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Todoroki Shouto has always liked trains.
He’s not sure why. He didn’t grow up being one of those kids fascinated by them, wasn’t ever insisting to his parents for train sets or begging for train themed shows to be put on. He spent his childhood thinking it was the soft lull of them; the gentle bumps of the cars going over tracks and the hum that fills the empty spaces around him.
It wasn’t until he was older, on his own and beginning hero work and traveling by himself- without the comfort of his mother’s soft hand- that he started to realize that what he likes is witnessing the soft intimacy of those around him. His own private show of what it’s like to witness love. To not be afraid of someone else’s hands. He even likes to think that this is where he learned what a soft touch truly looks like; even though the sight makes him look at his own two hands and wonder at what it would be like if someone else was filling the spaces between his fingers.
He wishes it wasn’t like this. Wishes that witnessing a father ruffle his son's hair didn’t make his heart feel too big for his chest, especially because the face of that child is unmarred by scars and regret. But Todoroki Shouto made a promise to himself long ago- with the help of a friend- that he won’t dwell on things he can’t change. A conscious effort to keep moving forward; to take baby steps and enjoy the little things.
He supposes his insistence on taking things easy -more so his insistence on attempting to take things easy- is why he takes the train to work every morning. Bakugou always gives him shit for this, reminding him that he’s a pro-hero now. Reminds him that he’s special . The cream of the crop of society doesn’t need to take the train like every other civilian. Midoriya just smiles at his insistence on taking the train and tells Bakugou that it doesn’t matter how Shouto gets to work as long as he makes it there on time.
This morning, however, he almost calls Bakugou for a ride. Almost breaks his small promise to himself to enjoy the little things. Traveling from Musutafu all the way down to Fukuoka is quite the trek for him. It’s about four hours, longer than he’s used to. Longer than the typical twenty minute rides from his penthouse to the agency he owns.
It’s chilly today. The first day that really feels like fall. Washes over the world with a chill that reminds everyone colder days are coming; that soon the streets will be filled with an odd slush that trails into apartments and tiny flakes of ice that cling to the fabric of clothing meant to keep you warm.
The train arrives promptly. It always does, and it’s the most consistent thing he has in his life. The train shows up at the same time, and leaves at the same time. It’s another reason why he’s always liked them -their schedule has never let him down.
It’s quiet today; most people don’t choose rides this early. Rides that start before the sun rises. He did this on purpose, however. Shouto Todoroki prefers the window seats, and this way he’s always guaranteed his favorite spot.
The train shows up on time. Like always. Like promised. And he’s quick to get on, to find his seat and sit down.
“Can I sit with you?” A voice breaks through his thoughts.
When he looks up he sees you. Your hair is wild and splayed across your face; thin trench coat that practically hangs off your body and a beige scarf wrapped around you. Just behind you, a mere seven feet away on the other end of the car, there’s a man. He doesn’t really stand out to Shouto, dressed in dark clothing with eyes intently staring at you.
Shouto tilts his head at you, not quite understanding why there’s such a nervous expression on your face; the way you’re chewing your bottom lip and the almost desperate way you look at him.
“Why?” He looks at you vacantly, his hand gesturing at the empty seats around him, “There’s plenty of open seats.”
He watches your face twist into something sour; your lips press into a thin line before you’re shoving him further into the seat, plopping unceremoniously next to him with your purse in your lap. You look over at him, studying his expression intently. He wonders if you recognize him for a moment, before you’re looking at your hands in your lap, “That, ah…that guy was harassing me earlier. On the platform.”
“Oh,” he says simply. He should’ve noticed it; the way that the man's presence seemed to loom over you and how small you seemed before you sat down. The thought irritates him; the fact that something so awful was happening right in front of him. In a place that has become some kind of strange sanctuary for him.
You’re growing now though, your walls crumbling down in his presence. You’re a flower blooming right in front of him, and he stares at you for a moment pondering what red string of fate brought you here. He catches himself, wondering exactly what it is about you that has him immediately thinking of odd things like fate and soulmates and the strange sensation of knowing he is fated to be someone , but wanting to be that someone with you.
You’re quiet. It’s not one of those tense and weird, quiet moments where he feels like it’s awkward or his fault because he said something dense. He feels like you’re quiet with him; like you’re absorbing the silence along with him. It’s nice, he thinks. It’s not lonely or strange like it usually is. For the first time, he feels like there’s someone taking up the spaces between his fingers without touching him.
Is this what it’s like? To feel whole with someone near you? Without having to be touched.
You break the silence first. He remembers reading about this somewhere. Therapists, who use silence to get people to work through their thoughts on their own. Speaking them out loud until they figure out their true thoughts, “Can I… can I swap seats with you? I like being by the window.” You add on hurriedly. “I won’t be on long! I’m getting off in two hours.”
And Shouto can’t just say no to you, can he? Not when you look at him with big eyes and use the sweetest voice on him. Not when you look at him brighter than all the flowers the merchant sells on his walks here. He’s not sure if he’ll ever see you again, but he is sure that if he does he will never have the strength to tell you no. Especially not when you look at him like that . He nudges out of the seat and stands.
“I never get to ride the train.” You say quietly as you sit back down, more to yourself than him.
“Why’s that?” he questions, watching the countryside roll past through the window. He usually prefers the window seat, but now he’s thinking he’d prefer to look at you.
“Ah…” you start. You look lost in thought for a moment, resting your chin in your hand as you search your mind for the right words. “I was never able to go by myself anywhere. And…. cars … cars are a thing, y’know?” You shake your head softly before whispering. “But the train is just so much better.” Shouto doesn’t say anything, just continues staring out the window along with you, in the strange kind of quiet you seem to join him in. He’s curious to know more, but also knows it’s best to not push people. “Todoroki?” you ask after some time.
“Hm?”
“Do you believe in fate?”
He ponders the question for a moment before answering, “I’ve never given it much thought.”
“Isn’t it strange though?” you sound animated, turning and looking at him. He wonders why for a moment. Wonders why this topic seems to excite you, “That by some weird series of events I’m sitting next to you on a train?”
“It is,” he responds after some thought. “If I think about it.” Truthfully he’s never thought about it. Not until you sat down next to him.
You hum in response, your head leaning on the window and as you once again lost in your world. He wonders what it's like in the world in your head. He’s absolutely certain there’s a galaxy in your mind. He wants to be the astronaut to explore all of your solar systems. He wants to interrupt, wants to break the silence between you two and ask what’s on your mind, but you look just so beautiful sitting there without a care in the world. He’d feel like a criminal if he ruined your peace.
It’s so strange to him; to barely know someone but feel like he’s known them forever. To feel a red string of fate connecting you both together. It’s so odd making a connection to someone he barely knows, especially as a person who tends to prefer to keep people at arms length. The train ride with you is silent but he feels like he’s learning so much from it. You’re right handed; your face cannot hide a single emotion while you’re reading a book. You yawn into your elbow. You cross your legs when you sit; your right leg over your left while your foot taps to a tempo only you can hear.
The ride is ending soon. Much too soon, he thinks. He doesn’t want you to get off. Doesn’t want you to leave. He feels angry. That by some small chance you managed to find him but fate wasn’t kind enough to let you stay.
It’s cruel to him, really. But unsurprising. So few things have ever worked out in his life, and he’s not shocked that this is one of them. Even though his heart is shattering in his chest he’s still giving you a small smile. It’s not a genuine one. It’s barely more than friendly; akin to the smile you do when you make eye contact with a stranger. Every move he makes kills him inside; the way his legs feel like lead when he raises from his seat. The way his arms reach above his head to grab your bag from the container and the way he’s stepping out of your way so you can get off. He sits back down, edging himself towards the window when he feels fabric against his hand.
“Wait!” He calls out through the open window of the train. The fabric of your scarf weighs his hand down, the woven material of it catching on his chewed fingernails- a nervous habit his father has always told him to break- “You forgot your scarf!”
“It’s okay, Todoroki!” You call out to him from the platform, hands over your eyes to shield them from the rising sun. You look so bright. So hopeful. You’re a flower basking in the sun and Shouto watches you just thankful to be alive. “I’ll see you again!”
You sound so sure. So confident. Like you’ve already seen him many times, and you’ll see him many more times after this.
And that’s what gives him hope. The certainty of your voice watering the seed of content in his chest and keeping the garden that lives there alive. How could he not be sure while you’re looking at him like that?
“How do you know?” He asks, flabbergasted. He’s never met someone so full of blind faith. So sure in the fact that life would always work out, “You can’t just count on that!”
“That’s easy!” You call back, laughing. The train starts moving, “I don’t think life could help putting us back together again!”
——————————————————————————————————————-
ONE MONTH LATER
Shouto hasn’t seen you in a month. He’s wondering how long it takes for fate- if he ever decides to fully believe in such a thing- to work, because holding on is looking grim. Bakugou has been telling him to give up. Mina thinks it’s cute. Midoriya just smiles warmly at him, listens to him complain about it, and encourages him when it’s hard to hold on.
“It’s okay, Todoroki,” he always starts these sentences with a smile. Shouto wishes he could be as optimistic. “Things will work out in the end. They always do!”
He wonders if Midoriya is the reason he likes you. You both have this strange, blind faith in fate, in better days. You’re both the type of people that remind him that his belief in the little things isn’t silly, that sometimes things can actually work out.
It’s starting to get colder now. Sometimes in the mornings before the sun rises he can see his breath. It comes out in short white puffs before disappearing. He wonders sometimes if you were just a ghost. Just someone to remind him to take things easy.
It’s warm by the afternoon.
THREE MONTHS LATER
It snowed today.
It’s not the first snow he’s seen this year, but it is the first one that sticks. Shouto likes the snow; he likes the quiet atmosphere it creates, the way it crunches under his boots. The feeling of a hot drink between his hands. It’s nice to him. It reminds him that cold things can be beautiful too.
He doesn’t talk about you as much, not willing to look Midoriya in the eyes and say he’s losing hope. Not willing to hear Bakugou say he’s dumb to keep holding on. Shouto’s quirk makes each half of his body react in polar opposite ways, but the whiplash hits harder when he’s sandwiched between Bakugou and Midoriya during a patrol.
Your scarf hangs on the first hook next to his. He stares at it sometimes, wonders if this is what domesticity looks like from the outside looking in. Wonders what it would be like to see a coffee cup that’s half empty next to his. Or a pair of heels lazily tossed next to his boots, a dip in the mattress right next to him when he wakes up in the morning, leftover food that doesn’t go bad because there’s someone else here to eat it.
He watches the snow slowly build up on the ledge of his penthouse window, tiny crystal flakes that stick to the outside and cast the apartment in a strange, overly white hue. He likes the strange sense of limbo the snow puts the world in. Makes everything slow down and stop for a moment, makes the world around him feel like it’s connected to him. Makes the world feel like it’s an extension of his quirk.
He wonders how many scarves you have. If you have enough for the weather. Wherever you are, he hopes you’re staying warm.
He looks at your scarf before he goes to bed. He tells himself he should move it somewhere else.
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FIVE MONTHS LATER
Shouto still hasn’t seen you. Midoriya tells him to stay hopeful, and he’s trying. But it’s strange here without you. It reminds him that the spaces between his fingers are empty, reminds him you were the first person that ever touched him softly.
When he comes home at night, or sometimes, early in the morning before the world wakes up, your scarf hanging over the back of his couch haunts him like a ghost. Fills his senses and his home with the memory of you. A heavy want for domesticity filled him everytime he saw your scarf so he moved it to the couch in hopes it would fade.
It didn’t work. He just holds it next to him when he watches TV.
Today, however, he’s lucky enough to finally get a day off. There’s a coffee shop Midoriya’s been begging him to try and he decides he should walk there. He’d usually take the train, looking for any excuse to maybe bump into you, but today he doesn’t think he could handle the disappointment.
The hero commission is crumbling; citizens just don’t have the same faith in heroes like they used to. He walks down streets and watches people avert their gaze. He watches people spit on the sidewalk he steps on. People that sneer at him and throw things at him. These days are hard for the dreamers; for the adults who were once kids who poured their souls into becoming heroes. Things are hard for the children of heroes; those who have to watch their parents be slandered for doing their job. Shouto can’t remember the last time someone looked at him with admiration. Society is becoming more and more hostile towards heroes with every news report and the idea fills Shouto with an anxiety he’s too scared to vocalize.
The coffee shop is nice. A quaint and quiet place with mismatched chairs and hanging plants. He wonders if they’re real or fake; how things so lush and green and beautiful can manage to stay alive during such cold days. He’s never been here before. Midoriya said he loves the atmosphere of the place; the way it feels like coming home. He told Shouto that sometimes he’ll sit in the corner of the shop and just watch people go about their day, and sometimes he’ll pretend he can leave with them and live a life without blood and violence and obligation.
Everything makes him nervous. Thoughts of impending doom and a doubt he’ll ever see you again swirl around his brain and muddle his thoughts, but he doesn’t have time to really think about it. Doesn’t have time to worry about his job when he walks into the shop and he sees you .
He never expected your blind faith in how life works out until today. It's so odd to him. To have the universe hand him back the piece he swore he was missing on an ordinary day- a Tuesday, no less- at a coffee shop. He feels like he’s been transported into one of those novels his mother used to read, the ones she used to have to lock away from Fuyumi.
“Todoroki!” you smile at him. Bright and content. No trace of surprise on your face. Like you knew this day was always coming. “Did you bring my scarf?” you ask him casually, dumping sugar into your coffee before you shove your scone into your mouth.
“Why would I bring the scarf?” he asks you, “I didn’t know I was going to see you today.”
You shrug at him, using your hand to wipe the crumbs off your mouth, tiny pink tongue darting out to lick whatever you missed. You laugh at him, beckon for him to follow you out of the shop. He remembers he hasn’t gotten any coffee. He remembers that he doesn’t really care, “You know I didn’t actually expect you to carry my scarf around at all times in case you ran into me.”
“I knew that,” he says simply. It’s bitter cold out. He can see his breath. You’re wearing a different scarf, wool from the looks of it, it’s a bright cherry red and it matches your gloves. He wonders if it itches. Wool always irritated his skin. He debates on asking if you are for a moment, but decides not to. He’s waiting for you to speak first.
“Ah,” you say after some time, looking up towards the sky and watching the clouds roll across it. It’s the first sunny day in a while. Fitting that the sun comes out the day he sees you again. Another reason why he finds believing in fate to be a tempting thing, “It’s so nice out. Do you work today?”
“No,” he responds, looking over at you, “How did you know you were gonna see me again?”
You don’t say anything for a while. Just focus your gaze on the clouds above you. He looks up after a moment too, fascinated by them. Thin, pulled apart strands of cotton moving lazily across a periwinkle sky.
You speak after some time, breaking the silence gently. Breaking it in a way that doesn’t feel like it’s really breaking it, per se. When you speak you add to the serenity that silence holds.
“Have you ever heard of serendipity?” you ask, looking over at him; your coffee cup is half empty. He wonders if its gotten cold. He wonders if you’re cold. He’s grateful you have another scarf.
“No,” he tells you, meeting your eyes quizzically.
“It’s, ah… a philosophy of mine. Well,” you suck on your cheek in thought, “A lot of people believe in it. It’s the belief that things will always just work out for the best.”
“Blind faith.”
“Something like that,” you take a sip from your cup and look back at the sky, “Blind faith and a bit of hope is all you need, really,” you glance over to him after a moment and smile. It’s soft around the edges. It makes him feel soft around the edges, “I used to worry about a lot of things Todoroki-”
“Shouto,” he corrects.
“Shouto,” you smile at him. It’s nice. Warm. “Anyways, I used to worry about a lot of things. Sometimes one at a time, and sometimes all at once. It’s quite a suffocating feeling. To experience the weight of the world all at once. My, um… My job was super stressful and I had this shitty boyfriend and one day I just woke up. I woke up. I sat in my bed and asked myself ‘What can I do to be happy again? Because this isn’t working anymore and I can’t keep doing this. ’ So that morning, I hopped on a train to Musutafu and decided to explore the area. Called off work, didn’t answer any phone calls. Within an hour I said ‘ Fuck it. I’m gonna live here .’ The train ride home the next day I met you. I had decided to quit my job and break up with my boyfriend, and I was going home to get my affairs back in order.”
“So…” he says. “You are not a long time believer in blind faith?”
“No,” you take another sip from your coffee, “But here I am, five months later and I run into you again at a coffee shop I’ve never been to, and really that’s all the confirmation I need.”
“So you just decided one day you weren’t happy, visited Musutafu, decided to move here, met me on the train ride home, and broke up with your boyfriend and quit your job?” he smiles at you, completely in awe of your faith in how things work out. You put faith in something you weren’t even sure was going to work, and are now basking in the rewards of it.
“Yeah,” you laugh, “I’ve decided to become fiercely protective of my own happiness. I’ve actually only been back for three days.”
It’s started to snow again. Small white flakes falling down from a strangely blue sky and landing on the bright red wool of your scarf. He watches you stick your tongue out to catch them and he can’t help but laugh, following suit and catching snow with you. Both your tongues sticking out with heads tilted to the sky. He can’t remember ever feeling this carefree; can’t ever remember feeling like a kid. Just watching snow collect around on the surfaces that surround you both as it caresses Shouto in a way that he’s never been touched before: softly . Like you’ve both been placed in a snow globe together and neither one of you will ever be hurt again.
The childlike wonder snow brings doesn’t last long. Not before the sky is turning a dirty shade of gray and snow is covering the cars that line the sides of the streets.
“Wow,” you say worriedly. “It’s really starting to come down.” You hold your hand out, watching snow accumulate and slowly cover the cardinal red of your gloves.
“Come to my place.” Shouto offers. “It’s nearby and you can wait out the storm there.”
“Ah….” you search your mind for excuses, never wanting to be a bother to anyone. “I’d really hate to intrude.”
“It’s not an intrusion.” He grabs your hand gently, inspecting the flakes of snow that have gathered there. He notices, somewhere deep inside his mind, that he grabbed you with his left side. The one that he insisted he hated for so long but now all he can think is how nice it would be to keep you warm. “I’m insisting.”
You snort at him. “Sir, yes, sir.”
He smirks at you, holding his arm out for you to grab onto. You’re confident when you grab his arm, tucking your body against his. He can smell your shampoo from here; soft lavender scent that tickles his nose. He thinks to himself how easy it would be for it to become his favorite scent. Finds himself wondering what it’ll smell like combined with his cologne or sticking to his pillow case. Finds himself wondering -yet again- about domesticity and the way it feels warm and soft. Makes him think about days where the spaces between his fingers aren’t empty and he has to remember to order a big enough pizza for two people.
Shouto knows he might not understand every social situation that’s thrown his way, but he is confident that he can walk on ice better than you. He’s only proven right when you almost fall. You would’ve landed on your ass if it wasn’t for him. But it’s nice. It’s easy. You’re laughing at yourself until tears are springing from your face and you’re snorting; Shouto’s doubled over alongside you, both his hands clutching his sides. He can’t remember the last time he’s laughed like this. The more he thinks about it he realizes he doesn’t think he’s ever laughed like this. Laughter that almost hurts as it comes out, bubbling out of his mouth like music; effortless and carefree.
“Come on,” he says between giggles. “My place is just around the corner.” He gestures vaguely with his hand, tugging your body in the direction of his apartment. The snow is starting to come down heavier now. He can’t see that much in front of him; has to squint to be able to read the signs. He’s starting to get worried. There wasn’t any mention of a storm coming through today. He wonders how long it’s going to last; how much snow will pile up and if it’ll be enough to shut the city down. The weather’s always been unpredictable to him and as much as he loves snow, he hates unpredictability.
You both make it to his apartment safely; thankfully no bruises on your body but a few on your ego after Shouto saved you from falling a couple more times. It’s warm inside. Makes him grateful he left the heat on before he went to the coffee shop.
He watches you casually toss your boots next to his. A stark contrast towards how neat he leaves his versus the sloppy way you threw yours. He stares at it for a while, wondering why the sight makes him feel warm down to his bones but he doesn’t have time to meditate on why because you’re running your fingers through his hair.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting the snow out of your hair.” you snort, like it’s obvious. But Shouto isn’t used to the small acts that go into taking care of someone else. Your fingers are soft, running through his hair gently to shake the flakes out. “There.” you say, looking at him with your hands on your hips and satisfied with your work.
He smiles at you, as gentle as sunlight. “Are you thirsty?”
“Yeah.” you concede. “I could use something to drink.”
“Make yourself comfortable.” he tells you, opening his fridge and pouring you a glass of water from a pitcher. He takes a cutting board out, setting out grapes and strawberries and different types of cheese.
He sets your drink on a coaster before handing you a plate. It’s pretty, you notice. Eggshell blue with small white flowers and designs. He watches you carefully, wondering what you’re thinking. He likes plates and fine china. He prefers antique ones in particular; his mother had a set that he remembers brightly. Round plates with red apples and brown borders that look like branches connecting them all together.
“My mother,” he started quietly. He’s not sure why it embarasses him, having an affinity for antique plates. “Really liked her dinnerware. I think I inherited her tastes.”
“I think it’s sweet.” you pause to pop a grape in your mouth, eyes focused directly in front of you and staring at nothing at all. He’s wondering if you’re avoiding looking at him. He’s used to this feeling; the feeling of knowing someone is avoiding his gaze, but it makes him upset to think you would be doing it to him.
“She’s wonderful.” he starts, not sure what else to say about his mother. That’s what normal people say about their parents right? That they’re wonderful and kind people. Shouto isn’t quite sure what to say about his parents other than he finds his father cruel and harsh and the strongest emotion he can muster towards his mother is a sickening amount of sympathy. “She’s…. coming back around after a long time of being gone.” You hum in response, nodding your head along as if you can understand what he’s gone through. “What about you?”
“Ah my parents weren’t really around much. Too busy doing other things.” You say thoughtfully, looking over at him with eyes flashing. “But it’s okay. Life’s too short to be mad at your parents.”
He pauses for a moment, thinking of your last sentence. How deeply nine words can impact him. He wonders about the unseen scars left on your face; wonders if the sight of a mother ruffling her daughters hair makes you feel the same sick and twisted jealousy that fills him until all he can see is green . Green tinted memories of birthdays he never had and green around the edges of memories of his siblings playing outside while his father dragged him into a dark room. “Is life too short to be mad at the boyfriend you broke up with?”
“No.” you say sourly. He knows it’s directed at him . He knows it’s directed towards a red tinged memory that springs into your mind. “He was a grade-A asshole. Just pure shittiness rolled up into one man. He didn’t let me do much, wasn’t ever really allowed out of his sight. Hence why I asked to sit by the window. He always wanted to drive me everywhere. I think that he thought keeping me in his sights was his best way of making sure I was safe? Or that I wasn’t gonna cheat on him, though I never did.” You pop a strawberry in your mouth and chew it thoughtfully. “Either way, I’ll never know. I’ve learned to be okay with that.”
He’s silent for a while, mediating on your words and the way they make him realize that progress is not linear, and that sometimes you have to be the one to stand up and change your situation. “Oh.” he remembers suddenly. “Let me grab your scarf for you.” He reaches behind the couch, grabbing the beige material and handing it to you.
“You kept it safe.” You smile at him, taking the scarf and setting it next to the neat pile of magazines on his coffee table. “Thank you. Admittedly this is my favorite one.”
“I kept it warm too.” He tells you simply. You both reach for the remaining strawberry, your fingers brushing over his and you pull back suddenly. “I’m sorry. You take it.”
“No you!” you laugh, waving your hands at him. “I insist.”
“No.” he laughs, wondering how he managed to get into polite discussions and insisting someone take the last strawberry.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am.”
“Shouto…” you say slowly, holding the strawberry between your fingers before you look over at him. “Would you always give me the last strawberry? Always make sure I’m warm?”
“Of course.”
Suddenly your lips are pressed against his; hungry and eager and warm . He’s not sure how this happened, or what series of events lead him to this moment in his life but he doesn’t have time to question it. Not when your mouth is opening up to welcome his tongue and your fingers are tangled in his hair. He lifts you from the couch easily, humming with approval when your legs wrap around his waist. He carries you to his bedroom and tosses you unceremoniously onto his bed. He’s on top of you quickly, eyes drinking up the sight before he’s kissing you again; tongue exploring the cavern of your mouth.
“Where did you go?” He croaks, breaking the kiss and cradling your face with his hands; studying you with heterochromatic eyes. The emotion in his voice shocks him; the way it simultaneously sounds like it’s broken and breaking all at once. “Where have you been?”
You place your hands over his. “I was gone. But I’m back now.”
“I was worried I wasn’t going to find you.” He’s shattering in front of you; tiny glass shards of the person he used to be falling around his bedroom. Your hands placed on his the only thing keeping him from completely collapsing. “I was worried you weren’t going to find me.”
“I knew I would find you, Shou. I’ll always find you.” You sound so earnest ; the same amount of certainty coating your words like the first time he heard you say you’d find him again. Maybe someday serendipity will become his philosophy as well as yours, but for now he’s content to fall apart in your arms while you patch him back up. To be simultaneously broken and put back together by you is something he would be willing to do over and over again if it meant you’ll wake up in his arms every day.
His lips are slotted against yours again; tongue exploring your mouth. You buck your hips against his, desperate for any friction against your aching cunt. His hand grabs your waist, instantly slowing the hungry rutting of your hips. “Stay still.” he commands. It’s quiet. Almost sounds like a request, but when you look into his eyes -pupils dilated and lust-blown and all you can see is a thin ring of color around them- you know Todoroki Shouto has every intention of destroying you if you don’t listen.
“Yes, sir.”
He’s gentle as he takes your clothing off, hands caressing the soft and untouched parts of your body. The ditch of your elbow; the back of your knee. The place where your spine meets your pelvis. The space just underneath your shoulder blade. You’re squirming underneath him. Shouto wonders if you -much like himself- aren’t used to a soft touch. He wants to fix that. He wants to make you feel whole again and if that means forcing parts of himself into you, he’s perfectly fine with that.
You hide your face behind your hands, a choked whine escaping your throat. “Put your hands down.” he chastises. “Let me see you.” You’re slow when you remove them from your face, and Shouto swears it’s like the sun coming out.
“Good girl.” he hums. “You’re so pretty.” He sounds breathless as he says it; looking at you like you’re a work of art. Like if he looks away he’ll miss something. “So beautiful .” He corrects. He handles you like porcelain; careful not to break you. Careful not to cut himself on the edges where people have broken you and hurt you. He presses kisses along your skin; feather light marks along your collarbone; the space underneath your breasts. “You’re doing so well.” he tells you as his hands touch the inside of your thigh. “Such a good girl for me, yeah?”
“Sir.” you ask quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “May I touch you?” He nods, not quite trusting his voice. Your hands are light as you trace his jawbone, index finger slowly moving from his ear to the tip of his chin. Your middle fingers trace along his cheekbones; finding a path along the sharp and angular lines of his face as if you could soften them. You trace down the bridge of his nose, before your hands move to his scar. His breath hitches in his throat as he feels your fingers follow the outline of it; your thumb gentle as it ghosts over his eyelid.
“It’s an ugly thing.” he tells you softly.
“I don’t think so.” you tell him. “Not if it’s on you.”
He doesn’t know what to say. He’s too used to people pretending his scar doesn’t exist. It’s a slap to the face when someone finally acknowledges it and even compliments it. He doesn’t know how to respond, how to verbalize the thoughts swirling in his mind like a dark cloud - he just kisses you instead. Trying to forget he grew up in a house that never really knew him while trying to accept that maybe someday he can live in a house with you where you look at the cobwebs in the attic and love the character it adds.
Shouto grabs you suddenly, setting you on his lap on the edge of his bed so you’re looking into the mirror hanging from the door of his closet. His left arm wraps around your center; the other one hooks under your knee, spreading your legs and revealing yourself more to him. Heat crawls up your face; embarrassed at how exposed you look in front of the mirror and you immediately close your eyes. He pinches your clit roughly, before smacking it. “Eyes open.” he commands, his breath hot against your cheek. “If I wasn’t in a good mood I’d take you over my knee for that.” You watch him move his fingers through your folds, his index circling around your clit before he’s teasing your entrance. “Why do you look so embarrassed?” he coos, making eye contact with you through the mirror. He smiles at you softly, his left hand grasping tighter on your skin. “You’re so pretty like this.” he slides another finger inside your cunt, his heel rubbing deliciously against your clit as he brings you closer to your release. “I bet you’re even prettier when you’re falling apart, hm? Why don’t you show me? You’re already making such a mess all over my pants, why not my fingers too? ” He can see your toes curling in your reflection; watches your breasts rise and fall at a quicker pace as your eyes roll back and body spasm. Tiny gasps and moans tumble out of your mouth; filling the bedroom with music that sounds better than anything an orchestrator can put together. He’s thinking you’re a harp and he’s the one playing you. Much like the one he would see at the galas his parents dragged him to. He was always fascinated by the harpist's fingers; how they move up and down the strings like dancing.
He turns your face towards him with gentle fingers, nuzzling his nose into your cheek. “Good girl.” he hums, “such a good girl for me, yeah?” He coaxes his slick coated fingers into your mouth, cooing with approval when he feels your tongue wrap around them and clean them. He lays you back down on the bed gently, pulling his clothes off so roughly he can hear the seams popping in his ears. But he can’t afford to care about a cashmere sweater when he has you laying on his bed. His cock springs free from his pants as soon as he pulls them down; heavy and slapping against his stomach. It’s long and pretty; curving upwards gently with an angry red tip. Pearly drop of precum sitting at the top of it. It’s girthier than most people think; not quite intimidating but something that most people seemed shocked by, and you’re no exception to that.
He lays back on the bed; head resting against the pillows. He beckons you over with two fingers but you’re still sitting stagnant on your knees on the other side of the bed; hands splayed and resting against your thighs, eyes wide and pupils blown with lust. He quirks an eyebrow at you “Is there something you want to ask me, sweet girl?”
“Sir,” you start carefully. “May I ah…?” You’re too shy to finish your sentence; too shy to say what you really want. Usually Shouto would force someone to say it, relishing the way their eyes look anywhere but his; however he can’t bring himself to force you to speak. He could live forever in the eagerness in your eyes. He nods at you, watches your face light up at the prospect of pleasuring him. You settle yourself between his legs, wrapping your fingers around his cock and giving the tip a kitten lick before your lips are placed around it. He hisses in pleasure at the feeling; loving how warm and wet your mouth feels around him and involuntarily bucking his hips deeper into your mouth. His hand finds its way to your head, letting you adjust before he’s roughly pushing and pulling you up and down his length; loving the crystal tears that fall from your eyes and the soft, muffled gags coming from your mouth. He pulls you off of him suddenly, roughly grabbing you and pressing your lips to his.
He pushes you onto your back, one of his hands grabbing both your wrists and the other one lifting your knee to your chest as he lines his cock up with your entrance. It’s aching for him to take his time; to place himself in you gently as you hiccup and sob. “S’too big!” you whine, tiny hands balling into fists and the heel of your foot digging into the mattress as he edges himself into you.
“S’okay, love.” He moans into your ear breathlessly. “I’ll make it fit.” He finally bottoms out with a groan that sends shivers up your spine. He stagnant for a moment; letting you adjust to his length before he starts thrusting into you. You look so beautiful like this; barely undone, tears streaming down your face and lips swollen from kissing. He’s never seen a more precious sight; never seen something so stunning and it makes him want to break you. He sets a quick pace, watching your eyes roll to the back of your head every time his tip brushes against your g-spot. His grip on your leg is bruising; something he’s sure will leave marks in the morning and the thought all but sets him on fire. He can lose himself in the idea of leaving semi permanent marks on your body, especially knowing that he’ll be able to put them on you again.
“Gonna cum for me, baby?” he asks. All you can do is whine in response, too fucked out from the feeling of Shouto filling you up to answer him properly. It’s another thing he’d usually make someone verbalize - enthusiastic consent has always been sexy to him, after all- but you look so good writhing underneath him that he can’t be bothered to stop. “C’mon,” he grunts, snaking a hand to your clit and rubbing circles around it. “Be a good girl for me, yeah? Cum for me.” You do it almost immediately, your cunt squeezing around his length and milking him perfectly. Your release spurs his own and he paints your walls a milky white; fascinated by the white ring of his own cum around his cock and the way he can feel it all moving inside of you.
He collapses next to you and you both catch your breath; sticky and sweaty from your excursions and wrapping your minds around what just happened. But for some reason it doesn’t make him feel strange. He’s not full of doubt or curiosity or shame or a strange sense of longing. You’re here , you’ll be here in the morning, and every morning after that. He knows this deep in his bones; feels like it’s ingrained in his very soul at this point. He knows that no longer will he have a side of the bed cold, a spare nightstand with nothing on it, and your scarves will find a home next to his gloves. He thinks about how it looked on his coffee table before you both went into his bedroom; the fabric bunched and piled next to the neat stack of magazines. That’s domesticity to him; your stuff carelessly thrown next to his. He’s finally found the meaning of it, and now beige -the color of the scarf you left on the train months ago- is his favorite color.
“Do you think we’ve always known each other?” you ask suddenly, breaking him out of his thoughts. You’re good at that, he’s noticed. Sending him back to reality before he can get too lost in his own head.
It makes him feel strange, to be the one to comfort and fan the flames of your belief in fate. It doesn’t matter to him though. Sometimes people have to reparent themselves. Sometimes people have to relearn things. He knows deep down he’ll be there for it all. You’ll keep him believing, and he’ll keep you hopeful.
“I think….” he says after some time, wrapping his arm around you tighter. It's amazing to him; that one scarf acted like a physical red string of fate that tied him to you. “I think we’ve known each other several lifetimes.”
“Really?”
“Mhm,” he hums, “Really.”