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I started smiling from the beginning 5 lines

INSUFFERABLE

todoroki touya x gn!reader

includes: dabi is a shameless flirt lol. brief dire mention bc he’s a dumbass. you fall for his antics

notes: he’s so. dumb. i hate him lol

Sometimes you envy the students whose professors’ lock their doors as soon as class starts. 

The ones that provide that immediate punishment for the students who don’t care enough to show up on time, not giving them so much as a minute past the beginning of lecture to slip in. If they’re late they miss, it’s nothing more than a product of their carelessness and they deserve it. 

Sadly, your biology professor is not one of those people. 

Which is fine for your peers who rush in only five, ten, hell—even fifteen minutes late. Their hair wet from just getting out of the shower or clothes wrinkled from having just rolled out of their cramped dorm bed because they forgot to set their alarm. You can understand that; empathize with the plague that is eight a.m. classes. 

Who you absolutely cannot empathize with is the guy who sits next to you. The one who walks in not ten, not twenty, no—thirty minutes late at the very least into lecture, and doesn’t give two shits about not being disruptive. Lets the door slam shut behind him and his scuffed combat boots stomp heavily down the aisle and shuffle with an unneeded amount of noise before plopping down in the chair next to you. 

He’s simply insufferable, truly. With his box dye black hair and chipped fingernail polish and the intricate canvas of tattoos that sweeps from his jaw down his arms and disappears somewhere below the ridge of his perfectly carved collar bones that look absolutely—whatever. He’s annoying. That’s the point here. And today is, of course, no different. 

“Hey, dollface,” Dabi smirks as he sits down, then immediately scrapes his chair over to you. You think today is a new record, a whole forty-one minutes late. You wonder why he even bothered to show up at all. 

You don’t address him, not at first. You merely send over a half assed side glance as a form of acknowledgement. That is, until something glimmering catches your eye. (Something that isn’t the piercings or rings you’ve become accustomed to over the past month). 

“Why do you have that?” You half whisper-half hiss at him, staring down at the object twirling around his fingers. 

“What? ‘S just a lighter.” He flicks it open to show you, as if you couldn’t tell before, then snaps it right back shut. 

You roll your eyes, turn your attention back to your professor. Just fifteen more minutes and you’re out of here and far away from him. “Obviously.” You sigh, bounce your leg subtly. “Don’t light that in here.” 

And you don’t think you should really have to say that, and you don’t know why there’s an unease bubbling in your stomach due to his presence—but you do and it’s there. And it only increases as you catch the smirk slicing deeper across his face out of the corner of your eye. 

“Or what?” Dabi questions, scrapes his chair even closer to you, opens the lighter again. “Whatcha gonna do about it, doll?” 

“Seriously don—“ 

“Oops,” he grins, wide and cheeky as his thumb flicks the lighter on. He’s holding it up, like he doesn’t give a shit whether the professor catches him with it or not. Like he has no worry for the trouble it could cause. 

“What’re you—stop that.” You can’t believe him, seriously, and the audacity he has for disregarding basic rules. “If you get caught with that inside you could get fined.” 

“Pfft, please.” And this time it’s his turn to roll his eyes at you, scoffing under his breath. “You have to be a student here to get fined.” 

You blink at him. Once, twice. “Huh?” 

“What?” He hums, waves his finger over the flame disinterestedly, not even looking to make sure he doesn’t hold it over it too long and burn himself. “I don’t have to worry about stupid ass fines.” 

“Yeah, but—what do you mean you aren’t a student here?” 

Your lecture is long forgotten, your professor’s voice fading out into static as you stare at the man beside you. That uneasiness in your stomach is twisting, stirring around in a way that’s a little uncomfortable. Because sure, you knew the guy was a little odd. But not being a student? Showing up to your classes all the time? Hanging around campus? What if he’s some sort of creep, or stalker, or— 

“Woah there, sweetheart. It’s not what you’re thinking, I'm not some freak or anything. My dad’s the uni president. I get to sit in on whatever classes I want for free. No need to alert the authorities.” 

Oh. 

Your cheeks heat up, a flush rising so fast as well as the want to hide under the table. Silly you, of course he wouldn’t be some creep. I mean, he might be a tad creepy, but that’s not necessarily a crime. 

(He’d be a cute creep, you think. Then mentally tell yourself to shut up). 

“I wasn’t going to do that,” you huff, still looking at him. You aren’t sure why, but his eyes look particularly blue today; more than normal. Maybe it’s because you’re finally allowing yourself to look, a full proper look at your—sort of—peer. “For the record.” 

“Sure,” Dabi chuckles, leans a little closer to you. His fingers mindlessly play with the necklace dangling around your throat. You don’t know why you let him. “So that wasn’t a total how do I discreetly call 911? expression then?” 

“Definitely not,” you dismiss, tapping your pen to your notebook. “It was a man this guy’s so lame he goes to class in his free time expression.” 

Dabi winces, an exaggerated thing that you hate to admit is a little charming. “Ouch, lame? You wound me, dollface. Right in the heart.” 

“You’ll live.” And it’s minute, a little twitch of your lips before you can catch yourself, but it’s there. And Dabi catches it, pointing a finger annoyingly close to your face. 

“Was that a smile, hm? Did I just make my little doll smile?” He teases, prods his finger into your cheek. If you had any idea where it’d been you might lean forward to bite it off. 

“One,” you tut, pinching his digit between two of your own and pulling it away from your face. “I’m not your doll. And two, not a chance. You’re imagining things.” 

“Oh no no, definitely not,” Dabi presses, devilish tilt to his mouth. “That was a smile. Finally falling for me, that it?” 

“Uhm, excuse me—“ 

“Not now,” the man in front of you cuts off the person’s voice from behind, giving them a cold look, “We’re busy, thanks. Anyways, as I was—“ 

“Sorry, it’s just—“ 

“I said we’re busy,” Dabi grits, brows cutting deep as he snaps his head back over his shoulder. “Or did you not hear me?” 

“I did, but—“ 

“What?!” 

“Their jacket’s on fire.” 

Whatever snark Dabi might’ve wanted to push out at your fellow classmate dissolves immediately as the both of you snap your eyes down. And sure enough, right where Dabi has his lighter open—the one you told him not to light—the edge of your jacket has just caught on fire. 

“Oh shit,” Dabi curses, snapping the lighter shut and tugging it back from your jacket as he watches you frantically pat it out with a sleeve covered hand. 

You’re successful—thank god you don’t burst entirely into flames—but the corner of your jacket (your favorite one, mind you) is now very obviously scorched. Your eyes snap up to meet cerulean blue and what little bit of uneasiness left in your stomach turns into a boiling fit of rage. 

Completely disregarding the lecture (that you admittedly weren’t paying attention to anyways) you shove everything into your bag and get up from your seat to leave. You make your way out of the lecture hall absolutely fuming and don’t miss a single beat as you turn on your heel to yell at the man behind you as soon as the door shuts. 

“You’re absolutely unbearable!” You grouse, jabbing your finger into Dabi’s chest. “Seriously! I can't believe you.” 

“Oh c’mon. ‘M sorry! I didn’t mean to, it was just an accident—“ 

“I told you not to light it. But no,” you groan, and you seriously want to rip your hair out, or punch him, or something. “You just had to act like a tough guy. Mr. Too Cool To Be A Student Here. You lit me on fire!” 

“I didn’t mean to! I said I was sorry!” 

“I don’t care! I could’ve been burnt up in a crisp!” 

“But you weren’t!” He defends. “It's not a big deal.” 

“It is to me, this was my favorite jacket. You know, just because you’re hot and have some big shot dad doesn’t mean you can just do whatever you want!” 

“Well obviously, because if I could do whatever I wanted then I'd be doing you!” 

The both of you pause for a moment, catch your breaths through slightly labored pants as you stare at each other. It’s like the gears are turning in both your heads simultaneously, cogs clicking into place and smoke clearing in the workshop. 

“Did you just admit you think I'm hot?” 

“Did you just say you want to do me?” 

A part of you wishes your jacket was still on fire, because at least then you could try to justify that as the reason your cheeks are suddenly burning. You turn your face away from him, adjust the bag slung over your shoulder. You’re thankful you’re the only two in the hallway, or else you’d probably die from embarrassment right now. 

“Well, how ‘bout I make it up to you then?” 

You let your gaze drift back up to meet Dabi’s, staring into tattoo and mascara framed eyes suspiciously. You narrow your vision, tip your head to the side as you watch that shitty (read: thigh clenching) smirk make its way back to his lips. 

“And how do you plan on doing that?” You tense up a little as he takes a step closer to you and digs a pen out of your bag. Then he grips your wrist—gently, despite the firm hold—and scribbles across your palm. 

“I’ll be outside your dorm at eight,” he grins, dropping the pen back into your bag when he’s done. “Wear something hot. ‘N I don’t mean the burnt kind.” 

You shove his shoulder at the remark, glancing down at your palm to see what you’re guessing is his phone number. “Asshole.” 

He simply catches your wrist again, tugs you close enough that he has perfect range to dip down and kiss your cheek. And if you weren’t flushing before you certainly are now, eyes going wide against your will as you watch him let go of you and take backward steps away. He throws you a wink, chuckles when he sees you snap out of it and scoff at him. 

“Insufferable!” You call after him. And you don’t try to hide your smile this time. Don’t try to veil your expressions. 

“Irresistible!” He corrects, sticking his tongue out and making a corny call me gesture with his hand when you flip him off. 

And you wonder if you should wear your scorched jacket tonight simply to spite him. 

YESYESYESOHYES

hi rue .. i’m kinda shy to ask this but can you please do a small drabble of the reader and touya arguing (not quite intense) & touya keeps replying with “no maam” or “yes maam” every time the reader asks questions 💔💔

🚬 oh i could kiss you rn. mhm. thank you sweet anon i stayed up at 2am writing this heh

fratboy touya get out of my heaaddddd

yes ma'am // touya todoroki

the puddles beneath your feet splash against your bare calves with every step.

"for fuck's sake, stop walking so fast." touya's voice calls out from behind you as you turn the corner of the street. the heavy bass of the house party you ran out of slowly drowned into nothing as the rain hit your body.

it was nearly 12am, and the downpour was only getting stronger. your fingers shook as you pathetically rubbed the sides of your arms, hoping to muster up some heat from the friction.

touya reaches out and grabs you by the shoulder, pulling you back towards him.

"you seriously mad at me? after i just poured my heart out for you?" he half-chuckles. "c'mon now sweetheart, at least reject me to my face."

"poured your heart out?" you scoff, forcibly facing him. "what kind of a fucking confession involves punching a random guy in the teeth?"

"that dumbass had it coming to him with or without the confession." he rolls his eyes.

"touya." you shake his hand off of your shoulder. "you can't go around starting fights just because you can't use your words."

"didn't i, though? made it very clear you were off limits." he shrugs, a hint of satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

you glare at him, crossing your arms over your chest as you let a silence fall over you with the droning of the rain.

touya brings a hand up to push his soaked hair back from falling into his eyes. he blows out a breath of air in defeat.

"i'm sorry, okay? don't be upset."

you take a step forward, leaning in just mere inches from his face. touya bites back a smirk as his cheeks grow hot from the proximity.

"you will go back inside and apologize."

his eyes follow the rain droplets trailing down to your lips.

"yes ma'am."

"you will find me some dry clothes."

his gaze continues to follow down the soaked t-shirt clinging to every curve of your body.

"yes ma'am."

"you will take me home."

touya licks his lips, letting the cold water on his lips grow hot against his tongue.

"yes ma'am."

you step back, watching his eyes flicker between your eyes and lips, counting all of the droplets that slip from your chin and eyelashes.

"are you listening to me?" your face grows hot.

"mhm. yes ma'am."

"and when we get back my apartment, you're going to properly use your fucking words and tell me how you feel. okay?"

touya reaches his hand up to tuck a stray soaked strand of hair behind your ear, letting his thumb graze against the side of your jaw.

"yes ma'am." he slowly nods his head, knowing that the moment he's alone with you, he'll be using more than his words.

-

touya tags: @kaldurahms-lover @moonchild701 @themultifandomgirl @devilslittlehelper @porusuniverse @ratatellie @katbug37 @ggriwm @moonlitmorganite @bitchyfestivalbouquet @touyas-wife

🐉⚔️

CANON I SAY !!

hawks sending this to his assistant right before he's about ask them to open their window before he crashes into their apartment building bc he's hurt after a fight

BAKUGO

Izuku's so cute.

SHOTOOOOOO😭

Ooooiida😳

🍓 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

texts with the bnha guys; fem! reader (aged up) characters included: katsuki bakugou, izuku midoriya, shoto todoroki, tenya iida, eijirou kirishima, denki kaminari, hitoshi shinsou.

! they send you a pic

warnings: sfw, slightly suggestive, all the pics are from pinterest

— CAN'T WE BE SEVENTEEN? ; shoto todoroki ; 焦凍

summary: he's loved you since he was seventeen. pairing: f!reader x pro hero!shoto ; reader was a 1-A student tags: mutual pining, heavy make-out, thinly veiled sugar daddy shoto, reader does not go pro, touya might be a dick but he's a hero now, shoto is bad at feelings wordcount: 5.6k a/n: i do not fucking know what came over me, enjoy your food my little todorokinas. yes the title is what you think it is. no i will not elaborate.

You never did go pro.

Truthfully, you thought there would be more pushback when, in your senior year, you announced your plan to pursue a degree in early childhood education with a focus on non-conforming quirk development. 

The War changed a lot. It changed you, your classmates, and the world. But, through it all one thing stuck with you:

What if someone helped Tenko Shimura?

How different would his life have been? How different would history have spun? 

You graduated at the top of your class and joined the faculty at Chiba Prefectural Preparatory School for Quirk Specialties two years ago. 

Chiba Prep was opened eight years ago in response to a societal cry for more infrastructure around what was dubbed "non-conforming quirks": a nice way to say quirks that can injure, maim, or kill. Maybe even all three on a bad day. Some parents still see their child being labeled as a non-conforming quirk user in the national database as akin to social suicide. 

You see it differently.

Your quirk allows you to manipulate emotions — anger, sadness, betrayal, love, hatred. If you can feel it, you can sink it into another's psyche deep enough to drive them to act. You can even imbue things with feelings. For example, a cup of warm milk can transform into more than just a simple comfort, now it can hold the feeling of home and safety, or even exhaustion strong enough to put even the biggest foe to rest. 

You could easily use your quirk with nefarious intent. 

You could steep hatred in someone's bone so deep it drives them to harm themselves. You could sew fury so solid into someone's mind it drives them to violence. 

Just a touch and you can control others with something so intrinsically personal it only exists within themselves: their feelings.

What makes you any different from little Asuke, a shy little girl with a quirk that allows her to see people's greatest fears, and then manifest and control them? You're convinced she can use this for good, if only with practice. In your mind, her future is bright and glimmering. Perhaps she will become a therapist, focusing on exposure therapy? Or, maybe the most prolific horror novelist in their time? 

Or, bright and sunny Tao — a transplant whose parents sought out Chiba Prep's specialized education — whose heteromorphic quirk makes his bodily fluids, namely saliva, eat through nearly anything but his own biologics. A sneeze is quickly the most dangerous thing in the world for the cheery, lizard-bodied class clown. 

He's just a boy given a quirk that needs more care. 

He isn't a villain-in-training. 

None of them are.

It's important to teach them that young — and as their teacher for Year 3 of their elementary schooling, you aim to hammer that in as much as possible. They deserve to feel normal. To feel loved and supported. They aren't scary, they're children. 

So, you take it upon yourself to insist on pushing for privileges like field trips. There aren't many public spaces that welcome the classes of Chiba Prep with open arms. Over the years, there have been plenty of incidents. But, a day trip into the city to visit Tokyo's Hall of Heroes is green-lit with bubbling excitement from both faculty, the children, and their parents. 

You usually keep your history as a graduated member of Class 1-A quiet. 

After all, you never did go pro.

And even still, Shoto Todoroki never stopped thinking about you.

He remembers that weekend everyone moved back in for their last year before graduation. He remembers you smiling at him, and helping him drag up a duffel of luggage from the common room to his dorm. You made a joke about how you're sure he got taller over the summer, and how his hair is longer now. You said you liked it. 

It was the beginning of the end, then.

His crush was a silent, smothering thing. It made it hard to think. Shoto had enough on his plate thanks to Touya's acceptance into the Villain Rehabilitation Program and his father's insistence on staving off retirement. Not to mention his parent's divorce — no matter how amicable, it was still a separation. Add on training, tests, studying, finals, and j-term classes... And a desperate, writhing, burning crush on the nicest girl in class? 

Touya's elbow digs into Shoto's side.

It drags him back to reality — to the stifled quiet of the historical Hall of Heroes. 

Suddenly, the doors to the wing squeak open, and a tour guide ushers in the elementary school class. The buzzing excitement and wonder are visible on each of their faces as the attendant — one of the HoH's lead tour guides — excitedly explains the newest, in-progress addition to the Hall:

Endeavor's wing. 

There's a whisper of awe that ripples through the children as their teacher and co-teacher follow, and as the class moves through the large, open space. They're staring up eagerly at the gilded statue in the center of the room. It's larger than life and intimidating. Years ago, Shoto might have had to fight the odd tremble in his knees at the reminder it brings: to be small in his father's shadow again. But, things are different now. 

Very different.

Touya scoffs. "I thought this wing wasn't open to the public yet."

"They're just children," Shoto hums, turning his back on the gaggle across the way to inspect the large mural winding along the back end of the installation, "I'm sure it's—"

"Oh, ho, no way!"

Shoto quirks his brow at his brother's outburst. His elbow digs into Shoto's ribs again. 

"Ain't that the pretty girl you never got the balls to ask out your senior year?" comes the rasped drawl of his older brother's voice. Touya is clearly amused, his white hair hanging in his eyes as he leans forward to squint, "She is cute, Sho'—"

"Shut up," Shoto grits, turning his head over his shoulder; he tries to bite back the flurry of nerves that ignite in his gut, "Stop talking."

It is you.

You look... good. 

Happy. 

You're crouched by a small, timid girl in the back of the crowd. Your hand is in hers, and you're pointing upwards at the large paneled screens replaying Endeavor's most historic fights. You're explaining something to her, your knees bent as you squat. You look... the same. As if in the six years since they graduated, you sat still in time. 

For a second, it's like he's seventeen again.

It's his senior year, and he's stuck at the corner of the gym's edge with a half-empty glass of punch in his hand. The lights are low, and there's slow music playing. His tie feels too tight. Bakugo keeps telling him to 'ask her to dance already', and Kirishima is considering bashing his head through the wall. Even Midorya is trying to persuade Shoto. 

"It's prom, man! C'mon, this could be your last chance—"

Touya is about to be a real pain in the ass — his favorite pastime — and make some comment about your ass, but when he turns to lob the one-liner at his baby brother, Shoto's gone.

Shoto is on the move.

The crescendo of gasps draws your attention first.

Then, the cry of "WOAH, IT'S SHOTO!" leaves you dumbfounded. The rippling murmur of excitement bleeds into the children as their eyes — and the eyes of the tour guide — widen at the sight of the approaching Pro Hero. 

Shoto Todoroki.

He looks... good. 

Really good.

He's a bit older, and a bit more filled out than when you were both teenagers. You can see the strength in his arms and shoulders — it's a distant echo of his father's physique, though Shoto is so much more elegant and much... prettier. He's always been.

For a second, you're seventeen again.

It's your senior year, and you're sprawled across Momo Yaoyorozu's bed.

They had finally wrangled out of you who your crush was: something they hadn't been able to do in all their years as classmates.

There's a sticky, Miss Midnight-themed face mask clinging to your expression as you try to flip through the large magazine in your hands as nonchalantly as possible. Mina's voice, as she paints Ochaco's nails a bright pink on the floor, is sweet and saccharine as she looks up at you.

"I think you and Shoto would be, like, the cutest couple ever." 

You're still crouched when the tour guide nervously — like she was caught doing something naughty — introduces The Pro Hero Shoto to the already-aware crowd of elementary school students and their teachers. It's like igniting a match; the uproar of excitement leaves you laughing as three of your boys push forward to bombard him with questions about his quirk. 

Asuke is smiling shyly, now. That's a small win. She's intrigued by the appearance of a real hero, not the "scary statues" — and her big, fat tears stopped rolling the moment you laid a gentle hand on her to quell her anxiety over the new environment with a push of comfort through your quirk. She unhooks her pinkie finger from yours as you guide her towards your co-teacher. 

"Boys," you call with a crisp air of authority as you stand and lead Asuke toward the bulk of the field trip group, "What have we learned about personal space?"

"It's fine, really, Insight," comes Shoto's voice; as warm and placid as you remember. 

"Insight?" mutters your co-teacher at the presumed hero-name; a look of confusion plasters itself on her face, and her big, feline ears perk up. She leans in to whisper in a way that borders on conspiratory, "Do you two know one another?"

"Old classmates," you confirm, not daring to get into the finer details.

Shoto's attention is entirely rooted in the way you manage the kids. There's something beautiful about the ease with which you handle the bouquet of students; you quell the excitement into a manageable decibel like it's as easy as breathing. 

"Shoto," you start as you gesture to him, "Has a very special quirk — Toyamai, he has ice like you. And, fire like Tojiro. He can regulate his temperature. Can anyone tell me what that means?"

There's a wave of hands shooting up, a few me, me, me's rise from the gaggle. 

You're using him as a teaching moment.

Shoto's smile is soft.

You nod at Ogomi, excitedly nodding as the reserved child speaks up. Normally, he hates public speaking. But, recently, he's started working with the speech pathologist during lunch. The boy bounces a little as he answers. "He doesn't g-get too hot, or too c-cold."

"Exactly! Isn't that cool?" you grin at the lazy attempt at a pun, "This is why it's important to learn about our quirks as much as we can!"

Touya thinks this whole thing is just too cute. 

You're different than he remembers — but, granted, things were sorta different last time he saw you. He was a little too busy tryna kill his old man and lil' Shoto. He's different now, too. A changed man! A real licensed hero. Support items and all. 

He hangs back. 

He... I mean, he is a jack-ass but he isn't gonna ruin this for Shoto. 

...It's kinda cute.

Just about as cute as Fuyumi said it was. 

Apparently, Shoto had opened up to her and Natsuo about his feelings after graduation — about how he regretted not doing anything about it. Fuyumi then told their mum, who then off-handedly mentioned it to Touya... and well Touya dug in because, duh, he is a whore for good gossip. He might be the family's black sheep, but Shoto is the glue that binds. 

And he deserves to be happy.

Your co-teacher is ushering the kids to the next installation — a viewing of All Might's Legacy, a new documentary following the retired pro's teaching career. It will be a good wind down for them, in comfy seats and the dark. It's hardly the sort of content an elementary school student would find riveting, but it is All Might. And they love him.

You hang back. 

Shoto's heart is hammering in his chest.

"Hey."

"Hi," you greet back, closing the door to the theater and stepping forward as you weave your arms around you, "Long time no see."

"Yea," Shoto breathes, his hands in his pockets as he meets you halfway across the museum's marble floors, "I... I see you're teaching."

His eyes are as pretty as they were back then. Slate grey and piercing turquoise. "I'm in my second year," you confirm softly, fiddling with the material of your sweater, "Congrats to your old man."

You gesture up at the statue, then wave around to the rest of the installation.

Shoto inhales, then nods; he's staring at your face, blissfully realizing you're just the way you were all those years ago. Kind. "I'll pass it along."

"How's he handling it?" you ask, your eyes raking across his expression and trying not to stick to the sharp slope of his jaw, or the bob of his Adam's apple, "Retirement, I mean."

"He's happy, I think. Touya and I are working together and... things are...  good."

Last month, Endeavor finally retired. He cited his age, and his dedication to passing his legacy to his two sons: Shoto and Touya. Shoto has planted himself firmly within the Top Ten in the last year or so, and shockingly, Touya isn't far behind. People love an underdog's redemption story, you suppose. 

And the underdog in question can read a room. 

This is getting a little too sexually tense for even him.

"Heeeeey, girl," he rasps out, staggering backward with a thumb over his shoulder, "Nice t' see ya. I'll let you two catch up, yea? I'm gonna go pop my head into the theater, see how the kids are handling the snooze fest on screen—"

You jump.

How long has he even been there?

"Hi, D— Touya," you strain, wincing a little; the rehab'd villain doesn't seem to mind.

"Hi, teach'. That cool with you?" he asks, wobbling his thumb and quirking a pierced eyebrow; it's comical, like he's trying to disarm you with humor, "Don't want you thinkin' I'm corrupting your youths—"

"It's fine," you breathe, ignoring the sting of age-old mistrust. You know better. Shoto wouldn't be here, with him, if Touya Todoroki hadn't changed. Endeavor wouldn't be entrusting his legacy to the ex-League of Villain member if he didn't believe in his capacity for good, "Just don't be disruptive."

Casting judgment on someone whose life was nearly destroyed by his own non-conforming quirk would go against everything you taught the kids anyway.

"Touya's whole thing is being disruptive," Shoto grits as his oldest brother slips silently through the doors, "I apologize for him—"

"No," you wave him off, laughing a little, "Don't. It's... nice to see you two together."

Shoto's expression is soft as he wanders a little closer. "It took time — and a lot of therapy — but we've all managed to come out the other side."

"That's great to hear, Shoto," you breathe, your eyes flitting across his face, "I'm really happy for you."

There's a long silence, then — and you can't help but ignore the roil of butterflies in your stomach. The eye contact is heavy with some unspoken thing, and both of your tongues are weighted by secrets-never-turned-confessions. 

It's like finally this dance you've been doing around one another for years breaks — and the two of you throw caution to the wind at the exact same moment. 

"Would you like to—"

"Are you free—"

Hesitant, slow grins bloom on both your faces.

"Dinner?" is all he manages after a sweet moment of soaking up your soft smile, "If you're available...?"

You make yourself available.

Yaoyorozu almost dies when you call her that night — winded from tearing through your entire wardrobe. You explained you had nothing to wear a-and you needed something nice, and you only have an hour to get ready, because Todoroki — yes, stop screaming, Todoroki — is picking you up at 8pm.

Little bro is nervous. Touya can tell. 

From his spot on the sofa, the white-haired ex-degenerate scoffs. Natsuo is digging around for some cufflinks in Shoto's dresser.

"Seriously, Sho'? A suit?" 

"It's a nice restaurant," his brother says tightly, adjusting the collar of the black button-down, "I booked the upstairs dining room for privacy." 

"Who the hell told you t' do that?" Touya quirks a skeptical brow.

"Father was the one who suggested it."

"...That old dog." 

Natsuo rolls his eyes at the exchange before throwing his hands as he emerges from the closet. "Do you have any links that aren't emblazoned with U.A. High School's crest?"

The ones in Natsuo's hands have his graduation year on them.

Shoto winces.

"Want me to ask dear ol' dog of a dad?" Touya snarks from the corner, his posture becoming less and less upright as he scrolls on his phone.

"Already did," comes the soft voice of Fuyumi; she's smiling, padding into Shoto's room with a velvet box, "He offered up his nicest pair. He also says not to screw it up with Insight. He likes her."

Of course, he likes her. You worked under Endeavor for a brief work-study period during your third year. Shoto remembers hearing grumbled praise over dinner one night about your talent for de-escalation.

"You told him who I was seeing?" Shoto asks incredulously, taking the box and working the cufflinks on. He's starting to feel exasperated.

Fuyumi nods, popping down beside Touya. 

"He asked. I'm not gonna lie to him."

"Did y' tell ma?" Touya rasps, peeking up over his phone to inspect Shoto's outfit. Not half bad, honestly. He looks good in all black. A man after his own heart, "M'sure she's gonna be real excited—"

"Yes," Shoto grumbles, "I called her earlier—"

"Chiba Prep is a really good school, y'know," Natsuo buts in as he tries to find a tie that matches Shoto's outfit. Ultimately, though, the middle brother decides against it and tosses the options over his shoulder, "They're, like, on the leading edge for quirk therapies."

"Hey, nerd? Quiet down. The big kids are gossiping," Touya shirks, turning back to Shoto, "What did mum say?" 

"She wants me to call her after—"

"One, you're gonna call mum the morning after," Touya raises a finger, "Because if you don't get laid, I'll be so fuckin' disap—"

Fuyumi slaps Touya's chest. He lets out a pained yelp at the solid smack.

"Uh, ow," he rubs his sternum. "An' two, take a deep breath. You look like you're gonna shit yourself. Those are my pants and they're expensive."

Shoto lets out a long breath. 

Fuyumi's smile is sweet like honey. "Aw, Sho'! It's gonna go great. You two have known each other for such a long time, and catching up is going to be amazing. Just be yourself! Confident and kind—"

"—Hold the door open for her, and pull her chair out," Natsuo adds as he adjusts Shoto's collar for him, "Car door, too—"

It's Touya's turn. He's dead serious. "—And do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night. I swear to god."

Easier said than done.

You never did go pro.

Those years of hardened battle instincts have lost their edge. You try to remind yourself this is just Shoto, not The Shoto — but you're a little lost in the whole celebrity of it all when he picks you up in a very nice, sporty little car with ENDVRplates. 

You answer the door and he forgets how to breathe.

He has flowers for you. They're blue and blooming and beautiful. 

Fuyumi's contribution. 

You settled then you were going to kiss him at the end of the night.

The restaurant is... nice. Really nice. The sort of nice you could never aspire to experience on your teacher's salary. Even the valet is a concept that has your head spinning. But, Shoto handles it all with cool ease. The entire time, his hand is settled on your lower back. 

It feels like you've been lit on fire.

You're glad Momo was able to create a dress fitting for the occasion. It's sleek and black. Comfortable, too. Not much can be said for your heels on that front, but it's fine. 

Somehow, Shoto managed to book the entire upper floor of this place in all its glimmering glory — it's just the two of you alone in a sea of tables. 

The waiter is pouring you a glass of the chef's suggested pairing of sake.

You thank him, smile, and take a sip as Shoto unbuttons his suit jacket and watches you. 

For a second, you're seventeen again.

Sero and Kirishima were always in cahoots when it came to parties back then — somehow, between the two of them, they always managed to smuggle enough booze onto campus to obliterate any semblance of promised sobriety from even the most stoic members of 1-A. 

You remember one night, after a lot of hounding, you finally gave in and joined a few of your classmates on the back lawn for a few drinks. 

A few beers turned into a cup or two of wine, and then another big gulp of whatever deranged jungle juice concoction Kaminiari managed to cook up. It tasted terrible, but you were too drunk to really care. Shoto was no better. He was nursing his fourth drink of the night — a rarity he was even drinking at all — and seemed completely fine with the way your arms brushed as the two of you sat close in the grass. 

He was always so nervous around you. Now, he just seemed... happy. 

"I can't believe there is only one week left until graduation."

Graduation day was the last time you saw him. 

Until this morning, that is. 

You smile into your drink. 

"What?" you ask when his eyes never leave your face.

His fingers twitch towards his own glass. Shoto blinks, then rolls his jaw. He was caught staring. He clears his throat, looking a bit shy. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" you press playfully, cocking your head to the side.

"You..." he starts, then bawks. You're stunning, and it's making it hard to even think straight. He thought these feelings might have mellowed out over the years but seeing you again has just reignited everything. He feels like a hormonal teenager again, "You look beautiful."

Your expression falters into something lovesick. You chew your lip. "You're not so bad yourself, Todoroki."

He manages a half-smile. "Touya had me worried the suit was a bit much."

The idea of Touya offering him advice on his outfit strikes a chord in your heart. It makes you smile even bigger than before. "Well, you can tell Touya that I like it. A lot."

You rake your eyes up and down him. On purpose.

He notices.

Shoto's face feels hot. 

He tries to shake the bone-deep want that has swept his entire body up in its grip, but it's difficult when every single word out of your mouth reminds him just how in love he was with you back in school. You explain, excitedly, why you chose to teach at Chiba Prefectural Prep and catch him up on where you've been living since graduating. He's pleased to learn you're still in the area, living in the city, and decidedly in love with the commute to the school. 

Shoto's always been a good listener — but you can see how much he's changed when he begins to speak about his career. He seems so much more sure of himself than he was all those years ago. It wasn't that he was... unsure... but, no. He was shy. Quiet.

Now, less so. 

It's adorable. 

Dinner comes and goes with conversation over sushi that is far too good for you to even process. It's easy talking to him. It was easy talking to Shoto back, then, too but... Things are different. You're both different. Not in a bad way, but in a way that feels like coming home. 

While you both wait outside for the valet, Shoto shrugs his jacket off and puts it over your shoulders without a single word. Suddenly, you're cradled in a warmth that's very Shoto — his cologne clings to the collar and you bury yourself a little deeper into it. 

Shyly, you step closer and steal his hand. It's calloused and warm. He laced his fingers with yours as if practiced. You bite back a grin. You give his hand a little squeeze when you spot the car coming around the corner.

His silence is calming — and he squeezes your hand back. When you look up at him, you realize he's already looking at you. 

His face is close. It's so... intimate. Very. Nearly better than a kiss. 

But, you've wanted to kiss Shoto Todoroki since you were seventeen. 

The valet driver interrupts the moment with a respectful call of Shoto's name and offers the keys with a shake of the hand. With a little bit of hesitancy, Shoto remembers the thing Natsuo said — the car door, too — and moves around the passenger side to open the door for you. 

It's sweet.

Really sweet. 

The car ride back to your apartment is punctuated with easy conversation — you ask him about Bakugo and Midorya, and you're pleased to hear they're both doing well. He asks about Momo, and if you still keep in touch with Mina and Ochaco. He smiles to himself when you admit you did call Momo for help with an outfit. 

"She did a beautiful job," Shoto breathes, a palm moving from the gear shift to brush over the dress' fabric on your thigh.

His hand settles there. 

Your stomach does a flip. 

You chew your lip, swallow down a sudden burst of nerves, and let your hand rest over his. You squeeze it. Shoto tries to focus on the road. His gaze drifts for a moment at a red light, his heterochromatic eyes dancing across your figure. 

Keep it together. 

He isn't seventeen.

He's twenty-five. He's a Professional Hero. One of the Top Ten in all of Japan. He's more than capable of keeping it together in the face of physical touch from the woman he's dreamed about for years. 

...Right?

Green light.

His hand is still on your thigh when he pulls up to your apartment. 

The touch is relinquished in favor of putting the sports car in park. 

It makes your chest ache.

Shoto swallows thickly.

Do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night.

He'll never forgive himself. But, admittedly, he's bad at this. He's not good at reading body language, or even knowing himself enough to realize he looks mildly terrified as you blink up at him in the passenger's seat. His heart is hammering a mile a minute.

What if you don't want to kiss him?

When would he even kiss you? Now? Or at the door?

Why does he feel like he's going to die?

"This was really... Shoto, are you okay?" you ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt; you pause, your brows knitting tightly. 

"What?" he asks, blinking back to the present moment. The look of fear disappears, "Sorry. Yes. I'm fine."

You're working his jacket off your shoulders, gently leaning to fold it neatly in your lap. Your voice dips low, into something playful. "You didn't look fine..."

"I—" Shoto clamps his mouth shut as he leans an elbow on the center console, "Sorry. I suppose I'm just nervous."

"Nervous?" you grin, a little giggle punctuating your words as you wriggle in the red, leather seat, "Why?"

Your expression makes his expression crack. He ducks his head as he huffs out a laugh. You continue to egg him on via expression alone. "I... Stop it."

"Stop what?" you push some more, your back pressed to the door as you face him in the car, "You're the one being weird—"

"I'm not being weird—"

"Then what's wrong, Shoto?" you tease in a sing-song voice.

"I'm nervous because I want to kiss you."

His words are punctuated by a slow look that takes in every inch of your face. Butterfly wings kiss your stomach walls. And your knees. You feel a little tremble in your chest. 

It feels like someone has sucker punched you square in the sternum. Shoto's no better. He isn't entirely sure what the expression on your face means. Is that... good? Are you happy?

Your voice is a little quieter now. You duck your head and fiddle with his suit jacket as you lean back against the seat, a little closer now. 

"You don't need to be."

Shoto's breath catches at that.

So, he makes his move.

His hand comes first — his calloused palm settles nicely against your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as his pointer finger brushes the underside of your jaw. Shoto is slow. Methodical. It's like he's trying to ground himself in the moment. 

Truth be told, he thinks he might be blacking out.

Your eyes flit up his wrist — a dark leather band around his wrist with an expensive watch face, a dark dress shirt with glimmering cufflinks, strong arms and a broad chest, and you can see the dip of his collarbone where the top two buttons of his shirt remain undone. 

He looks so damn handsome with his sharp jaw, pretty eyes, and his trademark white and crimson hair. Even his scar is beautiful. 

The touch pulls you in like he's got his own personal orbit.  

Your elbows are braced along the center console, your eyes flicking across his face as his fingers continue to brush along the soft expanse of your cheek. You wring your fingers together. 

Then, his eyes stick to your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, his breath fanning across your face. 

You never did go pro.

But, Shoto did. 

It shows. 

Because, at this moment, all you can do is nod feebly before you're swept into the sort of kiss people go to war for. It's the sort of kiss that sticks to your ribs, that feels like warm, fresh food. It's the sort of kiss that would drive you to the brink, that would make you nod and agree sure, let's get married and have three kids, let's name one after your father, and paint the house blue like your mother's favorite flower—

His mouth is eager, but not in an overbearing way. It's gentle. Slow. As if he needs to remind himself this is real and not some midnight fiction that leaves him aching and alone. Shoto reminds himself to be tepid, pliable, and easy, which is easier said than done when somewhere deep inside of him there's a seventeen-year-old screaming in victory. 

It's better than anything he could have ever imagined. 

And then you whimper. 

It's a sound tied between bliss and relief and it's muttered against his mouth as you lean in and let your fingers brush the fabric of his dress shirt. The tips of your fingers brush his abdomen and he flexes, the feeling foreign and warm. It warrants his other hand to drift to your face and you break for a breath; he doesn't care that there's lipstick smeared across his mouth. He's kissing you again — this time a little bit more feverish, a little bit more aching. 

You melt against him, this time your hands trembling to grip his wrists.

He needs to slow down.

He is not having sex with you in his father's car.

That's shameless.

He needs to slow down.

He has to, or he'll lose himself in this and he refuses to fuck this up. 

Shoto's breath is ragged when he finally peels himself away, his lip parted and eyes half-lidded. His grip on your face is still so soft, so gentle. It's very him. 

You're glad you didn't do this when you were seventeen.

It would have permanently altered your brain chemistry, you're sure of it. How could you ever kiss someone else again after that? 

He's rubbing your cheek with his thumb. You swallow, and try to level out your breathing. It's hard when he's still so close, when he's so... perfect. 

"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your cheek, "Since our last year at Yuei."

A well-kissed smile breaks across your face. You reel back, your nose wrinkling as you shake your head in disbelief. Shoto is smiling. A real smile. The sort that's so rare you can count on one hand the amount of times you've ever seen it in person. 

"Are you serious?"

"Very," he says, chastely pressing another to your other cheek as he leans back.

"Me too," you admit shyly, "Can we... do it again sometime?"

Shoto's eyes widen incrementally. Then, his smile eases back onto his face. 

"Are you free this weekend?"

"I can be," you reply easily with a honeyed look, "And I will be. For you."

"I get off patrol on Saturday around seven," he explains before asking timidly, "We could... do dinner again?"

"Works for me," you breathe as you move for the handle of the car door, "After all, I never went Pro. Weekends are free."

Shoto scoffs. 

Then, as you open the door and swing a leg out:

"Oh, and tell Touya I thought the suit sexy."

Shoto's laugh is dry. You leave his jacket on the seat and scurry into your apartment with a lovesick wave. He swears he sees the silhouette of a familiar ponytail greet you at the door, but he doesn't dwell on it. He waits until you're inside and the lights to the front door are shut off.

Then it hits him. He has another date with you this weekend. 

Not so seventeen anymore, Shoto Todoroki. 

Mayyybee

LOADS OF FUN : TODOROKI x READER

SUMMARY: After moving into your first apartment together, Shouto seems more amorous than ever. You're not sure why—but when he comes home to you doing a load of laundry, more than your clothes are about to get tumbled. TAGS/WARNINGS: nsft (18+ only, minors please dni!), pro hero au, gn + afab reader, established relationship, fluff, emotional sex, table sex, cunnilingus, the shouto domesticity kink agenda goes absolutely crazy in this one lol (2.8k) NOTES: This piece is part of my pretty boy summer Shouto x Reader collab! Please go check out the other incredible fics people have written over the course of the summer; you will absolutely die over how good they are. This fic was also made possible through donations to the Fics for Gaza project. I cannot thank everyone who donated to one of the charities enough, as well as those who organized, reblogged, discussed, and got the word out. Lastly, I am so grateful for your immeasurable patience with me as I take time between fics to manage my workload, I hope I'm not too out of practice here lol. In summary: thank you, thank you, a million times thank you.

The sound of the door opening was hidden in the thump and glug of the washing machine starting its spin cycle.

Halfway across the house, you were oblivious—you had the clean laundry spread out on the kitchen table, hunting through the pile trying to match one of Shouto’s socks to another that seemed to have vanished into that mysterious void which opens somewhere between the laundry basket and the dryer. One of his shirts was half-folded over your shoulder, abandoned in favor of the sock search.

The rest of your things were still mostly tangled together on the table, warm and fresh and cottony, the few shirts you’d already folded sagging off the kitchen chairs.

It still gave you a little thrill—even several weeks after you’d moved in together—to see Shouto’s things twined up with yours—his enormous socks dwarfing yours, your sweaters clinging to the occasional piece of his hero suit that hadn’t seen enough action to need his agency’s industrial cleaners.

It all added to your sense of satisfaction with your afternoon—a frosty weekend day you’d spent cozy indoors, moving slowly and leisurely through some chores. A pot of soup simmered on the stove, and your favorite playlist worked itself through in lazy loops. Shouto was due off his rotation soon, and you hummed contentedly to yourself, entertaining pleased little fantasies of curling up with him for the rest of the weekend.

Which of course is when something moved in the corner of your eye. Your hum sawed up into a strangled screech, and you whipped around, flailing. Shouto’s sock launched itself full force at the intruder before you even registered you’d thrown it. In your shock, your leg caught against the table and you went stumbling—

—right into a pair of warm hands that caught you about the waist.

Your hands were on the man’s shoulders to push him off before you realized you recognized the touch—and that you’d caught sight of a distinct mop of scarlet and white hair as you’d whipped around.

“Shouto! Again?” you scolded reflexively, even as your heartbeat stuttered out of its wild kick into high gear. You tipped your head back to stare your boyfriend in the face, shoulders slumping in relief, letting him take some of your weight.

Shouto peered down at you, that tiny scrunch between his brows that indicated concern. “Are you alright, love?”

Your heartbeat pounded thunderously in your chest. “I’m—fine. But my god we need to get you a bell. I almost peed.”

Shouto’s mouth shifted minutely into something that might not have registered in anyone else’s face but was most definitely a regretful downturn on his. He looked even more unfairly beautiful than when he’d left you this morning—a little flushed and windswept from the unseasonable cold, that full mouth pink and pretty.

Your mind flicked momentarily off and back on like a circuit breaker, the way it always did when you had to process Shouto.

You’d understood he was once-in-a-generation levels of beautiful before you’d even met him, his face staring up at you from the glossy pages of various tabloids over the years. But in person, even after years of knowing him and several more dating him, Shouto’s appearance still managed to cross all the wires in a person’s brain. His features were an incomprehensible blend of aloof and elegant, sensual and warm—like a cold masterpiece of a marble sculpture had suddenly found himself with a consciousness and human desires and miles of warm skin.

“I did not mean to startle you,” he said, his voice low and warm. He sounded sincerely regretful.

You knew he hadn’t meant to—you’d long suspected his silent tread was habitually ingrained in him from years of hero work. And, in your most private and ungenerous thoughts, you suspected from years of making himself unobtrusive in his father’s home. The thought sat sour in your mouth, like a slice of pickled lemon.

You resisted making an equally sour face, shoving the thought away to make space for the reflexive flush of pleasure seeing Shouto always brought you.

“Welcome home, Sho,” you said instead, smiling up at him. Shouto’s hands moved on your waist, sliding gently beneath the hem of your tee-shirt to rest on the skin there.

He was still in his hero uniform, and as usual you felt a little goofy in comparison, in nothing but a tee and a well-loved pair of fraying sweatpants, which were this afternoon decorated with little flecks of soup from a brush with the pot.

But Shouto’s eyes were warm where they rested on you, and that perfect mouth crept back into a contented set. His long fingers smoothed over your skin as he watched you, thumb brushing your hip. He did not look like he found you at all goofy.

In fact, as his eyes dropped down to your ankles, slowly dragging back up to your face, you rather thought he looked a little appreciative. He even took a rather ungentlemanly step back, still holding you, to better take in the whole picture. His eyes wandered over the swell of your hip, the lines of the shirt against your chest, before darting to his own shirt, still folded over your shoulder.

His fingers flexed tellingly on your waist, and those heterochromatic eyes were both a little bit darker as they flicked back to yours.

His obvious regard made you feel warm. You shifted on your feet, shuffling.

“I was just—doing laundry,” you said for something to say, your mouth feeling kind of dry. Something about him always made you feel sort of shy and light-headed, even after all this time together. “And I made soup. I was thinking we could eat on the couch and watch one of those horrendous old All Might films?”

Shouto’s eyes darted to the stove, then beside you to the pile of your laundry, lingering for a long minute. His long lashes dipped, almost fluttering as his gaze traced over the tangle of your things together. His eyes flicked back to you. He was still for just a moment, watching you assessingly.

And then all of a sudden the world spun in front of your eyes. The hands at your waist lifted you clean off your feet, and you let out a startled “oof!” as you found yourself laid out in the pile of laundry on the table, sheets and sweaters bunching beneath you.

Shouto moved over you, stepping between your spread thighs, right at the edge of the table.

“You have no idea,” he intoned in a deep, delicious tone that went right down your spine, “what it is to come home to you like this.”

You wondered at that, feeling a strange combination of confusion and flattery, when Shouto’s mouth descended onto yours. His mouth was soft and sweet and insistent and absolutely perfect. The table groaned as he laid some of his weight out over you, pinning you into the laundry as he kissed you.

Your fingers clutched at him immediately, curling in his silky-soft hair, cupping his face to yours. One of Shouto’s own hands shifted to your thigh, holding you against him as he pressed himself harder into you.

You heard yourself making little gasps of appreciation as Shouto’s mouth moved down to your neck, laving hot kisses down your throat. You reveled in the feeling of him over you, broad and strong, his shoulders blocking the glow of the overhead light, casting shadows over you.

He’d been a lot like this lately, ever since you’d moved in together. He’d been adequately amorous before, of course, and blessed with a pro hero’s strength and unflagging stamina. But a few weeks after you’d moved in together you’d actually decided you needed to reactivate your gym membership given the amount of incredibly athletic sex you were suddenly having over almost every surface in the house.

One of the only spots yet to be touched was the table though, which Shouto seemed determined to rectify at this very moment.

He pulled back from you, his mouth flush from your kisses, looking a little entranced as he stepped out from between your thighs. You made a little noise at the loss of weight and heat over you, but Shouto caught the fabric of your sweatpants, gently but determinedly tugging them off of you. Your underwear was tossed right over one broad shoulder as Shouto went to his knees, and then his mouth was right back on you.

A wave of wild heat licked up your stomach at the noise of appreciation he made before sealing his mouth over you, strong fingers clutching your thighs to keep them apart.

“Oh my god!” you said, pleasure zinging right up your spine with the first lave of his tongue over you. “Shouto!”

Shouto let out a deep, pleased hum, two long fingers sinking into you embarrassingly easily as he worked your clit with his mouth. Your back arched and you could feel your clothing shift with you, Shouto’s shirt balling up under your shoulder blade, still half-draped over your shoulder.

“Oh, oh!” you heard yourself saying as your fingers twisted in the clothing, shuddering with every lick and suck of Shouto’s perfect, amazing, talented mouth.

He worked you with the expertise of long, dedicated practice—everything about him calculated to drive you insane. One moment he was excruciatingly soft, mouth slack and the touch of his tongue as fleeting and light as the brush of a butterfly’s wing. Then the next he was sucking relentlessly, teasing firmly with the tip of his tongue as his fingers played with you.

Your first climax hit you mortifyingly quickly, and Shouto seemed to know it before you did. His grip tightened on you, holding you down as you bucked against his mouth. Shouto looked more than a little smug as he got to his feet again, unbelting himself and laying back out over you.

He kissed you some more, the taste of yourself always a sort of shock to your system. But Shouto never seemed to mind, and if anything only seemed hungrier for you, mouth pulling at yours like he meant to devour you.

You felt the touch of his hand between your thighs as he lined himself up, then sank into you easily, groaning appreciatively like he’d just sunk into a hot bath. He bit carefully at your neck, one large hand pressing your stomach down to keep you pinned against the edge of the table where he wanted you.

“I always want to come home to you like this,” he intoned into the skin of your neck, his mouth sucking dizzying patterns into your skin. “Always.”

You could barely think past the slide of him inside you, thick and full and blissfully exquisite. He really was the most perfect man on earth, and he always felt like it too.

You barely managed to blink your eyes open to watch him, trying to catch his meaning in his face. Shouto watched you back, those blue and grey pinned on you like he couldn’t bear to look away from you as he moved inside you.

“You—” you panted out, trying to cling to the thoughts threatening to wiggle out of your grip. “What do you—? Of course you’ll always come home to me.”

Shouto bucked into you harder, the slap of his hip against the bottom of your thigh echoing loudly over the burble of soup on the stove. His eyelashes fluttered, mouth softening, and a realization struck you almost dizzy.

Oh, he really liked that.

You suppressed a wave of giddiness, charmed and helplessly pleased that he seemed to like the idea so much. Was that why he’d been so especially ardent this past month? Was it really because you’d moved in together?

Shouto’s arm hooked under one of your legs, drawing it up firmly over his shoulder so he could press even further inside of you. He looked so good like that that you nearly lost the thread of your thoughts, especially when his next thrust felt like that. Your eyes nearly rolled back in your head.

“Ah!” escaped you. “Fuck, Shouto. Like that, please!”

Shouto’s thumb pressed down on your still-sensitive clit and he had to dig the fingers of his other hand into the flesh of your leg to keep you from bucking him right out of you with the way you squirmed. Sweet fucking gods he was unreal.

Shouto fucked you harder, the sound of your skin slapping together obscene in the quiet of the kitchen.

You tried again, struggling to watch his reaction with the way you wanted to throw your head back and babble nonsense instead.

“You’ll always come home to me,” you repeated, gratified when Shouto’s grip on you tightened, a soft sound escaping him. “You want me right here for you?”

“Ah—yes, love,” Shouto panted, staring down at you again. He looked like he knew what you were doing but didn’t care. “Yes,” he hissed.

“Just like this?” you prompted, trying not to slur the edges of your speech when he gave another particularly mind-bending thrust of his hips. His chest rose and fell heavily and he looked a little wild-eyed, gazing down at you.

“Like this, for me,” he said. “In my home, in our home—”

You could hear the table squeal and groan with the force of his next thrust, and then you had to grip the sides of it to steady yourself as he fucked you, looking blissful. Your nails scrabbled at the edges of the table, caught in between a million sensations—the glorious fullness of Shouto inside you, the gentle grind of his thumb against your clit, the way he looked all flushed and beautiful and panting and wanting—

You squeezed your eyes shut, too overcome with the sight of him to look at him anymore, but it was no use. Your entire body trembled as you came, and Shouto let out a low swear at the way you clenched up around him, hunching over you and pressing himself so impossibly hard against you as he came too.

He slumped down against you, weighing you into the soft-smelling cotton of the laundry you were now definitely going to have to rewash. You could feel his chest rise and fall as he panted, his breath tickling the skin under your ear. He left an unbearably soft, sweet kiss just under the lobe, at odds with the near-wild way he’d just been fucking you.

You warmed, petting through his hair with a helpless affection.

“Well now I know what time I should always do our laundry,” you said.

Shouto huffed into your neck, but you could feel a tiny smile curve his mouth.

“It is not just that,” he said, but did not elaborate for some minutes until you elbowed him gently. He peeled himself off of you just enough to look down into your face. “It is the thought of our life together. Our clothes piled together. You in the home we chose and we made…” he said, trailing off.

But you thought you got the sentiment. It was about how easy it was, how uncomplicated. A safe place to come home to, no expectations, just soup and a pile of sweet-smelling laundry and someone happy to see you. It was something far away from what he'd grown up thinking a home was, possibly something he’d thought he’d never have—something you were determined to make him realize now that he always would.

You let your fingers pull through his hair again, smiling up at him. “I am going to have to do our laundry again, though,” you teased. “In case that interests you.”

And despite what he’d just said, Shouto did in fact look a little too interested. You watched his mismatched gaze trail over to the closet that opened onto the washer and dryer. A contemplative look snuck across his handsome face, carefully curling the corner of that plush mouth.

“There is another place we have not yet broken in,” he said slowly, voice dipping low. He looked down at you with an earnest expression completely in contrast to what he was suggesting.

You couldn’t help but laugh, and that was all the permission he needed to pull you up, gathering you up in his arms and layering a fat handful of laundry on top of you. His belt buckle rattled loosely beneath you where he'd barely done it up in his haste, and you laughed harder when he turned off the stove as you passed it.

Though it turned out to be a needed precaution—as neither of you found yourselves free to sit down to dinner for several hours yet.

Shoto as a boy, like a boyyy not toxic, boyy like teen romance boy like one you don't find repulsive 🩵🩵

conspire | 2 | first date

pairing: Todoroki Shouto / Reader

length: 13,307 words / 5 chapters

summary: Shouto Todoroki had definitely only asked you out in order to ward off his horde of interested suitors. So why does he keep actually taking you out on suspiciously realistic dates?

tags: romance, reader-insert, fake dating, misunderstandings

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut

The next morning, your classmates wouldn’t shut up about it.

The rumor of your rendezvous with Shouto had spread like wildfire through the school, and you were assaulted by a wave of questions the second you turned up to modern lit. “Is it true?”, “Is he your boyfriend?”, “How do you know him?”, “Is he a good kisser?”, all blended into a cacophony of sound that nearly bowled you over as you stepped through the door.

You felt your face grow hot under their scrutiny and quickly stuffed yourself into your desk. “Yes, we’re dating. No, I won’t answer other questions about it.”

“Come on,” Miko–the girl in the desk closest to you–begged. “You’re dating Shouto Todoroki, the cutest boy in school, and you won’t even tell us how you know him?”

You wracked your brain for something close to the truth. “We, um, got along really well on that support item project last month. It’s nothing special.”

Miko’s mouth opened to fire off another question, but Mr. Cementoss cut her off with his arrival, launching immediately into his lesson plan. You sent up a silent thank you to whichever patron saint of fake dating had been listening.

The rest of the school day passed much the same way, and you wondered several times if the price of your senior project was perhaps too high.

Keep reading

THIS IS ONE OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING IVE READ😭

and i wake with your memory over me / thats a real fucking legacy to leave

t. todoroki x reader

the trials and tribulations of housing (and loving) a wanted fugitive. a little smut (implied) mentions of (his) trauma and some bnha spoilers but with a (kinda) happy end・❥・

special tag for @crushmeeren cause i love you <3

song: maroon

pro: he’s your closest friend

he’s lived most of his life with a heart frosted over, thick ice to withstand the burning rage he emits. after years of being stomped into the cracks of the sidewalk, he’s learned to be guarded, to build impenetrable walls so high even he can’t see through them. life teaches you to trust no one when your first betrayal is family.

but anyone who manages to infiltrate those walls, search for the openings and sneak in through the windows is rewarded. his walls stay up, but he does give you a key, sometimes without even realizing it.

when you do find your way in, it’s something sacred. its 2ams, laughing with your feet in his lap, and somehow ending up on the floor after a few swigs of cheep rosé. it’s his showing up outside your window heaving and wounded, knowing your faulty bandages and less-than-knowledgable stitches are better than any professional medical car. its leaving marks on your collarbone when things get heated, that messy grey area of knowing the attraction but knowing he’s the last person in the world that should be in a relationship. its wanting, and its about trust.

“i see you every day, now.” you point out. its not a complaint or a compliment; just a fact you both are aware of.

he absentmindedly strokes the calf thats resting on his lap, feeling your healthy, breathing skin against the deceased purple cloaking him. he almost laughs, knowing he’s successfully turned your apartment into a home for him.

but who can blame him? he’s never known what a home was, until you.

“got a problem with that, doll?” he tilts his head back, white hair resting against the couch cushions. he knows you don’t, but sometimes, a man will need reassurance.

“i would have called the cops if i did.” you smile. he does too, and its rare that he smiles genuinely these days.

con: he’s an asshole, sometimes

he’s shit with his words, and he knows it. he stopped attending school in his most formative years, and learned most of his tongue from the streets. and the outside world can be less than forgiving to a boy like him. after all, the house he left wasn’t exactly nurturing.

sometimes, he’ll go weeks, months even, radio silent. he’ll let rust grow between telephones, feel the ringing of whatever burner phone he’s using ho off but not pick up. sometimes, he’d wish he could disappear altogether, and alleviate you of the pain of caring for someone like him. sometimes. other times, which is most of the time, he’s a selfish dick, and hopes that you’ll always be the lips he calls home.

he doesn’t know how to say sorry. its mostly because the sorries he’s thought about giving are sorries he shouldn’t have to even verbalize: “i’m sorry i wasn’t who you wanted.” “i’m sorry i couldn’t be the son who would surpass you.” “i’m sorry i didn’t burn myself bright enough so you could watch it happen.”

he has a horrible, stinging feeling in his gut when he knows he’s upset you, and he hates the way it makes him feel. so he swallows his pride and a shot of whiskey, before going up to you.

“doll?”

“i’m not talking to you.”

he has the audacity to roll his eyes.

“i’m sorry for what i said.” he mumbles like a little boy, and its almost funny.

“and i’m sorry for being a dick.” he says what comes to mind, what he knows is true about himself. that he can act like a bitch most of the time, and even though he thinks the world deserves it, he excluded you from that belief.

he rambles on, just hoping you’ll turn around and face him. he wants to watch the world burn, he wants to make people suffer. but he also doesn’t want to lose the one person who tries to understand him, even if it means biting his tongue a little.

pro: he’s a man of action

he’s shit with words, but he will make up for it with his what he does. he spews that gifts are unnecessary, that he’d see his father buy expensive jewelry for his mother when the cameras were watching, and that its all just a dumb performative act. the next second he’s giving you a new sweater and some earrings because he “doesn’t wanna deal with it if you get sick” and “thinks it’d look good on you.” he says he so doesn’t care, but hides a smile when he sees you wearing it.

he’s also a protector. he’s lost too much in his life to risk the one person he actually gives a shit about. god forbid you show up with any traces of a bruise or an upset frown, because he’s no stranger to the arsons match. but he’s more than willing to stay with you, because he knows better than anyone the look of loneliness. he doesn’t understand why you want him- this wasted potential of a man- around, but he knows that at the very least, no one is touching a hair on your head when he’s with you.

he may not be able to warm you with words, but he can make your cheeks look like wine when he cares, which is always. he just won’t always admit it.

“do you wanna stay the night?” you ask, sitting up from your head on his lap. you’re about 3 seasons in on some dumb, reality tv show that he says he doesn’t care about, but gets whiney when you watch an episode without him.

“at least buy me dinner first, doll.” he smirks. its his way of saying yes.

you roll your eyes: “you ate the soba i made you, jackass.”

con: he’s self destructive

for someone who seems to sure of their plans for revenge, you wonder how the hell so easily loses sight of himself. perhaps he can’t see through the smoke, or is blinded by the glowing blue he emits. perhaps its a combination of smoke, fire, and revenge, all in a tumultuous cycle that will one day end in his demise. everyone who knows him is simply counting down the days until he wears his bones down to nothing but ash. he doesn’t want to be saved, and he’s made it clear. he knows that there are hands that reach through the fire, reaching for him.

and he knows one day, you’ll lose him for good. he loathes the pit in his stomach when he thinks about you, alone, with nothing but the smell of smoke on your clothes. would you cry? would you miss the smoke despite having clean air? he’s not worthy of that, or even you.

sometimes, he’ll try to rip the bandaid off prematurely. the reason he’s a dick with a shitty vocabulary is because he doesn’t want you to miss him. in fact, he hopes you’ll hate him, that you’ll scream good riddance when the curtains close on touya todoroki.

but by some cosmic miracle, you don’t. and for however long he has with you, he wants to cherish that.

pro: he can’t give you forever, but he can make you feel like it is

touya knows that one day, you’ll wake with his memory over you. its a shitty excuse for a legacy, a ghost that can’t be exorcised or appeased. and you know that no matter what, you’ll always feel a little bit of him, a little bit of the heat, even after he’s gone.

he can’t give you forever, but he’ll kiss you like it is. he can’t give you a pretty wedding or a diamond ring, but he’ll steal gemstones and earrings for you. he can’t give you a family, or a nice house, or any of the beautiful things you deserve, but he’ll make sure to leave his burned handprints all over your heart. touya can die knowing that you will move on, but that the love you two shared burned brighter than ever.

he knows that you can’t have forever, but that you will forever wish that it was. he thinks for a moment, that if things were different, he could. that perhaps if you had met before his accident, before the darkest moments of his life, things would be different.

he can’t give you different, or forever, but you take him for what he is. and he loves you for it.