Shoto Todoroki

The Todoroki household pressed down on Shoto like a weighted blanket soaked in expensive lies and generational disappointment. Two in the morning. The clock on his nightstand glowed red numbers that seemed to be mocking him. He’d been chasing sleep for hours. Left side, right side, on his back, one leg out of the covers, both legs wrapped in the sheets like a fucking burrito. Nothing worked.

What made it worse was the goddamn snoring.

Endeavor’s thunderous, self-important snoring rattled down the hallway, through Shoto’s closed door, and directly into the base of his skull. It wasn’t snoring, really. It was more like lowercase yelling. A statement that even in sleep, the false Number One Hero demanded to dominate every corner of this godforsaken house.

Shoto kicked his blanket to the floor like a whip.

And then his bladder made itself known. Full. Pressing. Fuck.

With a groan that came from somewhere deep in his chest, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The tatami mats were cool under his bare feet, a small mercy against the July heat that made sleep impossible in the first place. He didn’t bother with a shirt. The air was thick, humid, and the thought of pulling cotton over his skin made him want to punch his own face in. His blue house slides sat waiting by the door. He slipped them on, the worn soles making a soft scuffing sound as he moved.

The hallway stretched out before him, shadows pooling in corners where the night-lights didn’t reach. Endeavor’s snoring grew louder, a rhythmic growl that vibrated through the walls. Shoto’s jaw clenched. His own bathroom across the hall—his bathroom, the one goddamn space in this entire mausoleum that belonged to him—was only a few steps away. Just a quick piss, then back to staring at the ceiling until dawn. Pretend he gives a shit about what whatever Natsuo's yammering about during breakfast.

He reached for the handle.

Locked.

Shoto’s fingers wrapped around the doorknob and turned. Nothing. The mechanism caught, refusing to budge. His eyes narrowed.

And then he heard it.

Singing.

God-awful, off-key, bathroom-acoustic singing that filtered through the door like nails on a chalkboard. The voice warbled through some bland pop song he vaguely recognized, hitting notes that didn’t exist in any known musical scale.

You.

Of course it was you.

His step-sibling. The person his father had so graciously decided to bring into their lives, shoehorning another body into a household already bursting at the seams with dysfunction. Soon as Mom left the fucker just couldn't bear being alone anymore and remarried to another woman with a brat his age. The brat who had one simple rule to follow. Stay out of my bathroom. Yet broke that rule with a consistency that felt almost malicious.

Shoto’s temple throbbed. The lack of sleep pressed against the backs of his eyes, made his thoughts sluggish and sharp all at once. Normally, he’d lean against the door, call your name with that flat, icy tone that made you roll your eyes, and start an argument about boundaries and respect. He’d watch you emerge eventually, wrapped in a towel, dripping water everywhere, all false innocence and fake confusion about why he’d be upset.

Normally, he’d care.

Tonight, the snoring, the heat, the pressure in his bladder, the sound of your voice butchering a chorus. Tt all stacked on top of each other until something in him simply... clicked.

His right hand pressed against the doorknob. Ice bloomed from his palm, coating the brass in a crystalline shell that grew and spread until the entire mechanism was encased. Frost crawled up the doorframe. The metal groaned, contracting in the sudden cold.

Shoto stepped back.

Shoulder first, he threw his weight into the door.

The lock shattered. Splinters of frozen metal scattered across the bathroom floor as the door flew open, bouncing off the wall with a bang that echoed down the hallway. The steam hit him first. A wall of hot, humid air that smelled of whatever scented bullshit you insisted on using. Then the tile, slick with condensation. Then you.

Through the gauzy white shower curtain, he could see your silhouette freeze mid note, arms raised, shampoo probably dripping down your face. The cheap plastic rings scraped against the rod as you startled, one hand flashing out to steady yourself against the shower wall.

Shoto crossed the bathroom in three strides.

His hand closed around the edge of the curtain and ripped it back, rings shrieking against the metal rod. Water sprayed. Steam billowed. And there you were. Dripping, soap-slicked, mouth falling open in pathetic shock.

He didn’t give you a second to speak.

His hands found your waist, fingers pressing hard into wet skin, and he hauled you out of the tub like you weighed nothing. His palms were cold, still radiating the aftermath of his quirk. He felt you flinch at the temperature, your slick body sliding against his grip. Water cascaded off you, flooding the bath mat, splashing against his bare chest and abdomen.

Shoto twisted, planting his feet, and shoved you toward the door.

“Get the fuck out of my bathroom.”

His voice came out low, rough, and edged with an exhaustion that made it sharper than he intended. He watched you stumble, catch yourself against the sink, water still streaming down your arms and legs, leaving wet footprints on the tile.

He should stop there. He knew that. Had made his point, broken his own door, hauled you out of his space like a buff bouncer removing an unruly patron. The logical part of his brain the part trained by years of hero work at UA University, of de-escalation and tactical assessment—told him to walk away, to let you grab a towel and retreat like a kicked dog to your own room.

That part of his brain was currently buried under twenty-two hours of no sleep and the sound of Endeavor still sawing logs down the hall.

Shoto took a step toward you, and steam curled between you like ropes.

“Do you know,” he started, voice dropping lower, quieter—the dangerous kind of quiet he usually reserved for villains and useless teammates during training, “how fucking simple the rule is?”

His right side flared. Just a flicker, steam rising from his shoulder. The temperature in the room swung from humid to sweltering to cold in the space of a breath.

“Your bathroom is ten feet from your bedroom door. Ten feet, four inches, give or take.” He took another step. Your back hit the edge of the sink. The ceramic was cold against your skin, and he watched you press into it, watched the way your chest rose and fell with rising goosebumps. “But you don’t use it. You never use it. Every night, like clockwork, you come in here and touch my things, use my towels, leave hair in my drain.”

Another step. Water dripped from the ends of his split-colored hair, tracing paths down his cheek and neck. His eyes didn’t move from your face.

“We might share shitty parents,” he said, the words coming out clipped and cold, “but we’re not sharing what’s mine.”

His hand came up, not to touch you this time, but to brace against the wall beside your head. The position hemmed you in, and some distant part of his mind registered how close he was now. Close enough to see the individual water droplets beading on your collarbone, close enough to smell the shampoo in your hair, that artificial scent mixing with something else, something warm and clean and—

Revolting.

His jaw tightened.

Shoto pulled back. Turned away. The movement was abrupt, like he’d touched a hot pan and yanked his hand back. He stood in the center of the flooded bathroom, surrounded by steam and broken metal and the soft drip-drip of the shower still running behind him, and dragged a hand through his wet hair.

“Get out,” he repeated, but the edge had dulled, replaced with something tired and hollow. He didn’t look at you. His free hand reached for the doorknob he’d just destroyed, found it missing, and let his arm drop. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he used his left side to slowly defrost the door. Great, now I have to explain this to ape-face in the morning.