mug of tea, listening as he rambles at a mile a minute. about you. about how important this is. about how he doesn’t want to get something boring or wrong or accidentally friendship-coded.

inko smiles the entire time.

“you know,” she says softly, “the best gifts aren’t always the biggest or fanciest. they’re the ones that remind someone of who gave it to them.”

he blinks. “remind them… of me?”

she nods. “something personal. something only you could give.”

the idea hits him like a spark.

the days that follow are a blur of nervous glances at his phone, careful budgeting, and one very deliberate trip he refuses to think too hard about in case he talks himself out of it. whatever it is, it ends up tucked away safely, hidden from view but never from his thoughts.

christmas arrives too fast.

you’re sitting across from him, lights twinkling behind you, wrapping paper scattered everywhere. izuku’s heart is in his throat as he slides a small box toward you, fingers curling into his sweater sleeves.

“i—um. i know it’s not a lot,” he starts, words tumbling over each other. “but i wanted it to be something you could always have with you. and—only if you like it, obviously, you don’t have to wear it or anything, i just—”

you open the box.

his breath catches when your expression softens, eyes shining as your fingers lift the necklace from its velvet lining. a delicate chain, simple and intentional—and on the pendant, engraved small and neat, is his name.

izuku.

when you look back up at him, smiling like that, he knows he got it right.

happy holidays to those who celebrate!