mean! shoto todoroki x reader ── .✦ university au!
౨ৎ tw / cw (18+); toxic dynamics, smut, dub-con, emotional manipulation, angst, hurt/comfort, possibly ooc shoto, reader and shoto exchange novels every week, reader has a v, virginity loss (both parties), penetration, deep-throating (shoto teaches you about anatomy), fingering, mating press, taboo situation (high-risk intimacy, parents in next room), spit kink, masturbation (reader licks the floor), reader has an oral fixation, humiliation, praise, psychological collapse, shoto is a med-student.
౨ৎ a/n; i've attached a continuation at the bottom, so you can decide whether you want to end the story with angst or comfort.
౨ৎ synopsis; shoto todoroki is charmingly perfect, praised for his restraint and generosity by everyone who isn't you. with you, he's cold. corrective. unkind by design ─ and there is nothing he enjoys more than knowing you always come crawling back.
you've always searched for shoto todoroki's approval.
not consciously, and definitely not as a choice. it's something your body does before you mind can catch up ─ attention tilting, posture correcting, thoughts narrowing into something careful, as if he might be watching even when he isn't.
it's stupid, and you know that. you're not sixteen anymore, and you haven't been for a long time. but still, even now, something in you tightens the moment he enters the room, eyes locked, waiting for validation even when there's nothing to give.
nothing has really changed.
it's always been like this between you. uneven. tense in a way you could never quite name. even before everything else, there was something sharp in the way he spoke to you. shorter answers, quicker corrections; all in a coolness that didn't match the way he treated anyone else.
you never understood why.
you were only merely a teenager when it happened, around the ripe age where future began feeling heavier, where teachers started looking at you like you were already becoming something.
shoto always had something against you, which didn't make sense.
you weren't cruel, and you weren't loud. you didn't compete with him. if anything, you tried to stay out of his way — out of everyone's way. it was in your nature to exist quietly. and still, there was an edge to him whenever you spoke, as if you'd already failed some invisible test upon first impression.
the ceremony was held in the gymnasium, chairs lined up in even rows, dust mites collecting in the afternoon air, thick with heat and polite applause. you hadn't expected to even make it there. someone had told you to attend, handed you a slip of paper with your name printed neatly at the top.
you remember standing when they called it, a heat crawling to your face in partial disbelief and pride.
a faculty recommendation award ─ for potential, for consistency, for an undivided contribution, given in all areas of academia. at the time, those words felt vague enough to not mean much to you at the time.
you bowed, accepted the certificate with both clammy hands, sat back down before the clapping settled into something uncomfortable. a wide smile strained your cheeks as you stared at the medallion sitting foreign in your lap.
a guilt simmered in your chest, almost imperatively. your shoulders tensed, and you realized that this achievement wasn't one to celebrate.
you didn't look at shoto, you didn't have to. you felt him.
you were already on thin ice with him.
a few days later, he found you in the corridor outside the classrooms. the halls were quiet, vacant out by lunch. he stood too straight, jaw set, expression carefully neutral.
"did you put in a bad word for me?" he asked, tone thick with interrogation.
you stared at him, the faint smile on your face collapsing. "what?"
"for the recommendation ─ the all-rounder award for integrity and contribution?" he said, voice measured and calm. but there was something sharp cemented deep. condescending. "those don't just get handed out."
you laughed, startled as you palmed your nape. "i didn't even know what it was for."
he watched you for a long moment, eyes narrowing just slightly. assessing, calculating you.
"you're not applying for medicine," he said finally. it's not a question, it's an opinion he's made about you before you had the chance to speak.
"uh, no i'm not," you laughed awkwardly, kicking shoes rhythmically against the ground.
"unbelievable," he scoffed.
that was the first time you've seen shoto grimace like that, lips curling in a way that wasn't quite a smile, but more something unsettling.
at the time, all you could do was nod, because you didn't know what else to do.
after that, it started small.
corrections framed as help when you got an answer wrong in collaboration class discussions. comments that implied you were reaching beyond your ability. glares when you spoke too confidently about shakespeare, or too passionately about the ethics of science. pull-aside conversations built to intimidate you, voice low, words precise enough to cut without leaving marks.
and by the time it became bullying, it already felt normal.
somewhere along the way, it stopped being simple.
you didn't avoid him, and that was the strange part. if anything, you found yourself orbiting closer, as if proximity itself was compensation for whatever upset shoto so much. it wasn't friendship, or reconciliation. it was something unsettling: an understanding that was formed without an actual discussion.
you were always near each other.
close enough, that when you failed a maths exam that one time, when a formula refused to make sense, when a class left you staring blankly at your notes with tears burning behind your eyes, you went to him without thinking, it was simply reflex.
you never asked nicely, or coaxed your explanations with competency. you just showed up, crying, frustrated, ashamed.
and he helped you, unkindly.
he corrected you with the same clipped precision he always used, pointing out your mistakes without softening the edges of his words. he let you feel small while he walked you through the solution anyway.
it became routine, humiliating but familiar enough for you to always crawl back.
you came back when you were struggling. he accepted it like an obligation he resented, but never refused for a curated purpose of success; a means to make himself feel better. the push and pull cycle settled into something habitual, something neither of you questioned but lived with.
and by the time you had realized how unhealthy it was, it already felt like a necessity.
as time matured, blossoming into new beginnings and ancient remnants of what you and shoto shared back in high-school, you don't expect to see him.
medicine is held on a different campus — across the river, visible from the central library casting over the division of the two academies. this is structurally perfect and in your favor. it's proof that whatever existed between you and shoto todoroki was long gone.
your campus is louder, less polished, diverse amongst the different majors of stem and arts. people talk too much in tutorials, argue passionately about theory rather than logic, laugh at the wrong moments. you blend easily here. economic lectures, humanities corridors that smell faintly of old paper and coffee. it suits you.
for a while, it works. you're forced to stop looking for him in crowds. your shoulders loosen, and your thoughts broaden again.
then, halfway throughout the semester, you build up the courage to blossom. you joined a book club, a union that would force you to voice your ideas and discuss your passions.
until you see his name on a noticeboard.
university union book club — president; s. todoroki.
it shouldn't matter. it's just a club. just a name that harbored many memories tucked into the past. you tell yourself that medicine students cross campuses all the time and that this doesn't mean anything.
still, your chest tightens in a way your recognize.
the first meeting is held in a seminar room you already know. the room itself is old in the way universities keep their promises, filled with years of ancient texts, and successors.
sandstone walls softened by decades of sun, pale and warm. tall windows stand open along one side, letting the late-afternoon light spill across the long wooden table and worn marble floors. dust particles hang lazily in the air, visible only when the light catches it just right, like the room is breathing.
the ceiling arches higher than it needs to, carved with careful ornamentation. at the heart of the room, shelves encase the walls entirely — polished wood carved with intricate detail, holding ancient tests; leather-bound volumes, roman numerals etched into fragile spines, renowned works stacked so high they disappear into shadow.
it's the kind of room that makes you feel at home, cozy in the way that nurtures passion over principle. you like it immediately.
you choose a seat near one of the windows, where the warmth pools and the breeze nudges the pages of your book now and then, as if encouraging you to stay; telling you that you belong here.
for a moment — in the way your shoulders relax, and the way your heart settles — you think this place might be untouched by him.
it's safe here, natural territory. you don't wonder if he'd look different in this room.
he arrives exactly on time.
nothing about him has changed, internally anyway. his hair is a bit shorter, features rendered through maturity, effortlessly charming. everything else is the same. the same controlled posture, the same careful neutrality.
the room acknowledges him before he even takes his seat. people quiet down without being asked to.
when his eyes pass over you, it's only for a second.
that's the second relief.
the meeting begins, introductions filling the silence one by one in a canon-like rhythm followed by set expectations. his voice is more smooth, almost gentle. it's pleasant, carefully modulated, yet still faintly cold in a way that never warms. yet, it's different than the last time you've spoken to him.
he explains the structure of the meetings, the discussion format, the reading list, what's expected; all spoken in the same authority he's always had. he never looks at you directly, and for a moment, you almost believe you've imagined the past. almost.
when discussion opens, you wait. you listen. you always listen first. just old habit.
someone speaks about theme, then structure. you recognize the shape of the conversation before it settles. you simmer in leather seat, lips sealed before you finally find an opening. when you add your thought — careful, grounded in empathy rather than analysis — the room goes quiet.
he doesn't interrupt you, he waits till you finish.
then he says, mildly, syllables rolling of the tip of his tongue like a reflex, "that's an interesting response, but i feel like it relies too much on projection."
projection. the irony of that. it's not cruel, but his words land ice clean. only sharp enough for you to nice.
a few people nod in agreement, someone scribbles a note. what possibly could they have extracted from that? that shoto successfully made an indirect throw at you?
you feel a familiar heat rise to your face, even as you tell yourself this is nothing. it's just disagreement, just literature. as a matter of fact, this was mild compared to the stuff he said back in high-school.
"hey, it's okay," a guy named ren says. he sits a few seats down from you. from what you've gathered, he's a few years older than you.
you nod, mimicking those around you as you write something in the margin of your throwaway notebook in a way you'll choose not to remember later on.
after the meeting, you linger without intending to, eyes scanning the architecture of the room with awe, the possible thought of asking the librarian if you can take one of the novels home. you gather your belongings slowly.
when you turn, he's there, stacking books with precise efficiency in a way that almost felt performative.
"you can borrow one," he says, already holding a copy out, a knowing look on his face that makes you shiver. "if you want."
it's phrased like an afterthought, something that was built on years of knowing each other.
you take it. your fingers brush, just briefly, but enough to make you aware of the space finally closing in between the two of you at this exact moment. a collapsing realization that you would never escape shoto.
"thanks," you say, voice cracking a bit.
he nods, nothing more. no hypercritical analysis, no cruel dissection of whatever flaw he caught today. nothing tormenting.
as you leave, book tucked under your arm, the relief curdles into something else. it's almost comforting in how unpredictable it was.
you tell yourself this doesn't mean you'll fall back into old patterns, and this is different.
maybe shoto's still got that grudge against you, and maybe he'll always treat your like an inconvenience. but this time, maybe he'll treat you with less cruelty.
but later that night, when the light in your room was dimmed and you were able to doze off, you find a small note penciled into the margin. an observation you failed to even consider, precise and corrective.
you feel the old instinct settle in, and your heart drops.
your conflating sympathy with moral clarity. the text isn't asking you to feel. it's asking you to judge. i guess old habits never die.
the handwriting mimics something like yours, and a trembling swell settles in you. your fists clench into the cover, grounding yourself in a wave of emotions as you reread his words.
everything about it dismisses your emotional reading. he's practically asserting intellectual superiority over you, as if he hasn't already proven it time and time again in the past. it mirrors how he's always corrected you, a constant reminder that no matter when you do, he'll always find a way to psychoanalyze you.
carefully, with weak hands, you close the book shut, not even bothering to read the contents inside before resting it on your bedside table.
it seems like shoto's habit didn't disappear either. it just learned a new setting.
after that, shoto todoroki is everywhere.
not in the way that would justify alarm, and it's not suddenly either. he's just there, present. and before you knew it, you began accounting for his appearances without meaning to.
he's on your campus more often than you expect. book club, of course. the ethics course he mentions once, offhandedly to fellow member of the club, like it's not worth elaborating on. you see him crossing the quad some afternoons with friends, jacket slung neatly around one arm, a duffel bag in the other.
you tell yourself it's just coincidence, and that campuses inevitably overlap. that you're imagining patterns where none exist.
but the margin note remains, and you think about it more than you should. you catch yourself rereading the passage he corrected, then rereading it again through the lens he provided.
slowly, without noticing when it started, you began anticipating him.
you edit yourself in advance.
at the book club, you speak less. when you do, your words come out cleaner, sharper, safer, dulling the blade of empathy that you normally speak with. you glance at him before finishing a thought, searching those heterochromia eyes for validation. his expression never gives anything away, but when he nods, something loosens in your chest.
you hate when it does that.
sometimes he disagrees with you publicly, in that low sly way that's just as harmful as it would be if he just cursed you out. always in the same measured tone that makes people lean in and listen.
other times, he waits until everyone has left, until the room has thinned out from anyone who could see his flaws that he shows you.
"that wasn't quite right," he'll say, as if continuing a conversation you didn't even know you were happening.
because that's right, every conversation you two have had, he's always been in control. the narrative has always bended for him, and never for you.
you apologize before you realize you are and he never comments on that, because it's second nature. he's heard your apologies so many times, it becomes background noise.
you still go to him when you're struggling.
it's not a decision; it never was.
whether it was a poor grade, or concept that refused to settle. a graph that won't resolve no matter how many times you run the numbers for whatever econ assignment you had, it was harder to distinguish the blurred line between a forced friendship and habitual attachment forming with time.
each time, you tell yourself that you'll figure it out alone this time. that you don't need him, that you're capable.
and then you're standing outside wherever he happens to be, notes clutched too tightly in your hands, throat tight with frustration that you refuse to name, because he's always been able to decipher it for you without explanation.
and there the cycle begins once again, patterns falling into an endless kaleidoscope of vulnerability and unspoken torment. him correcting you without cushioning the blow, him pointing out where you went wrong, all while instilling the final blow, "you should've known better" or "how didn't you catch onto that?".
he doesn't praise improvement, and doesn't reassure you when you falter. but he stays, and that, somehow, feels worse.
the dynamic settles deeper, familiar. and its functional this way. but really, you can't tell if you've formed that idea because now you feel safe. you stop questioning it, and you stop wondering what it might look like from a third-person perspective. this is how things are between you, how they've always been.
so when he comes to you one night, you don't ask why.
it's late, later than he's ever shown up before, compared to back in high school when he'd lend you a novel he got his hands on, or when he came over that one time to help you study, only for the session to end with you crying.
the knock is quiet, controlled. it's the kind that assumes compliance rather than request. you hear it immediately, breaking out of your reading session as you open the door.
immediately off the bat, he looks off.
he's still dressed for the hospital, dark scrubs beneath an open coat, his photogenic student ID clipped at the collar like he forgot to take it off. the fabric is creased, worn from hours spent under florescent lights.
his hair, usually precise, the two-tone of his hair symmetrically divided down the middle, now slightly disheveled.
and for the first time, his eyes are tired, dulled around the edges as if sleep hasn't touched him properly in days.
shoto todoroki is never undone, but tonight — under the snowflakes, and the cold that has always been his domain — he is.
your gaze softens at the sight of his shoulders, squared and rigid. like he's still bracing himself for scrutiny that will never follow him when in your presence. it's like whatever happened tonight in his life, whatever wound was reopened, hasn't closed.
he doesn't apologize for the hour, and he doesn't explain.
you step aside without thinking, and he moves past you, coat brushing the doorframe, instantly filling the house with a imaginable frost. he doesn't look around to find your room. it's as if deep down, he already knew that this was where he was always going to end up.
he sits in your kitchen, silent as ever watching quietly as you make tea out of habit. it's something he's never commented on, and the only thing he's never critiqued you on.
you move behind the counter softly, mindful on the hour, of the house sleeping around you. your parents' door down the hall is closed, quiet as they dissipate into rhythmic snores from daily exhaustion.
you fill the kettle at the sink, careful not to let the tap run for too long. the click of the switch is too loud, even though you barely press it.
the kettle begins its low hum.
it grows slowly, steadily, a sound that fills the house with an unsettling whistle. it vibrates faintly through the counter. in the quiet, it feels enormous, but on your ears it dulls into something you're used to hearing throughout the house.
you don't look at him while it heats, awkwardly waiting, the low whrrr barely audible to your own ears.
he wasn't moved. you can feel his attention like pressure between your shoulders. the kettle gets louder, and with it, your awareness sharpens. suddenly, you're now more aware of the sleeping house, the closed doors, and the fact that he's even here at all. the kettle thickens into a steady hum, then sharpens without warning, a thin needling hiss.
the sound seems to get under his skin.
you glance up with kind eyes, noticing the way his shoulders tense, the way his jaw tightens just slightly, lie the noise is crawling along his nerves.
"you don't have to—" he starts, then stops.
you notice the furrow in his brows, tension pulling tight across his expression, as if it's the loudest, most unbearable sound in the world. you reach for the kettle, switching it off before it can finish its scream.
"it's okay," you say softly.
shoto's shoulders loosen instantly, breathing even across his chest.
the kettle whines softly now, simmering in it's boil. the sound swells into the wind, dissipating as you keep your movements small and controlled. you pour the water into some jasmine tea, steaming rising between you like a veil.
the cups clink softly when you set them down. you don't drink yours, and he doesn't touch his.
"you always do this," he says quietly, in the softest tone you've ever heard him speak with you.
"make tea," he replies, as if stating a fact rather than asking the question.
you shrug, staring down at the tea, almost embarrassed to meet his gaze. "it helps. i mean... it helps me at least."
you hesitate before taking the first sip. you feel the way his eyes linger on your throat, watching the liquid disappear. "makes me calm."
something unreadable passes behind his eyes, disappearing once he blinks. "hm," he hums. he doesn't correct you.
the kettle is now long forgotten by the time you're half-way finished your cup, the sounds of your gulps swallowing the space between you two. finally, after whatever internal battle he's fighting settles into a partial resolve, he lifts he own cup and takes a sip.
it's strange, how this — of all things — is what he lets you have.
after that, neither of you moves for a moment, letting thoughts pass.
the kitchen feels too open suddenly, too exposed. the quiet pressed in around the two of you, walls thin, doors closed, and the illusion of privacy held together by nothing but restraint.
"can we— " he starts, then stops.
it's the first hesitation you've seen from him all night, let alone, in your whole life.
his gaze lifts to the hallway, then back at you. the words don't come easily, they never do. but for the first time, you take the lead.
"my room?" of course you'd say that. you see it in the way his body relaxes, as if he's allowing you this one time to lead the way, like he's fine with choosing the only place left where he can exist without being seen.
for the few seconds it takes for the both of you to make it to your room, floorboards quiet with years of memorized navigation. he follows close behind, yet distant enough that the quiet weight of him doesn't feel overwhelming.
when the door closes behind you, the space feels different.
smaller. warmer, and yours.
he stands just inside it, hands loose at his sides, as if for the first time, he doesn't know what to do.
the lamplight catches on the edge of his collar of his coat, as he looks around your room. for the first time, he feels out of place in a room lined with books. there's a soft familiarity about your room that makes him uncomfortable.
he exhales, it isn't dramatic nor is it loud — just a breath let go after being held for too long.
"i..." he pauses, thinking over his words. "i didn't do well today," he says quietly.
you blink, that's it. that's all. your chest tightens, not because of what he says, or rather the lack of what was said, but because this time, you're struggling to place your empathy.
"clinically?" you ask, gentle.
shoto moves towards you, settling on the bed beside you.
"no." a pause. "with him."
you don't need clarification. he looks away as he continues, eyes fixed on the novel by your beside. the one he gave you a few weeks ago.
"he thinks i'm wasting time, and the program's becoming... diluted... whatever that means." his mouth twists faintly. "says i need to be more disciplined, more focused — that the book club i'm running is 'redundant'. his words, not mine."
you play with your pajama pants, twisting the material inconsistently around your index finger. "you already are... focused."
he gives a short humorless breath. "it's never enough, especially with that old man."
there it is. not anger, not bitterness, just a quiet resignation that he's checked out.
"i don't get to be tired," he adds. "i don't get to hesitate. if i do, it means i'm falling behind."
instead, he looks at you — really looks — and this time, for the very first time, there's no assessment in his gaze. no correction forming behind his eyes, just something raw and unguarded. like, he's torn between the unjustified feeling you seeing him like this.
"your father doesn't know who i am."
"i know, but—" his hands move to his face. "forget it."
the space between you collapses into silence for a brief second.
your throat tightens, suddenly deeply uncomfortable with the thickness in the air. "i don't think you're failing."
your words land softly, but they don't stop him.
for a moment, he doesn't say anything. his jaw tightens, gaze dropping to the floor as if he's deciding whether this is a mistake. then, he exhales, and the restraint finally gives away.
"it's not him," he starts. "not really."
you stay quiet, present in the way that seems immersive in his eyes.
"my father's loud about it, he always has been. expectations, standards, legacies. i just think he likes to hear himself talk."
"my mother, on the other hand" he stops, swallowing. "she doesn't say much, she never did. even now, when i visit her."
that feels heavier somehow, and a part of you saddens at his words.
"she'd watch," he continues, words coming out faster now, less measured. "she used to always watch, every grade, every comment from teachers, and— i don't know..." he deflates.
"she didn't need to tell me she hated the type of person i was gonna grow up to be. i could just tell." there's something brittle in the way he says it.
"when i was a kind, she used to tell me that medicine doesn't just take your time — that was already a given — it takes pieces of you. that if i'm not careful, i'll start seeing people less as people." a pause. "you stop feeling things, only until it's convenient."
your chest tightens, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of his words.
"she didn't want that for me," he adds. "didn't want me to grow up like him, cold, absent." is jaw clenches and he moves to sit up. "she used to say it was a cycle, and that once you're in it, you never leave it whole."
he laughs under his breath, quiet and humorless. "i think, at some point, she was afraid i already had."
you think of the kettle, the way his body had reacted before his mind could catch up to rationality, the way the sound and heat had made something in him recoil.
"she tried to stop it," he says suddenly. "she argued when she could, begged him to stop putting me through those the five-hour private tutoring sessions. she begged him to be present as a father, and not a mentor. she used to say it felt like living on standby."
without knowing it, you hand moved onto his, an empathetic gesture you were taught to nurture ever since you were a kid.
"i don't think she believed in perfection," he says, now quiet. "i think she believed in softness, in staying human."
another pause, longer this time. his eyes moved to yours once more, a silent insinuation settling deep between you two. it hung heavy in the air, a quiet realization between the two of you that would never be addressed, but was acknowledged at the weight of his words.
"but she couldn't stop it," he finishes. "and now it feels if i hesitate, it proves her right, and if i don't—" his voice catches, just barely "i prove him right."
that's when you understand why this hurts him so much. why control matters, why empathy frightens him, and the uncanny truth why softness unsettles and draws him in at the same time.
"i don't think you're failing," you say again, steadier now.
he looks at you like the idea physically pains him. "that's the problem," he says quietly. "you still think there's another way."
the room goes still as he gathers himself off the bed.
you stop him before he reaches the door. not with words, but with the novel resting respectfully in your hands.
it's been sitting on your bedside table the whole time — quiet, unobtrusive, spine bent slightly from where you've read it too many times.
and for a moment, you just hold it there, opened to a page, feeling the weight of it. the margin where his pencil mark lives, pressed faintly into your thumb.
he turns, and you step closer, extending the novel into his hands.
he looks at the book like it's something else entirely — like it's a question, or maybe an accusation. his gaze flickers briefly to the open novel, then to you, something tight and unreadable crossing his face.
"you don't have to return it now," he says. his voice is back to steady again, guarded in a way you recognize. "you can finish it."
"i did," you reply quickly, knowingly.
you don't explain what that means, you don't tell him about the passages you reread through his lens, or the way his note altered the story in your hands like an unreliable narrator. you don't tell him how you found yourself waiting for his voice even when he wasn't there, a quiet part of you yearning for a normal conversation with him maybe about the one common interest you had both shared.
your wrist begins to shake from how long you've been holding your arm out.
he hesitates. it's brief, almost imperceptible, but it's there. his fingers hover for a second before close around the cover.
when your hands brush, you don't flinch this time. the contact feels final. something mutual.
"this doesn't mean—" he starts.
"i know," you say quietly.
you know all too well that returning the novel doesn't undo anything. it doesn't absolve him, nor does it free you from whatever cycle you both are in. but it does something small and meaningful; it breaks the excuse.
it closes the loop he's been maintaining so carefully. no more borrowed time, no more reason to linger, no more quiet permission disguised as literature.
he tucks the novel under his arm, posture already correcting itself, control slotting back into place like it always does. the moment you share — a raw form of softness and confession — is already folded away, preserved only in the space you're no longer in.
when he opens the door, he pauses.
"for what it's worth," he says, without looking back, "maybe you weren't wrong."
it's not an apology disguised in acknowledgment. it's a correction, but this time, directed inward; to himself.
the door closes behind him with a soft click, and you sit on your bed alone, the absence of the book feeling louder than its presence ever did, a sinking feeling in your chest that feels wrong.
and for the first time, the habit doesn't know where to go.
from behind the door, the hallway is silent. too silent.
the click barely finishes echoing before it stops.
footsteps, hurried this time, unmeasured.
the door opens again, he doesn't say your name. he doesn't even look around the room. he crosses the space between you in three strides, too fast, breath uneven, the novel still clutched in his hand as evidence.
he drops it, without a care. the book hits the floor with a dull thud, pages splaying open, and then his hands are on you. not rough, not careful, just desperate. he pulls you into him with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs, arms locking around your shoulders like he's afraid you'll disappear if he loosens them.
you freeze for half a second before melting into his tight embrace.
he’s shaking. you feel it immediately, and it sends a shiver down your spine. control splintering in real time, tension finally spilling over.
his face presses into your hair, breath stuttering against your scalp like he doesn’t know how to exist inside this feeling.
“i didn’t mean to—” he starts, then stops, swallowing hard.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, hands sliding up to your face, cupping your cheeks. his eyes are red and glossy, fixed on you in a way that makes your chest ache.
“i read it,” he says quietly.
your heart stutters. “read what?”
he shakes his head once. “you don’t have to explain.”
his thumb drags along your cheekbone, reverent now, like he’s relearning you. his gaze flicks briefly to the book on the floor — open to a page you recognize immediately — then back to you.
“you didn’t argue,” he murmurs. “you didn’t try to be right.” his voice breaks on the last word.
whatever he saw there — whatever you wrote in the margins — it wasn’t a defense. it wasn’t a rebuttal. it was something quieter, gentle in a way that touched shoto's heart and cut through the icy haze.
“i didn’t know you thought like that,” he says.
you don’t tell him you almost erased it, and you don’t tell him you didn’t think you were allowed to leave it there. you just let him have this.
he leans his forehead against yours, eyes closing like the weight of it is finally too much. his grip tightens as he begins to melt in your embrace.
“i don’t want to be him,” he says suddenly.
the words fall out raw, unguarded.
“i don’t want to wake up one day and realize i stopped seeing people as people,” he continues, breath hitching. “stopped noticing things like—” he falters, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. “like this.”
your throat tightens. “you haven’t.”
he lets out a weak breath, almost a laugh, shaking his head. “you always say that.”
“but you came back,” you whisper. “you read it, which means you care to an extent.”
for a long moment, neither of you moves. the room feels suspended — like the night itself has paused to see what he’ll do with this now that it’s out in the open.
finally, he exhales. slow. trembling.
“i shouldn’t have,” he says.
he presses his forehead back to yours, eyes still shining, grip still firm, like he’s memorizing this — like he already knows this is the last time he’ll allow himself to be this open.
“this doesn’t fix anything,” he murmurs.
that’s it. that’s what does it.
something in him gives — not slowly, not carefully. it’s abrupt, like a decision made too late. his hands tighten on your face, thumbs pressing harder now, breath hitching once before he closes the distance and kisses you.
it’s controlled in the way something dangerous is controlled — like he’s gripping himself just tightly enough to keep from breaking apart. his mouth presses into yours with purpose, not asking, not hesitating, as if the answer was already there in a way you never pulled away.
you gasp softly, more surprise than protest, and he takes that as permission.
his grip shifts, fingers sliding into your hair, anchoring you there as if he needs the contact to stay upright. the kiss deepens, slow but insistent, all heat and restraint tangled together. it tastes like tea gone cold, like breath held too long.
your hands come up, resting against his wrists, holding him through the shared restraint.
he exhales into your mouth, a sound that almost breaks him.
for a moment — just this once — it feels like he’s everywhere. like all the tension he’s carried for years has found a place to land. like this is the only way he knows how to be soft without naming it as such.
his forehead rests against yours again, breaths uneven, eyes dark and searching, like he’s already regretting it and already willing to take it back.
his thumbs drag once along your cheekbones, slower now. reverent. conflicted.
“this is a mistake,” he says quietly.
you don’t argue. you don’t correct him, because he's right.
you just look at him, lips still tingling, heart racing in that familiar, sickening way that tells you the habit has found a new shape.
he closes his eyes for a brief second, jaw tightening — then he presses one last, softer kiss to your mouth.
and suddenly, the room is too hot.
the air feels thick, unmoving, like it’s pressing in on you from all sides. his breath is still uneven, his hands still warm on your skin, and whatever restraint he rebuilt shatters again — faster this time, less careful.
you pull him closer, gravitating to your bed before dragging him down with you.
he shrugs out of his lab coat without looking away from you, movements sharp and distracted, fabric sliding off his shoulders and pooling somewhere forgotten. it feels symbolic, the last thing tethering him to the version of himself he keeps intact for everyone else.
a light sigh leaves his lips, weight braced over you, palms planted on either side of your head like he’s caging himself in as much as he’s trapping you. his forehead dips briefly to yours, breath ghosting over your mouth.
“tell me to stop,” he says, low, too fast.
his mouth finds yours again, deeper this time, all urgency and heat and something dangerously close to relief. the room narrows to the press of him, the sound of breath, the way your heart races like it already knows what comes next.
his grip tightens on your shoulders, grounding, decisive.
the habit doesn’t hesitate — it steps forward, except it's inside of you this time.
it's gentle, nothing that literature could encapsulate through filth and lust.
it’s gentle, the kind of touch that doesn’t rush, that listens before it asks. he takes his time with you, hands unhurried, attentive in a way that feels almost reverent. his fingers trace and linger, learning the shape of your reactions, patient with the way you come undone beneath him.
there’s nothing careless about it. every movement feels considered, mindful, as if he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. pleasure blooms slowly, coaxed rather than taken, drawn out in quiet waves that make your breath catch and your thoughts blur.
it isn’t about want, or hunger, or heat, it’s about closeness, and everything about the way he stays with you through every soft sound, every shiver, until there’s nothing left to hold together.
the sensation is exquisite, unreal — his cock filling you completely, the veins pulsing against your inner walls as he bottoms out. his lips are soft, careful, brushing your neck in feather-light kisses that trail down to your shoulder.
"does that feel good?" shoto hums against your neck, breathes labored as he ruts into you, moans sensitive and gentle, heightening to a high whimper as he gives you everything he has.
his hips rock in a gentle rhythm, each thrust shallow and controlled, savoring the wet heat of your pussy clenching around him.
you nod, a quiet response leaving your lips as you press back against him, all rationality slipping from your consciousness. "it's so deep— you're so deep..."
"i know," he whispers, one hand cupping your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it hardens, while the other ventures lower, fingers finding your clit. "does this make it feel better?"
good is an understatement.
the way he feels inside of you, paired cruelly with the rhythm and placement of his fingers feels impossibly comprehendible.
"r—right there!" your hands reach for his, interlinking as you moan into the pillow. "it feels too good, keep g—going..."
there's intention behind every moment, a careful awareness that makes it clear he knows how to make you feel good. simply put, he's just stepping into a domain of anatomy he's knowledgeable in.
his touch is precise, practice, as if he understands your body the way he understands anatomy.
his fingers are thoughtful, in the way massages it with expert precision, the pads of his fingers rubbing firm circles against your clit that send sparks of pleasure radiating through your core. your body responds instinctively, hips grinding back against him as he holds you steady, his touch both commanding and caring.
it just feels too good that it erases everything he's done to you.
his balls tighten against you with every slow push, the slap of skin muffled by the sheets. he layers more kisses along your neck, your jaw, nipping lightly at your earlobe as his moans grow breathier, more desperate.
"you're so tight," he sighed into your neck, tongue collecting the tears that fall from your cheeks. "need to make you feel good...”
shoto’s hips move in a mean roll, rocking the bedframe against the walls. a whine leaves your lips, high and broken as you squeeze around him.
“wait! shoto! too— hngh!“ your mouth falls wide open, letting a string of whimpers leave your lips. “think i’m losing my mind..”
shoto pulls your back flush against his solid pecs, hand reaching around to cradle your abdomen as he ruts against you.
“you’re too loud." his lips lean against your neck, moving up to your earlobe. "keep it down for us, yeah?”
the vulnerability of your filthy sounds unravels him — the mean medical student, so used to belittling the person you were, now whimpering softly into your skin, letting you see the raw need he hides from the world.
you feel it in the way his free hand grips your hip, not bruising but anchoring, as if you're the only thing keeping him grounded.
as the pleasure builds, he shifts, his thrusts deepening just enough to make you gasp. his hand moves from your hip to cover your mouth, firm but gentle, pressing your lips against his palm.
"shh...shh," he whispers, the word a kind hush against your ear, his voice trembling with restraint. "can't let your parents know i'm fucking their daughter under their roof."
his whimpers mingle with yours, muffled now, as he fucks you with that same tender rhythm. the risk heightens everything — the creak of the bed is barely audible, but you both freeze at every imagined sound from the next room.
he can't let them know, can't let anyone know he's claiming you like this, under their roof, his cock buried in their daughter's welcoming pussy.
the gentleness fractures as urgency takes hold. shoto's control slips, his hips snapping forward harder, his cock pistoning into you with rough, insistent strokes. the change is electric — each thrust slams deep, his balls slapping against your ass, the friction igniting your nerves.
"gonna cum— think i'm close—" you warn him with urgency, moving with him as he lifts one of your legs to reach deeper, closer.
“do it." his thrusts move in rhythm with yours, cock thickening impossibly at your reciprocation. "need to, fuck— feel you.. need to be this close to you.”
his fingers on your clit press harder, rubbing faster, coaxing the coil in your belly to tighten unbearably.
shoto’s hand tightens around your mouth, letting you drool and slobber all over his fingers as you lose control over of your own volume.
“they’re gonna hear, y/n,” shoto whispers, hypocritical as his own voice crescendos to pleasant sigh. “work with me here, can you do that for me?”
you nod frantically, shrinking into his hold, as you allow yourself the autonomy of memorizing how shoto feels, feeling each vein of his cock.
“that’s a good girl. always been so— so good at listening to me.” his voice is soft, but devastating in a way that makes you squeeze around his cock.
shoto smirked at your reaction, pressing further as he fucks up into your warmth. “be a good girl for me.“
you writhe beneath him, body trembling, sobs building in your throat but stifled against his hand. the muffled cries vibrate through his palm as your pussy spasms around his cock, waves of orgasm crashing over you.
he fucks you through it relentlessly, his own breaths ragged, hips grinding to prolong your release.
"f—feels so good," he moaned out, the filthy sounds of your pussy squelching over the quiet restrained whimpers from both of your lips. "god— you feel too good, y/n... think i'm going to—"
your walls milk him, slick and pulsing, and it takes every ounce of his willpower not to spill inside you.
his body tenses, muscles coiling like a spring, but he pulls out at the last second, his cock throbbing as hot ropes of cum explode onto the bed, spraying your carpet in thick spurts. he groans low, the sound raw and vulnerable, his forehead pressing to your shoulder as he rides out the aftershocks.
in the quiet aftermath, shoto removes his hand from your mouth, brushing damp hair from your face with unexpected tenderness. he reaches for a tissue from your nightstand, wiping you clean with careful strokes before pulling the covers over your naked form. he tucks you in, his touch lingering on your cheek, eyes meeting yours in a silent admission of the walls he's let crumble.
then, without a word, he dresses swiftly and slips out into the night, leaving you sated and marked by his hidden softness.
and just like that, you both lost your virginity to each other. in the heat of the moment, fostering shoto's vulnerability, there was an unspoken permission both of you graced yourselves to act upon.
that night, a line that they've been circling around for years has finally been crossed. and since then, there was an undeniable shift in the relationship.
his condescending language towards you is faintly complemented through subtle innuendos. there's a tension that now exists between the both of you, and it burns hot as ever during and after book meetings.
the book exchange settles into something steady, almost invisible in the way routines do. and soon enough, you anticipate it without meaning to — a new novel that shoto has indefinitely scrutinized with annotations.
it's a late night at the book club.
shoto sees you with a glint in his eyes, heavy with whatever thought is hidden behind them.
he doesn't give it to you ceremoniously.
he simply just sets it down in front of you one afternoon before the book meeting starts, cover facing up like an afterthought.
something he was meant to do earlier, but seemed to forget beneath the pile of his workload.
"you might like this one," he says.
not i think you'll like it, not you should read this.
just that, open for interpretation, an opening for you to decide what you wanna do. you don't open it until later.
when you do, it feels heavier than the last novel he gave you. older, layered thick with history.
the pages smell faintly of dust, and something clean, like it's been handled carefully. if you focus hard enough, you can smell his natural musk clinging to the spine of the novel.
his writing is there again, but it's different. the first annotation you find this time, isn't a correction. it's a question. small, penciled lightly into the margin again, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to leave it there.
you read it slowly, not necessarily because it's difficult, but because every few pages you have to stop.
his notes are still precise, still spare, in the way shoto's always been, but they've changed. they don't dismantle your understanding anymore. they sit beside the text instead of above it.
observations, hesitations, quiet acknowledgements, his vulnerability bleeding into the pages like it should be a mistake.
a bracket around a paragraph describing restraint, followed by a line so faint, you almost miss it.
is this discipline, or fear? what do you think?
your chest tightens at the words. he would have never written that before, let alone say it out loud. you realize, slowly, that he isn't annotating the book for you. he's annotating himself, laying himself bare for you.
there are places where his pencil stops mid-thought, places where the margin is empty when you expect him the most to speak. places where he lets the text breath, standing on it's own.
you acknowledge the passage before you read his note.
somewhere in the lines, the main character, steven, speaks about dignity. and somewhere in those flowery descriptions, he speaks about maintaining composure even when the body craves otherwise — even when emotion is too much, that it feels almost indecent to acknowledge.
you remember underlining it mentally before shifting your attention to another annotation written in faded graphite.
there's only so much dignity before it turns into avoidance.
and before you knew it — page by page, book by book — the annotations began to lose their civility, stripped of politeness and heavy with implication.
i wish i could touch you in a way this line does.
it feels intimate in a way that has nothing to do with bodies. it feels like being trusted with something unfinished, something that you want.
when you reach a sixth of the way into the newest novel he's given you, you close it with care, fingers resting on the cover longer than necessary.
for the first time, you don’t feel like you’ve been corrected. you feel like you’ve been invited, and that scares you more than the cruelty ever did.
and there's this unsettling realization, that a part of you enjoys this cycle more than you should allow yourself to.
uni is hard, lectures are long. and you yearn to be back at the book club once more.
the meeting room smells faintly of graphite and coffee; a peculiar combination that makes your heart warm.
someone's mid-sentence when shoto reaches for the crate of books, fingers fast with efficiency. he doesn't look at you right away, and that's the first thing you notice. he's normally always looking at you, whether it be in 5-minute intervals.
"i didn't like the ending," someone starts. "it felt unfinished."
"um, i think that was the point," another suggests.
you swallow, finding a way to sugarcoat your opinion.
"or maybe it was just unresolved," you add, softly, smiling awkwardly with the stares sent your way. "maybe the author stopped because they said what already needed to be said."
shoto looks up from his position, eyebrows raised. this time, he's slow to correct you, and this time, doesn't ask you to justify it.
instead, he tilts his head sightly, eyes settling on you with a fixed curiosity. "unresolved, how?"
it's neutral, open-ended, and an obvious invitation. your fingers tighten in your lap, a swell in your chest at his subtle validation.
"like," you pause, choosing each word with care, "the tension mattered more than the actual resolution. if it was named, and the author just gave it to us, it would've lost it's intention...if that makes sense."
shoto's mouth curves, but it's not a smile. something private flickers there before he schools it away, continuing with organizing the crate.
"that's a generous reading," he replied, closing the conversation.
someone across the table laughs awkwardly. "wow, okay."
ren from across the table leans to give you a thumbs-up. you smile in response.
the discussion moves forward, but something's shifted, indefinitely. you can feel it. it's in the way shoto leans back instead of forward now, losing his need to authorize the conversation.
his gaze is heavy on your now, checking in with you every now and then before moving on, like he's tracking where you are.
the book meeting ends quietly.
later, when the books are being returned, you hands yours last.
"did you finish it?" he asks quietly, pushing in the remaining of chairs that have been left out.
his thumb taps once against the spine, caressing it almost. a habit. "it's fine, take your time."
there's this hidden intimacy laced in his words, buried right beneath the monotony of his tone.
you can only nod in response, pulse loud in your ears. as you turn to leave, bag sweaty in your hands, someone behind you murmurs.
shoto answers before you can. "no."
the answer is clean, and final. but when you glance back, his eyes are still on you. hovering, lingering. steady and patient; enough for you to stay back.
the silence stretches, just as heavy as it had always been.
you clear your throat once, fingers twisting together, nails pressing into skin as if grounding yourself from the words that's about to spill from your lips.
"i—" you start, before backing out. the word dies halfway out, too fragile to survive the obscenity of it.
shoto turns to you with a brow quirked, spine relaxed as he assess you with a patient gaze. "take your time," he says again, placing one of the novels back into the crate as he rounds the table.
you inhale, slow, just as practiced. "about the books," you say finally, eyes fixed before you. the grain pattern of the wooden table suddenly feels fascinating. "the notes, the annotations."
your cheeks burn hotter the longer you talk, and you refuse to look at him because of the sheer embarrassment of it all.
"i know they started as— as commentary, on the text." you pause, swallowing. "but they're not just that anymore."
you risk a glance up, faced with a light smile on his face.
"no," he agrees, simply. "what are you trying to tell me, y/n?"
your fingers still as you move closer to shoto. "i don't mind it," you add quickly, too quickly. "it's just that— i needed to just ask you about it because... i don't know."
shoto takes a seat suddenly. his forearms rest on his thighs, sharp eyes staring up at you. the moment is small, but it draws your attention in like gravity.
"i know," he says, voice even. "but i don't quite understand the point of this conversation."
there's this coy, sly implication in his tone that makes your spine crawl.
"can we— can i— wait, no.." your voice comes out shaky. "shoto, could i... could i maybe suck your dick, please?"
shoto's eyes widen with amusement and surprise. he processes your words, and something clicks in his mind. the way you ask, so sweetly and politely, hints at a hidden oral fixation.
shame flickers across your face as quickly as the blush does. "just forget it, it's... it's fine— sorry for asking."
his eyes soften, just a fraction. "no, no, i'm just wondering," he states. "it's just an interesting request."
you open your mouth to speak, but fail to find the words. by the time you've wallowed in self-embarrassment, shoto's begun unzipping his denims, eyes fixed on yours the whole time.
you drop to your knees eagerly without thinking, eyes wide and worshipful. "thank you."
shoto's lips tug at your gratitude before cupping your chin gently, tilting you head up.
"no need to thank me." he pries your lips open with his thumb, pushing past your teeth. he's not surprised to see your lips wrap around it, eagerly swirling your tongue to capture the salty taste of skin. "open."
you part your lips, tongue out, and he leans forward, gathering his saliva before spitting directly into your mouth. the warm glob lands fat on your tongue, cloudy, salty and intimate. the action makes your mind spin with need, a heat blooming unannounced in your abdomen.
"you want to swallow that for me?" he says softly, giving your cheek a pat. his thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing on it. you swallow it down with a soft whimper, the act igniting an oral craving deep inside of you.
you look at him with tender eyes, a smile finding itself on your flushed face. "you're so nice to me like this.."
your words make shoto shudder, and he immediately shuts it down, uncomfortable with the way this is going. "close your lips, i'm going to give you a little lesson."
you nod eagerly, listening attentively.
"this is your temporomandibular joint," his thumb moves to caress the hinge of your jaw, right before the ear. "this allows you to talk, to chew, yawn."
shoto pries himself from his boxers with his free hand, cock veined and heavy. "good."
your eyes move to stare at his length, admiring the pretty trail of hair leading to his freshly-cut pubes. "...and then?"
shoto guides your head forward, just an inch so you can smell his natural musk. "i can't touch this, so you'll have to do the work for me." his thumb remains in the same position, pressing lightly near your jaw joint. "this is your lateral pterygoid, this muscle lets you open your jaw."
shoto's hand moves to the back of your head, feeding his cock past your lips. "wanna see how well it works?"
a shudder runs through him at the feeling of your soft lips around him, groaning as you take him inch by inch, lips stretching around his girth.
"g—good," he sighs out. "doing good for me."
the praise sends a wave of arousal through you, his quiet groans feeding you a faux confidence as you begin bobbing your head. you begin with the stuff you've read online and discovered by erotica fiction.
you alternate between gentle pulls, and tongue swirls around the underside of his cock. the state of his skin brings a tight expression to your face as you take him eagerly.
"that's it, just like that," he whispers, his touch gentle as he slides a hand to the back of your hair, fingers threading through your hair in a tender caress. "deeper," he instructs softly.
you try, relaxing your throat as he pushes. his cock slides further, hitting the back of your mouth. "t—that's your uvula, fuck!"
you gag a loudly, eyes watering, spluttering around him. almost tenderly, he presses you down until your nose presses flat against his pelvis, buried in soft hair. the stretch burns so good, your throat can't resist convulsing around his full length.
"relax for me," he says, holding your head there for a moment, petting your hair soothingly.
you struggle to breathe through your nose, tears pricking your eyes. but the fullness, mixed with shoto's care, has you aching. it eliminates every ounce of animosity you've felt towards him.
your hips shift restlessly, and without thinking, you slot yourself on his foot, grinding down on it. a muffled whimper leaving your lips, sending vibrations throughout his cock.
shoto notices, a faint smile tugging his lips at the sight, but he doesn't stop you; instead, he rubs his foot slightly against your heat. "you really like this, don't you?"
you pull back just enough to catch a breath, saliva and pre-cum dripping from your chin. without a second thought, you dive back down, throat working to take him fully again, splutters and wet gags filling the air.
"i'm going to cum," he breathes, fingers tightening just a fraction around your hair before resuming gentle pets. "i'm close, im close..."
his hips snap up, once, twice, fucking your face with controlled thrusts while you shamelessly hump his foot. the pressure builds intensely within both of you, an unforgiving warmth coiling in shoto's stomach.
then, it snaps. without warning, shoto cums with a low groan, cock pulsing thick ropes down your throat. you gag, tears rolling down your cheeks.
"it's okay— it's okay, i got you," he whispers as holds your head down, massaging your scalp mindfully. "so good, so good..."
you hum around him in satisfaction, milking him dry as your own release crashes over you from the foot play, body clenching as you hump through your climax.
that was how it went, and most of the time — shoto was uncharacteristically endearing around these ends. emotion stayed careful and unspoken, while everything physical came effortlessly.
it becomes too ordinary after that.
days pass, meetings continue. books are exchanged with the same careful choreography shoto's introduced. nothing outside of the way shoto speaks to you changes. his tone, his corrections, and the way he keeps his distance. none of it changes.
if anything, the mundanity sharpens. you talk about your deadlines, while shoto gives you off-handed answers about medical school. you sit across from each other like nothing intimate has ever happened between the both of you.
it's so inconsistent, it almost convinces you that the intimacy existed in a sealed compartment, untouched.
but, there are small, quiet moments only you notice, and those are the things you allow to delude yourself with.
the way his hand lingers at your elbow when he passes behind you. the way he angles his body toward yours without looking, or without any intent. the way silence between you no longer fills empty, but exists simply occupied.
still, there's a lack of sustenance to shoto — like he's not really in it as much as you are.
the two of you exist at in equilibrium, tucked glances and coincidental proximity reminding the both of you that there are parts of each other that no one else has ever seen.
it's similar to intimacy, really, except it's cold. and it works — for shoto todoroki at least.
it's only until later, alone with the new book from shoto in your hands, that you realize how much of it has been bleeding into your heart.
you don't realize it at first.
you're halfway through the chapter when your eyes drift to the margin, expecting the usual, neat, disciplined red strokes, precise enough to feel invasive.
it's faint, softer than the red. the handwriting looks different too, it's less rigid. the letters round where they used to be sharp, curling into a messy cursive.
you stare at it longer than necessary, the pads of your fingertips feeling for the light indentation of the annotation.
i find it interesting how silence is mistaken for composure here, i feel like it's something you'd do.
this time, it's not a correction. not a judgement of the passage the author wrote, evidently in an emotional state.
it's just an observation, placed gently beside the text as if he's paying respect to the narrative, rather than overriding it.
you don't know when he started writing like this, and you wonder if it's intentional. but one thing you know, is that somewhere between the first novel he gave you, and this one, something shifted.
the next novel is bit unsettling.
the normalization of gore doesn't quite pique your interest, but seeing that shoto offered it to you — annotated in neat, clinical handwriting — you decided to give it a try.
the world inside is methodical, where humans can no longer eat animals, but humans become a substitute — something consumable. the horror isn't something you're used to reading, in fact, you stayed away from those genres anyway.
it's not sudden, nor is it's loud. there's a lot of paperwork, processing plants, and polite conversations.
by day two of reading tender is flesh, you take note of how the protagonist is careful. he treats the girl gently, convincing himself with some faux delusion that tenderness might mean something, and for whatever ulterior outcome, it might change it.
it doesn't, the system actually uses it against him. halfway through the novel, your eyes catch onto one of shoto's frequent annotations, written in the margin, precise as always.
it isn't the violence that frightens me, it's how easily everyone's so normalized to it, like they had to learn to live with it.
you stare at it longer than you mean to, making a face. you hesitate as you reach over your bedside to grab a pen.
makes you think about how some people don't have a choice.
you don't write it necessarily to argue with him, or spite him. but something in those careful lines, the book makes something in your chest ache, like in a way you don't have language for otherwise.
because for you, you didn't get to adapt. for the whole time you knew shoto, you had to learn off a rubric. what would shoto like? how can you make him see you in a different light?
no one ever asked you if you were ready to live with his criticism, his sharpness, or the way he pressed his own expectations down onto you until they felt normal.
you had to breathe around him, contort yourself in ways so you could feel smaller.
if the book was meant to teach you something, it didn't. it only a reminder that you never really agreed to shoto's torment from the beginning.
but you still went back to him, because what else was there for you to do? he was all you knew, and he was the only one you were able to reside in. he was the only place you learned how to exist, even if it existing meant giving up parts of yourself along the way.
you weren't too sure if you were confusing love with comfort.
from the moment you met shoto, you never really noticed other boys. not on purpose, but because for you, the rest of the room thinned out.
it wasn't that you stopped registering other people entirely, it was more subtle than that. your attention simply knew where it wanted to settle, and it happened to always be on shoto. habit does that.
but habit likes to change, every now and then.
you don't notice ren at first, he's more of a background character, because maybe this whole time, you've been only searching for shoto.
you're halfway through a discussion before you realize someone has been listening, and responding to you the whole time.
"oh, sorry— wait," you say, cutting yourself off mid-thought. "that didn't make sense, sorry."
"it did," someone says easily.
ren is leaning back against his leather chair, an ankle hooked over the other, book opened generously in his lap. "i think you're talking about the tone, rather than the structure."
you blink. it's not necessarily a correction, but rather a clarification. respectful. "yeah, that. thank you."
he smiles, brief and unassuming before letting the conversation move on.
that's what makes you notice him the next time. and the one after that.
and before you knew it, shoto became the background character in your life. shoto doesn't just disappear all at once, but he recedes from the forefront of your mind. his presence becomes soft at the edges, and no longer becomes the focal point your attention keeps circling back to.
he's no longer exists in your orbit.
ren never asks to be noticed, instead he remembers what you say about the book without correcting you. he laughs when you ramble, and whenever your sentences wander, he's patient. and best of all, he looks at you with understanding instead of examination.
it's something new, a new home of emotional support for you to reside in.
before you knew it, the two of you started leaving together. then, sitting outside after meetings, legs stretched out on the sand-stone steps, sharing the warmth of air and time without a care in the world.
but good things never last forever.
it doesn't happen all at once — you never predicted anything like it at all.
it begins small, starting with a message from someone you barely know, then from another member of the club. it in comes ugly, hesitant and awkwardly phrased, everything in between.
one afternoon, you receive a notification.
hey, this is really uncomfortable, but i thought you should see this.
you open the attachment without thinking, and it takes a second to understand what you're looking at.
i'm really sorry, you don't have to respond.
the angle, far too low, right up your ass. the familiar hem of the skirt makes your stomach churn at the realization. you wore that two days ago when you met up with ren at a cafe.
"no," you whisper, out loud, alone in your room.
the invasive photo of your panties makes your heart plummet, because who would even do this? if it's not ren?
your chest tightens, breaths sharp and shallow. you type before you can stop yourself.
thank you for showing me this.
you don't choose to confront him. god, you don't even know what to do. but you know that you don't need to.
you come to shoto, you don't go home.
your feet carry you somewhere familiar without thought, and shoto opens the door with open arms. the sight of him, steady and real, undoes whatever fragile control you had left.
you shake your head, hands tight around your chest.
"i—" you voice breaks immediately. "i cant—"
you fold into him, hands fisting into the front of his shirt as it always has. this is where you belong.
"what happened?" he asks firmly, one hand coming to cradle the back of your head, the other steadying your waist. "come on, you can tell me."
you sob into his chest, the sound ugly and uncontained as you try to slow your breathing. "i didn't do anything," you choke out. "ren— the guy from the book club— i didn't know, i swear i didn't know this was going to happen!"
"i know," he says immediately, pulling you closer. "i know.."
you pull back just enough to look at him, tearing blurring the outline of shoto. "he took a photo of me." the words taste wrong, foreign on your tongue. "i didn't know— i swear i didn't know."
shoto's jaw tightens as he ushers to your phone. "show me," he says gently.
your hands shake violently as you unlock your phone, passing it to him with uncertainty.
your hands shake as you unlock your phone and pass it to him.
he looks. only once. then hands it back without comment.
“that wasn’t your fault,” he says, voice low. “not even a little.”
you let out a sound that’s half sob, half laugh, completely wrecked.
“I thought he was—” you swallow hard. “i thought he was n—nice.”
shoto pulls you back against him, palm pressing warm and steady between your shoulder blades.
“I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “you should only trust me from now on, okay?”
you cling to him, fingers digging in like you’re afraid if you let go, the world will come rushing back in.
your forehead presses into his chest.
“okay,” you whisper, like it’s the only word you have left. and for the first time since you opened that message, your body believes you might actually be safe.
your hands reach for his, fingers playing with his palm. "can we? please?"
shoto, as more often as should've been expecting it, never is able to get used to your open nature. but regardless, and without a thought, he steps aside.
"let me make you feel better, yeah?"
from the moment the evening air finally settled through the wall's of shoto's apartment, you were already on top of him.
tongues meet, sliding wet and eager, the kiss turning messy fast. spit gathers at the corners of your mouths, strings of it connecting you when you pull back for air, only to dive back in.
it happened all in a blur.
"i shouldn't—" you moan against his lips, rocking your hips against his base. "shouldn't have talked to him..."
shoto groans into your mouth, one hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your head for better access. his tongue thrusts deeper, mimicking what you'll soon feel elsewhere, and you match him, sucking lightly, drawing out more saliva that drips down your chin.
"shhh...shhh, i know, i know."
your body hums with anticipation as he climbs over you, eyes dark but softening at the edges. he hooks his arms under your knees, folding you into a mating press —thighs pressed to your chest, hips elevated, pussy on full display. the position crushes you slightly under his weight, his chest against your shins, making every inch of you feel pinned and owned.
"i'm sorry," you whisper out, suddenly overwhelmed by the situation, as well as by ren's actions. "i was just lonely— and i should've just told you i was..."
shoto's movements fell to a halt, pausing, the thick head of his cock nudging your entrance. "i'm here now, aren't i?" his lips found your neck, mindful as he lays soft kisses along the column of your throat. "it's not your fault."
shoto slides then slides in slow, stretching your walls until he's buried to the hilt. the tip kisses your cervix with a pleasant pressure, a deep ache that borders on too much but feels so right.
"thank you, shoto, thankyousomuch—" you gasp, and that's when his voice turns sweet, reserved only for these moments. "y—you're cock is really deep right now."
"i know," he murmurs, leaning down to hover over your face. his eyes lock on yours as he gathers spit on his tongue and lets it drop into your waiting mouth — warm, salty, intimate.
"you're so gross," you whimper, words gargled around the glob of spit.
a light chuckle leaves shoto's lips. "hold it there," he instructs softly, thumb brushing your cheek. "don't swallow yet. let it sit while i fuck you."
you obey, mouth full, the taste of him lingering as he starts thrusting — deep, controlled rolls of his hips that grind against your cervix each time.
"s—shoto! uurgh!" your fingers press against his chest as he tunnels back into you. "making me feel so full!"
his face flushes pink, cheeks heating as he watches you beneath him, folded and vulnerable. the view hits him hard; he realizes in that moment how much he loves seeing you like this — pliable, desperate, his to ruin.
"look at you, taking me so perfectly," he praises, voice dripping honeyed degradation. "does my cock make you feel better? so much better than what ren could've been, right?"
the words make your walls clench around him, pulling a blush deeper across his skin. he pounds harder, the crush of the position amplifying the force, his balls slapping against your ass with wet smacks.
you nod frantically in response, a loud sob ripping from your chest. "yeah— nghh... so much better than ren..."
your hand slips between the space of your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling it frantically. puppy-like doe eyes meet his, wide and panicked as the coil tightens in your belly, pleasure cresting too fast.
"sh—shoto," you whimper around the spit in your mouth, voice muffled and needy. "going to cum— i'm going to cum!"
he sees it—the way his words unravel you, how you crave the dumbing down, the sweet edge to his filth.
"that's it, touch yourself," he coos, his thrusts turning brutal, pounding your sweet pussy without mercy. "i'm getting really close too.."
his cock swells inside you, thickening impossibly, veins pulsing against your fluttering walls as he drives deeper, the pressure on your cervix turning electric.
the swell stretches you further, every ridge dragging deliciously, pushing you over the edge.
"cumming!" you cry out, spit finally spilling from your lips as you shatter, walls milking him in rhythmic squeezes.
"goood girl, i'm close too," shoto groans, face buried in your neck now, the blush hot against your skin as he follows, quickly pulling out with upmost speed and spilling all over your stomach.
then, very quietly, "i love you, shoto, i love you..."
the words leave your mouth before you can stop them, like word vomit. but you'd be lying to yourself if you said it was a lie. after all, love doesn't always demand reciprocity to exist.
shoto stills. he doesn't pull away, he just simply exhales, ignoring your sudden confession. when you don't repeat yourself, he assumes you may have just said it in the heat of the moment.
but when he looks down at you, you have this look in your eyes, dazed, filled with emotion.
it's quiet, too quiet in the way that's meant to be swallowed by skin, and dismissed by the next day.
he kisses your shoulder before you leave the next day, hands you your jacket, and tells you to text him when you get home.
you find out ren is gone the next meeting, banished from ever setting foot again in the book club.
you let yourself believe nothing has changed.
but something has changed.
it happens on a night that feels almost gentle, a moment of mistaken intimacy and emotional confiding.
you’re sitting side by side on his bed, book open between you, knees barely touching. you’ve been reading aloud — your voice soft, careful — and he’s listening in that way he does now, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable.
you stop mid-sentence, a hanging thought suddenly important.
“can i ask you something?” you say.
“when you write in blue,” you add quietly, “does that mean… something has changed?”
he stills, body stiffening at the realization of your feelings.
you rush to explain, words tumbling over each other. “i don’t mean— i’m not assuming anything. i just thought maybe—”
the sound is sharp in the quiet room.
“don’t assign meaning where there isn’t any,” he replies, tone clipped, controlled. it's familiar in the worst way it sounded years ago. “you’re reading into it.”
your throat tightens. “i just thought—”
“well, you thought wrong.”
the words aren’t raised nor are they cruel. they’re final, set into stone.
something in his expression shutters closed, and you feel it in your bones — the moment he decides this has gone too far. not emotionally for you, but for him.
after that night, he becomes unreachable.
you feel it the next time you open your phone, only to see your message sitting there, untouched, empty of corrections or critique.
the next time shoto hands you a book, you realize there's no new ink waiting for you. it's worse when you speak in during meetings, and there's a silence that follows, emptying as if you never existed into the next topic.
whatever you crossed that night, he noticed.
he doesn’t say anything cruel. he doesn’t correct you. he doesn’t even look at you long enough to give you something to read into.
he just stops responding, and pulls back as far as he can.
your messages stay unread for hours. then days. the blue ink in the margins stops appearing. then, it soon became the book exchange, entirely.
when you speak in book club, he doesn’t challenge you. as a matter of fact, a brutal one, he doesn’t engage at all. his gaze skims past you like you’re a chair that’s always been there, simply harboring another regular book lover.
it’s worse than when he was mean.
for you, mean meant attention, proximity; reason and proof that your existed to him.
this feels like erasure, and you don't know how to cope with it.
you tell yourself not to panic. you tell yourself you’re being dramatic, and that people get busy. medical school is demanding. you know this, but you know that deep down you made a big mistake that night you had sex with shoto.
but the quiet stretches, and it hurts.
you try to compensate for the loneliness in your chest. you opt for rereading the last thing you sent him, searching for any tonality changes in his words like it's a crime scene. you rewrite responses in your head, a possible explanation for your unannounced affection.
you check the last novels he's given you, as if the blue ink might appear as normal. you even go back to the novels with red ink, because him being condescending was a way better reality than this one.
the absence stretches, and you find yourself lost. completely lost.
you begin to narrate shoto's response to yourself, like a case study. maybe something like: oh, medical school is just demanding. you knew what this way, i'm just busy.
but you know that deep down, that's not true. the truth was that you lost him. you scared him away, and the boy that's been in your life since you were sixteen, was now gone.
your body knows better than your heart.
your chest tightens at random moments, in the shower, mid-sentence with a classmate, and during book meetings. your hands shake with devastation when your phone lights up, even if it isn't him. especially when it isn't him.
hours feel like days, days that fold in on themselves. sleep is shallow, crowded with the same looping thought that you crossed the line. it was never the sex that was the problem, it was the softness after.
you try not to touch the thought, but in the midst of assignments and endless course work, you can't help but circle back.
you tell yourself you're just being dramatic, and that this isn't an erasure of your identity, but it is. because everything, almost everything you've built as a late teenager to a young adult has always been for his validation.
the shame sinks in your chest, and you realize you did this to yourself.
it was never shoto's fault, it was yours.
you've reread his annotations, even going as far as masturbating to them. you've even fucked the spine of the novel, shoving in between your legs as you get yourself off on it.
the feeling wasn't enough, and lately, your mouth's felt far too empty.
on a particularly lonely afternoon — one filled with silence, but evading with your thoughts — you can't help but spiral.
you gaze drops without meaning to, and it just happened.
you bent down to the carpet of your floor — staring at the stain from shoto's cum that he forgot to clean months ago. the one you refused to touch. it's faint, almost not there.
when your fingers touch the space, it's cold. that's the first thing you register — not where you are, not how long you've been staring at the spot, perched on the floor. just the shock rippling through your palms as you sink down.
the room feels tilted, unreal, like you've slipped a step out of your consciousness or rationality, and can't quite find a way back.
your thoughts won't line up, a heat pooling low in your stomach. everything screaming at you to get up scatters the moment you reach an endpoint, slipping through you like water.
you lean forward before you can stop yourself.
your cheek brushes the floor first, dust. maybe a strand of hair fallen from your scalp throughout the collected weeks. the faint, stale taste of something you don't want to identify.
god, it should repulse you. instead, it cuts through the fog, blurring the edges of your self-dignity.
you drag your tongue across the surface once.
it's obscene in the most hollow way — far from intimate, far from something indulgent. humiliation wracks through you, contrasted with the sense of grounding you feel. the imaginative texture makes your stomach turn, and steadies you at the same time.
it's proof that you're still here, still capable of reacting to something. capable of being near something that once belonged to shoto.
your breathes comes uneven, panting, as you stay there, forehead pressed to the floor, tongue catching on the girt and dust, and the taste of bitterness of shoto's cum.
your thighs clench as you close your eyes, imagining the taste of shoto's cum on your tongue, begging to go down your throat.
you imagine going down on him, savoring the way his balls clench against your chin, feeble pulses warning you of his growing pleasure. you imagine looking up at him, searching for validation in the way brows knit together, mouth fallen into heightened moans, indulging in the way his praises crescendo to a higher pitch.
you imagine him showering you with kindness, words of affection and praise before spilling into your mouth.
selfishly, you lick the patch till it's soaked with your saliva, and only then, does the haze thin.
shame arrives late, creeping in around the edges once your thoughts start to return.
you pull back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, chest tight, eyes burning. you give the floor one last look, before the shame follows you.
it follows you into the weekly book club.
you walk the same path you always do on campus, past the same sandstone buildings, past the same flyers stuck crookedly to noticeboards. you rehearse absolutely nothing on the way there, because you know you're going to say nothing.
you tell yourself today will be ordinary. that you'll go to your weekly workshops, to your painful lectures, and then you'll sit at the book club, listen, and maybe speak once or twice if it feels safe.
you plan on arriving earlier. the room is already half full, dimming with the afternoon haze. chairs scrape, someone complains about the low lighting. someone else asks if anyone's finished the assigned chapters, where another wonders who put the 'Twilight Saga' in the book queue.
you take your usual seat, finding it harder to get comfortable in the leather material.
the book stays closed in front of you. you trace the edge of the cover with your thumb, grounding yourself in something solid as you wait for shoto to enter the room.
when the discussion starts, you do the thing you've always done: nod your head. no one looks at you strangely, and no one questions your lack of participation.
the meeting ends without incident, or any embarrassing moments. you pack up slowly, giving yourself maybe some time to be in shoto's presence, even if it's just physically. but, you notice he's long gone before you, absolutely demolishing your plans.
by the time you've packed up, the hallway outside hums with low conversation, mostly on post-meeting decompression, people lingering — nothing urgent or anything to pay mind to.
you leave the room, and step into the hallway without thinking.
and then, you tune in on a familiar voice. shoto's.
you’re halfway down the corridor when his voice carries — calm, familiar, unmistakable. you slow without meaning to, stopping just before the corner, body tucked into the shadow where the light from the seminar room doesn’t quite reach.
you shouldn't be listening like this, but you can't help it.
“it was a lapse,” he says.
“i don’t usually blur lines like that,” he continues, tone level, almost thoughtful. “it won’t happen again.”
someone replies quietly, a gentle male voice. “didn’t take you for the type.”
“i’m not,” shoto replies. “i misjudged the situation.”
your fingers curl around the strap of your bag until they ache.
“she's attached, shoto,” the voice replies again, hesitant.
there’s a pause. just long enough for hope to flare, stupid and reflexive.
“that’s exactly why it needed to stop.”
the words land clean. efficient. surgical, and ice cold.
you don’t remember moving away from the doorway. only that the sounds fade, that the corridor stretches too long, and that your heart is pounding hard enough to make you dizzy.
you don’t cry. not yet anyway, there's already a dull ache settling in your chest. you still give him grace.
the next meeting, you switch up your approach. you try harder, and actually participate this time.
you speak more than usual, including volunteer thoughts that don't quite make sense before you can second-guess them. you make yourself present in the room, visible in a way you haven't been for weeks.
it feels clumsy and forced.
when you finish a point, there's that awkward pause before someone else picks up where you left off. shoto doesn't respond, again. your heart breaks a bit.
the following week, you try again.
this time, you reference the text directly, quote by quote, line by line. you ask multiple questions instead of offering an interpretation in hopes of a slimming the chance of shoto's silence.
you even feel hopeful, briefly, when a few people murmur in agreement.
shoto acknowledges the question with a nod. and there it is, that warm feeling in your chest.
each time, you adjust. you soften yourself, sharpen your words, speak less, then more. you test the different variations of yourself like a lab experiment, trying to isolate what went wrong.
but nothing works. god, of course it didn't.
shoto was done with you the moment you said 'i love you' to him.
the blue ink never returns.
eventually, you stop anticipating his silence — which for you, is somehow worse. it kills something inside of you.
still, you open the book shoto's planned for the meeting without a complaint. you still glance at the margins out of habit, but the expectation has already hollowed out into something dull and resigned.
you don't cry about it, you don't even feel animosity towards him.
you just allow yourself to carry this low, constant ache in your chest.
and by the time the meeting ends that night, you're exhausted in a way that sleep can't fix.
the room empties slowly. chairs scrape. laughter fades. someone waves goodbye. the door closes once, then again, until the silence settles heavy and unmistakable.
you stay seated, not because you want to — because your legs won’t move.
shoto doesn’t notice at first. he’s still organizing, still aligning books, still restoring order like nothing has gone wrong. the quiet feels procedural, almost respectful, like he’s giving you space without asking whether you need it.
“you can go,” he says eventually, without looking up. “i’ll lock up.”
your hands are trembling now. you press them flat against your thighs, willing them to stop. they don’t.
“shoto?” you ask finally.
your voice barely carries.
he pauses. just for a second, before humming in concealed acknowledgment.
“can i ask you something?" you continue. "and i just— i need you to answer honestly."
there's a pause, and you swallow before mustering up the words.
"did i misunderstand what was happening between us?"
he exhales through his nose, a soft, almost amused sound, turning to fully face you.
"i was wondering when you'd get to this."
something cold settles behind your ribs, something hot and tight climbing up your chest, a dual sensation that buries rationality.
"get to what?" you smile softly, disbelief painted across your features.
he tilts his head slightly, studying you the way he does when he’s assessing an argument.
“this,” he says. “the part where you assign meaning to something that was never meant to be that deep.”
never meant to be that deep.
you nod slowly, like your body is trying to keep you upright by agreeing with him.
“okay,” you say. “so when you said—”
“i was being careless,” he cuts in. “it happens.”
your fingers curl into your palm. you can feel your pulse there, loud and insistent.
he frowns, just slightly. “don’t do that.”
“fixate,” he says. “you have a tendency to spiral when you think something matters more than it does.”
it doesn’t hurt immediately.
you laugh softly — a reflex, thin and breathless. “i’m not spiraling.”
he shrugs. “you are right now.”
something shifts in your chest. not sharply, not yet. it feels like pressure.
“i heard you,” you say, quietly.
“in the corridor,” you reply. “after last week.”
his jaw tightens. “you shouldn’t have been listening.”
you stare at him, feeling the pressure spread.
“so that’s it?” you ask. “it was a lapse. a misjudgment. something that— what? inconvenienced you?”
“that’s not what i said.”
he sighs, frustrated now. “you’re taking this too personally.”
too personally. too fucking personally?
your breath catches, just a little. “i don’t know how not to,” you say, and your voice wobbles despite your best effort. “when it was me.”
he looks at you then — really looks — and something in his gaze cools.
“that’s exactly the problem,” he says. “you think this was about you.”
the room goes very quiet. your vision blurs at the edges, like someone turned the lights down without asking.
your heart starts racing — not fast, but hard. every beat feels too big for your chest. your hands fumble to grab the novel, fighting to shove all your bright colored highlighters into your pencil case. tears burn behind your eyes as you hastily pack up, movements hurried, yet uncomplete under the wave of emotions.
with shaky fingers, your pencil case slips from your grip, scattering over the floor. you press a hand flat to the table, grounding yourself. your hands are fully shaking now, and you hadn't noticed till your eyes locked with his.
"hey," he says, noticing at last, taking a step towards you. "you're overreacting."
the word lands wrong, terribly wrong.
your breathing stutters, then evens out again. you nod, like you’re trying to convince your body.
"okay," you say, voice pitched up in your throat. "okay, i just— i need a second."
you bend to collect your mess, heavy on your waterline as you bite your lip. you're shaking so hard now your teeth chatter.
you crouch there longer than necessary, fingers fumbling uselessly around pens and highlighters you don’t even register picking up. your vision tunnels, sound dulling at the edges, like the room is moving away from you inch by inch.
your breath comes shallow, then even shallower.
you tell yourself to stand. to leave. to do anything except stay here like this — folded in half on the floor, shaking in front of him.
it’s a slow, creeping pressure, like something heavy settling where your lungs should be. you swallow once. twice. it doesn’t help.
“i’m fine,” you murmur, more to yourself than him.
it’s a lie your body doesn’t believe.
your hands start to shake harder, the tremor crawling up your arms, into your shoulders. your jaw locks. you press your lips together until they hurt, trying to keep everything contained.
your breath stutters — catches — and suddenly you’re breathing too fast, air scraping your throat on the way in. your vision swims, the floor feels too close, the room feels too big.
you straighten halfway, then falter, one hand flying to your chest as if you can physically hold yourself together.
“i tried,” you sob, words breaking apart as they leave you. “i tried to be normal about this. i tried not to want anything. i tried not to need you.”
your voice rises without your permission strained, stretched thin.
“i told myself it didn’t matter,” you gasp. “that i was just imagining it. that i was being stupid again.”
shoto takes a step forward.
your breathing is completely off now — sharp inhales that burn, exhalations that don’t go anywhere. your hands claw at your arms, nails scraping skin like you’re trying to peel yourself out of your own body.
“why do you always do this to me?” you cry, louder now. “why do you always make me feel like i’m wrong for feeling anything?”
your voice cracks, then splits. disgustingly and raw.
the sob that rips out of you is loud. ugly and uncontained. it echoes off the walls, fills the room in a way that feels obscene.
“i hate this. i hate that you make me feel like i’m too much and never enough at the same time.”
shoto’s heart is pounding.
this is too loud. this is out of control.
“lower your voice,” he says reflexively, reaching out to you once more.
that’s the wrong thing, a mistake he knows that will cost him.
you let out a sound that isn’t even a word — a raw, broken wail that tears out of your chest. your whole body curls away from him, hands moving to grab the door knob.
“don’t tell me what to do,” you scream, voice cracking violently. “don’t— don’t you dare try to control me now.”
your cries turn hysterical, sobs colliding with screams, breath hitching so badly it sounds like you’re choking.
“you ruined me,” you sob loudly. “you ruined how i think...how do you think i feel. how i see myself.”
your words come faster now, tumbling over each other.
“i can’t sleep without wondering what i did wrong,” you cry. “i can’t read without hearing your voice in my head. i can’t breathe without feeling like i’m waiting for you to disappear again.”
your voice breaks into a scream that’s almost feral.
“and you stand there and tell me i’m overreacting? how do you think i feel? you never asked me that, did you?”
you grab the book from the table with shaking hands and hurl it, not away from you, but towards the wall. it hits hard, spine cracking loudly, pages tearing loose as it falls.
the sound is violent on your ears, unfamiliar with your gentle nature.
shoto doesn't move, frozen in position. he can't. to him, this doesn't look like sadness, it looks like a system failure. you are folding inward, shrinking like you normally do — you're coming apart.
for the first time, shoto todoroki is faced with something he cannot correct, rationalize or silence. and to make the worse of all, he's standing in the middle of it all, realizing that this was all his fault.
you're having a meltdown, a bad one.
shoto forces himself to move — a step forward, then another — all careful, hands lifting, palms open, like if he can gather all the pieces, he can assess you. help you.
"heyheyhey," he whispers, voice breaking. "hey, look at me—"
you see the movement out of the corner of your eye and you lose it.
"don't fucking touch me!" the sound rips out of you, loud and panicked. "don't— don't come near me," your fingers fumble, eyes narrowing. "i swear to god— don't."
he freezes mid-step, now faced with an unbeatable obstacle. his chest tightens painfully at the sight, and at the bare truth that—
"you might think you're better than your father because you've never raised a fist at me," you snarl, voice shaking, cracking apart as it rises. "but you're just like him."
shoto's jaw tightens, hands falling to his sides, shrinking.
"you're worse, todoroki," you choke. "god— worse is an understatement."
you run a hand through your hair, messily wiping the tears from your face as you storm out of the room.
leaving shoto with the horrible realization he really was just like his father, and even worse, he may— no. definitely just lost you.
after that night, you decided to take a step away from the book club, and stopped showing up completely.
no message, no explanation, no polite excuse coaxed into the margins of the group chat.
you just fall into the hidden crescents of the campus, becoming something that didn't belong in shoto's life.
the first meeting you don't know up to, passes without comment.
shoto tells himself it's just coincidence, probably exhaustion from the night before, and it was reasonable. you'd come back the next meeting.
he keeps his voice steady as he leads discussion, eyes trained far from the empty chair near the window.
by the second meeting, it's harder. and by the third, it's undeniable.
at this point, the book discussions filter out like background noise. just a parrot of his own analysis, his own opinion repeated back to him. he's beginning to despise how empty the room feels despite the whole room being packed with like-minded readers.
it feels wrong without you in it, like a sentence that never quite resolves. he hates how no matter how many people talk to fill the gap, none of it could compensate the absence of you, the absence of your undivided opinions.
opinions flatten, and empathy thins into theory. this book club is losing its purpose.
and shoto is starting to get irritated.
for the fourth meeting, he brings your book.
the one that was never officiated in the weekly structure, spilled into the shadows with age and time, forgotten by society.
it's one of your favorites. he knows this, because there was a time period where it was all you'd ever talk about. back in eleventh, there was this particularly annoying time period where you'd constantly make references about it.
whether it was in english, when you'd say something like: 'oh! i know a novel that does this well!' or in history where you'd quirk up at a familiar reference, whispering to someone: "this sounds really familiar, i read it in a novel".
you once spoke about it with your whole body leaning forward, voice soft but certain, like the words mattered enough to risk being heard. he remembers the way you'd trace the spine absentmindedly, the way your eyes lit when someone finally understood what you meant.
he doesn't say why he chose it, or why the other novel got scrapped.
he just places it on the table and opens discussion. no one notices, and no one reacts the way you would've.
someone misreads a passage, and no one corrects them. another skips over a scene you once called essential to the narrator's "introspective realization". the conversation moves on without pausing, without depth, without resistance, and to him, it feels like a mis service to you.
throughout the whole meeting, he can hear you. it's as if his imagination is playing tricks on him, except you truly were there.
when the meeting ends, he closes the book carefully, tucking it carefully into his bag.
when shoto packs up, he feels something sharp lodged behind his ribs at the absence of you. normally, you'd stay for a bit, taking your time to pack up.
you're not there to argue about an opinion he may have had that was different to yours, not there to look at him like he's capable of more.
outside, the campus is washed in the late afternoon light — gold, loud and alive in a way he feels excluded from. something foreign that would never touch his campus.
he walks without thinking, cutting through the quad to make it to one of his night placement shifts.
that's when he sees you. you're laughing, and it's not like those quiet, thought out ones you do when you're around him.
the sound hits him first — unfamiliar, unguarded. this one is open, easy. it's truly you.
you're walking beside someone. a man.
he doesn't recognize him, and that slowly becomes the problem. because your body language is different with him, shoulders loose, hands animated as you speak. you lean in slightly when he says something, and then lean close when his hand moves to your shoulder.
he just stands there, watching as you walk past him without seeing him at all. like you're no longer looking for him like you always used to do.
the man says something low into your ear, and you bump his shoulder playfully, smiling up at him in a way shoto has never earned.
something shoto was never worthy of.
something ugly twists in his chest, one that's different from anger. it's something worse.
it's the dual realization that he doesn't get to narrate you anymore. for once, he doesn't know how to function without being in your orbit.
he doesn't know who that man beside you is. doesn't know what you talk about, what you read together— god, if that man even read at all. he wonders what parts of yourself you offer freely now that you're not defending them.
he watches you disappear into the crowd, under the street lamp posts, and in the space, you leave behind loud and permanent.
when shoto scrubs in, arms cold under the icy water, he begins to understand the full cost of his restraint.
you didn't stay, and you didn't come crawling back. you chose silence, and then you chose someone else to hear you.
you broke out of the cycle, and closed the chapter between you two.
and when he stands next to his supervisor, hands steady as he assesses the patient before him, he realizes there is nothing clinical, nothing correct, and nothing more devastating than the fact that you're no longer choosing him.
one night, shoto has a little bit of time to look through the club member's novel requests.
he spends his late nights back at the book club, looking through the physical copies members have left on the crate.
he isn't necessarily looking for yours, but its wedged behind the others. the spines he recognizes because he chose them.
the one is worn differently, softened at the edges, as if it's been opened too many times.
interesting. he doesn't remember giving it to you, nor you speaking about it before.
when he opens it, the pages are filled, passing the margin, and etching a bit into the words.
the handwriting isn't his.
your annotations are far from neat, they're smaller. slanted, indefinitely. sometimes cramped, like you were afraid of taking up space, or compromising the visibility of the text. words circled carefully, respective to the literature.
there are corrections crossed out, but never of the text, but of yourself.
and oh god, they're far from annotations, they're full run on sentences, as if you've been trying to tell him something the whole time.
love is one kind of abstraction. and then there are those nights when i sleep alone, when i curl into a pillow that isn't you, when i hear the tiptoe sounds that aren't yours.
it's not as if i can conjure you there completely. i must embrace the idea of you instead.
his eyes flicker beneath it, to the space that's meant to be there, but is graced with yours.
shoto,
i think if i could put into words, i think this is how i loved you best. like when you were still an idea, far before i learned how heavy reality could be. you're so mean, all the time, but i think if i could choose a reality with both of us, it'd be when i was able to hold you without flinching, and feeling like i was asking for too much. but, loving you meant learning where to soften myself, where to go quiet, and where to stop reaching so i wouldn't tip over. i think i loved you best when you were something i could carry without it costing parts of myself.
which was never.
and yet, i still love you, because you were the only one who was actually in my life.
shoto flicks through the pages briefly, sighing as he took a seat. this was going to be a long night.
by around 12 at midnight, he should be asleep, but instead he's still in this library. the novel is small in content, much more than he's adapted to, but it's you that makes it long.
it's the final entry in the book. but, it's also shoto's last time he'll ever hear anything from you again.
so he rereads it, over and over again. each syllable read the same length of a paragraph.
i'm standing in the bathroom, drying my hands on your towel, and you're hovering in the kitchen. i am happy for dinner, happy the day is over, and before i can as you what's going on, you tell me this is something we need to talk about.
this is it, the moment before you tell me the precise thing i don't want to know.
is this zenith? this last moment of ignorance?
or does it come much later?
i think this is the highest point. this should be the climax — it's not. but it is in our story. not because i'm happy writing this, but because i don't know what will happen yet. i know things between us have been hard, so i hope this clears everything up.
what i know is i'm about to walk in our next book meeting, wait till everyone walks out, and tell you that i feel something growing in my chest that isn't just habit. that i want more than this, more than routine.
shoto, this is when i tell you i love you, even if it breaks me, but at least it will be honest.
i think that's what zenith is.
zenith.
shoto feels like his heart is going to fall out of his chest. he traces the word 'zenith' with his thumb, as if it might answer him.
and suddenly, the timing settles into place with a quiet, unbearable clarity.
this was written before the argument, words etched final into the pages right before it happened. before the words you weren't meant to hear, before you stood in that hallway, listening to him say your name like it was a burden.
you wrote this while he was distant, already half gone, and even then, you still chose hope.
you wrote it on a night when you were meant to confess.
when you planned to tell him how you felt, heart beating too loud, novel tucked beneath your arm, ready to tell him that something more than habit had been growing in your chest.
you were meant to give him the novel, not as a mirror of what he's been doing, but solely as proof that you were falling in love with him, and that you were choosing him despite all odds.
except, you never had the chance to.
as he reads the final line of your annotation, he understands now, with a sickening certainty, that this — this — was the highest point.
not the fight, and not the ending of his relationship with you.
it was the moment right before you found out you were already losing him.
this is the first time shoto understands something viscerally.
you were trying to speak. you chose a language he would respect, and he never read it. you were forced to communicate on his terms, when all you wanted was something that was emotional — and when you finally wrote on your own, you did it quietly, and alone.
shoto reaches into his bag and pulls out a black pen from his bag, his hand unsteady as he writes beneath your words.
you're right, y/n.
this is the highest point.
that's when it hits him. slow, merciless, and far too late.
he falls for you in the absence of your wanting, and in the quiet that you leave behind. he realizes it deep in his chest, marinating into something too sweet for him to taste, but strong enough to feel.
the sensation eats at him, gnawing in ugly and pitiful. breathless and suffocating.
it blossoms in too late for something that has already wilted.
habit confirmed (happy ending).
