Shoto Todoroki

The distance Shoto Todoroki kept between himself and the world was not accidental; it was painstakingly constructed. His childhood had taught him that proximity led only to damage, and connection inevitably dissolved into pain or abandonment. His relationship with his immediate family was a frigid landscape, strained by trauma and resentment. Why bother forming genuine bonds when the fate of all connections—personal, professional, familial—was temporary? Everyone, eventually, drifted far apart, one way or another.

He had expected his peers at UA High School to be no different: driven, ambitious, and ultimately, peripheral.

Then, there was you.

You were a relentless, blinding variable in his carefully calculated existence. Persistence was too mild a word for the unwavering nature of your attention. You were the sun to his stormcloud, an insistent warmth he couldn't freeze off with his right side, nor burn away with his left. You were sunshine and clinginess, optimism and neediness, folded into a personality that refused to be deterred by his icy grunts or noncommittal stares.

Throughout their three years at UA, you were consistently, inevitably, his partner. In combat training, in study sessions, and even during lunch, you were present. You chatted incessantly, filling the silence he cherished with observations about the weather, complaints about homework, or detailed theories on the latest villain plot. His responses were glacial: often a single, low grunt, a subtle shoulder shrug, or a silent, prolonged stare that lasted just until you met his eyes, forcing him to look away first.

But the sheer, undiluted purity of your presence slowly eroded the edges of his armor.

The change was agonizingly slow, measured in increments so subtle they were almost imperceptible. By their second year, the grunts turned into small, almost inaudible ‘hmm’s. By the third, he sometimes offered a factual, two-word reply. He stopped stiffening when you would playfully hook your arm through his during a shared walk back to the dorms. In fact, on days when you were unusually preoccupied or absent, a strange, hollow space opened up beside him, a space he almost, begrudgingly, missed you filling.

He had begun to anticipate your presence.

Graduation arrived, and with it, the terrifying precipice of the professional world. Shoto, still navigating the complexities of his parentage, accepted a position at Endeavor’s now-rebranded agency—less a reconciliation, more a strategic necessity. The surprise came weeks later, when he awkwardly extended an offer to you.

"The agency is seeking sidekicks focused on rapid tactical deployment," he mumbled, looking fixedly at a spot just over your left shoulder. "Your Quirk… it’s highly adaptable."

He didn't need your adaptability. He needed you. He needed the familiar, bright chaos you brought to organizational structures.

You, predictably, took the offer to heart. You interpreted it not just as a professional connection, but as the final, necessary validation of your persistent efforts. A week later, after their first official patrol, you corralled him into a quiet, shadowed corner of the agency locker room.

You asked him out. Formally.

Shoto’s reaction was a spectacular display of social malfunction. His dual-colored hair seemed to stand on end, his eyes widened, and he shifted his weight between his feet like he was standing on hot coals. His hands clenched into fists, then opened, then clenched again. He looked everywhere but at you—at the ceiling tiles, the floor drain, the dusty fire extinguisher.

The silence grew thick, oppressive. You waited, patient as always.

Finally, a breath escaped him, sounding like air leaking from a punctured tire. He didn't meet your gaze, focusing instead on the knot of his tie.

"...Okay."

It was the most noncommittal acceptance of a romantic proposal in history. But it was an answer, and you made it official.

Their relationship post-UA settled into a rhythm that defined their dynamic: comfortable, domestic, and utterly non-traditional.

Co-habitation had seemed the logical next step six months into their dating life. Living in a shared apartment, equidistant from the agency and the training grounds, was efficient. This efficiency, Shoto decided, was the primary reason he enjoyed living with you.

He was a good boyfriend in the ways that required minimal verbal input but maximum endurance. When you linked your hand through his on the street, he didn't pull away; sometimes, he even adjusted his grip to better fit yours. When you leaned close for a kiss on his cheek after he successfully synthesized a new ice formation during training, he leaned down to accommodate the angle, his expression remaining perfectly neutral. If you had a particularly grueling patrol and asked him to rub your shoulders, he would do so with a steady, strong pressure, his hands warm.

And the cuddle sessions? They became mandatory evenings on the worn leather couch they’d bought together. He would sit stiffly at first, then slowly relax as you draped yourself across his lap, his arm eventually settling around your shoulders, holding you close enough to feel your heartbeat against his chest.

Their relationship was built on proximity, shared silence, and the quiet comfort of mutual presence.

But the physical intimacy stopped precisely at the neck and above the waistline.

Sex was a complete non-starter. Non-existent.

The moment you tried to initiate anything beyond a ten-minute make-out session—the moment a hand wandered too low on his back, or tried to slip beneath the hem of his shirt—Shoto would instantly seize up. His muscles would tighten, his breath would hitch, and his eyes would dart away, filled with a sudden, confusing panic.

"I need to check the patrol summaries," he would state, his voice flat and strained.

He would already be halfway off the couch, avoiding your gaze with the practiced deflection of a man who had perfected the art of avoidance.

“No, I… I think I left the stove on.”

And he would walk away, leaving you alone with a confusing mixture of tenderness and deep, growing frustration. You had expected him to be awkward; he was Shoto. You had expected nervousness; this was his first proper intimate relationship. But months turned into a year, and the pattern never broke.

You understood, intellectually, that the emotional and physical barriers he possessed were colossal, rooted in the trauma of his childhood. But understanding did not soothe the relentless dreams that plagued your sleep, the nightly fantasies built around the man lying rigidly beside you.

You wanted to see his ice-cold reserve melt. You wanted to make the veins in his neck boil with the heat of his fire, and to make that famed dual-toned gaze lose its focus entirely. It was a corny, perhaps juvenile, desire, but you were deeply, physically hungry, and your boyfriend was stubbornly barricaded behind a wall of polite excuses. He wouldn't even let the kissing last if your hands became too adventurous.

The accumulated tension finally broke you.

One rainy Tuesday afternoon, while Shoto was volunteering at a children’s charity event through the agency, you made a detour on your way home. You were acting purely on impulse, driven by the persistent, humming need that had been ignored for too long.

You bypassed the logical reasoning center of your brain and went straight for the "desperation" aisle of the specialty store. You emerged with a small, discreetly labeled box containing highly potent, high-quality aphrodisiac chocolates—small, dark pieces designed to lower inhibitions and increase blood flow, marketed to couples looking to 'rekindle the spark.'

Maybe he’s just too shy, you rationalized internally, clutching the bag. Maybe he needs a push. A gentle physical nudge that bypasses the mental block. If he can't initiate, perhaps this will make it easier for him to—

The thought trailed off into an embarrassed wince. It felt manipulative, but the alternative was months more of sleeping next to an untouchable statue. You decided it was a desperation measure, a temporary crutch to get past the initial hurdle.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. * ੈ✩‧₊˚

You arrived back at the shared apartment, peeling off your wet jacket. You quickly dumped the candy box onto the kitchen counter, planning to hide it away until the opportune moment. The moment, however, was interrupted. A sudden, urgent need hit you, and you rushed to the bathroom, leaving the bag open and the box exposed.

Shoto, meanwhile, had returned early. The charity event had wrapped up quickly. He was groggy, having taken a short nap on the couch, and now he was hungry. He sauntered sleepily into the kitchen, his gaze unfocused.

He spotted the bag.

He didn’t register the label; why would he? You constantly raided his snack stash, and it was only fair game that he investigate yours. He was craving a small piece of chocolate, and this looked like high-end dark chocolate. Shoto didn't bother transferring the treats to a bowl or reading the fine print. He just opened the box, unwrapped a piece, and popped it into his mouth.

It tasted rich, slightly bitter, and surprisingly warming. He ate another. Then, a third.

Feeling marginally more alert and satisfied, he turned away from the counter and headed back to the living room. He settled onto the couch, remote in hand, flicking on the TV to catch the late afternoon news—always a good source for new villain activity trends.

A few minutes later, you finally emerged from the bathroom, feeling immensely better, and headed toward the kitchen counter to stash the evidence.

You stopped dead in your tracks.

The opened bag was still there, but the box—the tiny, incriminating box—was out, and worse, half of the chocolates were gone.

Your heart dropped into your stomach, quickly replaced by a frantic, dizzying dread. You slowly turned your head toward the living room, bracing yourself for disaster.

The sight of Shoto on the couch was immediately, hilariously, and terrifyingly confirming.

He was still leaning back, but his posture was far from his usual rigid calm. His skin was flushed a deep, alarming crimson, not just on his fire-side, but entirely across his face, neck, and chest. His pupils were dilated, wide and black, making his heterochromatic gaze look unnervingly intense. His breath was coming shallow and fast, and his hands were gripping the remote control so tightly his knuckles were white.

And the tent.

The visible, undeniable, magnificent tent straining the fabric of his grey sweatpants was impossible to ignore. His body was overriding his mind with spectacular force.

He must have felt your gaze because he abruptly shifted, his wide eyes snapping to meet yours. They were startled, confused, and filled with a raw, chemical heat you had never seen before.

"W-what was that?" he stammered, the words rough and unrecognizable. His voice was lower, guttural, and laced with an edge of panic. "That… that chocolate. My head feels loud. And I'm—"

He broke off, noticing the immediate, damning evidence of his own arousal. Embarrassed, he grabbed the nearest object—a throw pillow—and slammed it over his lap, pressing down hard. But it was too little, too late.

You had already noticed the distinct, darkening wet patch blooming on the front of his sweatpants, just above the pillow, where the material was pulled taut. His internal conflict was boiling over externally.

Flustered and horrified (and secretly, deeply intrigued), you managed an awkward, jerky gait as you walked the few steps over to the couch. You sat down cautiously beside him, suddenly unsure how to operate in a crisis where your boyfriend was radiating suppressed, chemically induced desire.

You opened your mouth to explain—to tell him it was aphrodisiac candy, that you were sorry, it was a terrible, desperate mistake—but you never got the chance.

The dam broke.

The sudden proximity was evidently too much for his chemically altered state to handle. With a startled groan, Shoto abandoned the pretense of the pillow (which slipped to the floor) and leaned sharply toward you. He pressed his face fiercely into the curve of your neck and shoulder, a low, desperate whimper escaping his throat.

His hands, which were now visibly shaking, clamped onto your waistline, holding you with a crushing strength that was entirely unfamiliar. He didn't just lean; he nuzzled, burying his nose into your scent, breathing deeply and erratically.

“It’s too much,” he mumbled against your skin, his voice muffled. “I can’t… I can't focus. Everything is too hot.”

He wasn’t speaking just about his body temperature, which was indeed radiating heat. He was talking about the sudden, terrifying focus of his entire existence. For the perpetually reserved Shoto, the sensation of overwhelming, pure desire was clearly horrific.

He shifted, his hands tightening on your hips, and in one swift, clumsy motion, he maneuvered you. He lifted you slightly, rotating his body so that you were pinned beneath him on the couch cushions.

His balance was unsteady, his movements jerky, but entirely deliberate. He braced his forearms on either side of your head, hovering over you, panting heavy, hot breaths onto your face. His pupils were still blown wide, searching your face with a desperate confusion that made your breath catch in your throat.

You felt the full, hard length of him pressing through the thin cotton of his sweatpants, aligning perfectly with your core. The heat of him was intense.

Another sound, louder this time, wrenched itself from his chest—a startled, helpless groan that was less of a complaint and more of a surrender.

His gaze flicked down to his groin, then back up to your eyes, shame warring violently with the overriding physical need. He was a man drowning in sensation, stripped bare of every defense mechanism he had spent a lifetime constructing.

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing.

"...I need help," he whispered, the words barely audible, rough with humiliation and need. He was close enough that the scent of him—sweat, warmth, and the lingering bitterness of dark chocolate—filled your senses.

The chemical push had finally breached the glacial wall, and Shoto Todoroki, the master of emotional control, was asking for release. He looked down at you, his eyes pleading, utterly reliant on you to navigate the terrifying, overwhelming storm that was raging inside him.

"Please," he rasped, his eyes finally settling on the curve of your mouth. "I don't know what... what is happening. Just... make it stop."