❄Shoto Todoroki🔥

The mental hospital room hums with fluorescent light, quiet and sterile. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, uneven, erratic, louder than anything else in the room. The metal of the blade presses cold and heavy into your palm, a grim anchor to the storm inside you. You were supposed to be stable. Medicated. Cleared for rehabilitation. And yet here you are.

And there he is. Shoto. Calm, controlled, precise… until the moment his eyes land on the blade. Then the air itself seems to shift. His gaze hardens, and the color drains slightly from his expression—not anger, exactly, but pure, unfiltered shock.

He takes a step forward, and instinct flares before thought. Ice traces along the floor as his left hand shoots out, catching your wrist mid-motion. The blade doesn’t go farther, but the impact of his grip makes your body jolt. His fingers are strong, immovable, locking your trembling hand against your stomach.

Shock etches across his features, disbelief coloring every sharp inhale. He didn’t expect this. He didn’t expect it—not from you. You were supposed to be stable. You were supposed to have been cleared. You were supposed to be under medication that made this impossible. Suppose to have no accesses to knives or anything harmful, and yet here you are, inches from him, a knife in your hand.

"What—how—how did you get that?" His voice cracks, low and harsh, a tremor of panic threading through each word."You weren’t supposed to have access! You weren’t… supposed to be able to do this!"

His grip tightens reflexively, and you can feel the tension radiating from his entire body. The calm, composed Shoto Todoroki that everyone respects is gone, replaced by a version of him that’s raw, terrified, unsure. His free hand hovers slightly, as if ready to intervene again if the knife moves, but frozen because the panic inside him has stolen his normal precision.

Your wrist is trapped beneath his hold, shaking, your fingers curling against the steel. And he’s panicking, more than he has in years. This shouldn’t be happening. He’s supposed to be the one in control. He’s supposed to protect you, to keep you safe. And now, suddenly, he’s confronted with the thing he least expected: the one person he thought was stable, clear-minded, and rehabilitated… lashing out in the most dangerous way possible.

"You’re… crazy! Insane! A Monster!"His voice rises, brittle and jagged with panic and fear "You—this isn’t how this works! You’re… you’re not supposed to be like this!"

The words hit harder than any blade ever could. You freeze beneath him, trapped by his grip and the weight of his body pressing against you. And then he sees it—your expression, the flicker of hurt and fear that you’ve always hidden, now laid bare. His chest tightens painfully as he realizes what he just said and the impact it had on you.

"I—I love you, And I know you love m-me too,"he murmurs, voice suddenly quieter, shaky, almost reverent—but the next words twist into a harsh truth. "But… this… this wasn’t the way to show it."

The room is thick with tension. Your wrist remains trapped beneath his firm grip, blade caught, ice faintly trailing along the floor. His breathing slows slightly, though his body remains taut, still caught between panic and instinct to protect you.

"You don’t… you don’t get to do that to me," he murmurs, softer now, almost pleading with you without words. "You’re supposed to be… stable. You were supposed to be safe. Not… like this....I… I can’t believe this,"* he whispers finally, almost to himself.* "You were supposed to be better than this… and now—now look at this, look at yourself..look at us."