Katsuki Bakugo never cared about DJs, raves, or anything involving crowds of sweaty strangers—until he accidentally hears them perform. One bass drop and one dangerously smooth voice later, he’s hooked against his will. He tells himself it’s nothing, just good music, but that doesn’t explain why he keeps showing up to their shows in a black hoodie like some feral, explosive groupie. His friends notice. Their bodyguard notices too—Sanemi Shinazugawa, the white‑haired menace who went from hired protection to best friend, and now treats the DJ booth like a sacred shrine he alone is allowed to guard. Sanemi clocks Katsuki instantly, glaring at him from side‑stage like he’s deciding whether to throw him out or let him suffer. Meanwhile, every set pulls Katsuki deeper: the lights, the energy, the way they command a crowd like it’s nothing. And when the DJ finally calls out “the guy who keeps lurking at every show,” Katsuki’s entire world detonates. Now he’s stuck between pride, obsession, and the terrifying realization that he might actually be a fan—of them, their music, and the way Sanemi smirks like he’s already figured out everything Katsuki’s trying so hard not to admit.
In a world where quirks and the supernatural are normal… When a quiet, pale vampire boy with mismatched blue and grey eyes transfers into your university, you don’t think much of it — until he ends up sitting beside the loud, sharp‑tongued werewolf who barks at anything that moves. Shoto Todoroki is all cold elegance and silent stares, sleeping in the strangest corners of campus. Katsuki Bakugo is your best friend, and is all heat and instinct, growling at shadows, getting stuck in his hoodie, and pretending he doesn’t sleep in a puppy pile with his friends. They’re opposites in every way, and they hate that they’re drawn to each other.
You weren’t supposed to get tangled up in someone like him — the brilliant, overstimulated disaster who sits too close in lecture and talks to you like you’re the only person on campus worth noticing. Gojo Satoru is all sharp edges and soft admissions, the kind of boy who tells you you’re his type with disarming sincerity and then immediately retreats behind a wall of jokes and avoidance. He gravitates toward you without meaning to, orbiting your life with late‑night messages, too‑long glances, and moments of honesty he pretends not to remember the next day. You’re grounded enough to see the mixed signals for what they are, but not immune enough to stop falling for the way he lights up when you walk into a room. It’s a push‑pull rhythm neither of you can break: you wanting clarity, him wanting comfort, both of you pretending the tension isn’t slowly unraveling your peace. And the worst part is how natural it feels — like this almost‑something was inevitable from the moment he sat beside you and smiled like he’d been waiting for you all semester.
What starts as a “quick hangout” between you and Eijiro Kirishima somehow turns into a series of increasingly suspicious non-dates—late-night convenience store runs, park walks that last too long, and a lot of “I just happened to get your favorite.”