#one shit

𝓱𝐚𝐛𝓲𝓽𝓾𝓪𝓵 confirmed.

part one.

mean! shoto todoroki x reader ── .✦ university au!

౨ৎ tw / cw (18+); dub-con/con, fingering, panic attack implied (??), cum-licking, slight bj, dry humping

habit confirmed

shoto todoroki, honored for outstanding patient outcomes in cardiac surgery

you read the headline with a quiet smile, lips quirking. this title suits him, it wasn't something you were shocked about.

even now, with years removed, and memories buried in the past, you can still picture the way his focus narrowed throughout his studies.

the article is generous, carried with praise as it acknowledges shoto. you read all of it, pausing on the photo at the bottom.

he's smiling at the camera, and it seems genuine. the sight makes your chest warm instead of tighten, and you're filled with the old memory of your love for him. his hair is a bit shorter now, neatly kept, broader shoulders, a visibly stronger frame.

you think, not really for the first time, that he's grown into himself. the boy who once had your heart, has become a man trusted to many in his hands.

you set the screen aside, allowing warmth to settle instead of ache. you look at the photo one last time before completely slipping your phone face-down on the coffee table beside you.

"five minutes," your manager says softly, and you nod, pressing your palm against your sternum as you stand.

your fingers drift to the pack in your bag, a reflex you've learnt over the years, and a habit you don't indulge indoors. you give yourself a few minutes outside, allowing the grounding pull between your fingers to settle your nerves.

when your done, your throat is dry, chest working overtime to compensate for the series of coughs that leave your throat.

the room feels warmer than it should. your breath comes in labored, a little late, but you ignore it.

this is your first meet-and-greet in three years, an achievement you never knew you'd harbor. you don't want to name the ache in your chest yet, not when your book is neatly stacked in front of you, your name printed centralized cleanly on the cover.

you smile when the doors open. you sign, you thank, and you listen.

somewhere between the third and fourth person you sign, you realize you're working harder to breathe than you should be, chest tight, lungs lagging behind the rhythm of the room.

you keep pushing, and by the time the last book is signed, your chest feels wrong in a way you can't quite name.

a sharp pain ripples throughout your chest, insufficient, and devastating. like your lungs are lagging a second behind what your body is asking. you keep smiling anyway, altering your breathing to delay the sharping ache, forcing air intake in measured pulls.

when the room finally clear, the quiet rushes in too fast. your hands start to shake, as you press your palm flat to your chest, breathing harder now, each inhale feeling thin and incomplete.

you pause, realizing the dizziness spurring within your vision.

this isn't normal, your brain supplies helpfully. this is what lung failure must feel like. this is how it starts, should've quit a year ago!

the thought sticks, and your vision tunnels. you count your breaths, and lose track halfway through.

the urge to smoke flares sharp and familiar, but the idea makes your stomach turn.

your heart is racing now, too fast, too loud, and you can't tell where the panic begins or when it ends.

you don't wait for permission. you grab your bag, your phone, mumble to your manager about an emergency, and take off, already orienting yourself towards the hospital down the street.

you try to convince yourself you're being logical, responsible. that you're not panicking at all.

your breath says otherwise, and your body knows more than your mind does.

you will, painfully, always have love for shoto todoroki.

you come in already breathless.

not the sharp kind — the slow, suffocating weight that makes every inhale feel thick, like you’re pulling air through fabric. your chest is heavy. your vision swims at the edges. by the time you reach the desk, you’re panting, hands braced hard against the counter like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

for a second, you’re sure you’re going to black out.

“m—ma’am?” the receptionist’s voice sharpens, alarmed. “are you okay?”

you shake your head.

your throat tightens. you swallow, choose your words carefully, clipped and weak, like spending them wrong might cost you something.

“i think—” you stop. shake your head again. “is shoto todoroki here?”

the receptionist blinks, surprised. then softer, kinder. “no, dear. he’s very busy at the moment. he’s mid-operation.”

something in you caves, your hands start to shake. your breathing catches again, stuck halfway in your chest like it doesn’t know where to go.

“is there,” you say, quietly, urgently, “is there a queue i can join? specifically for shoto todoroki?”

she frowns, concern deepening. “unfortunately, no. but we can assign you to someone else? are you having an allergic reaction?”

you shake your head too fast as panic flickers across your face.

“i-it’s fine,” you say quickly. “it’s fine. i’m just— i’m just going to go.”

“wait,” she says, already reaching for a clipboard. “at least put your name down. we can call you if something opens up.”

you write your details in a hurry, handwriting uneven, breath hitching as you force yourself not to cough, not to draw attention. you don’t wait for confirmation. you don’t wait for help, you leave.

you make it home. eventually. barely. you don’t die, and you realize you actually were just being dramatic.

but you do burn with fever that night, body shaking, breath shallow, the thought circling quietly in your head that maybe you were wrong — or maybe you just weren’t meant to know.

shoto finishes his shift hours later.

he peels his gloves off slowly, shoulders heavy, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. he’s halfway through washing and scrubbing his hands when the receptionist clears her throat behind him.

“hey, shoto? there’s someone still in your queue, if you have time. i know your shift’s over.”

he sighs, instinct already winning out over fatigue. each patient matters. that’s the rule he lives by. that’s how people get to go home.

“yeah,” he says. “yeah, i can.”

she glances down at the clipboard.

“patient y/n l/n—”

his head snaps up.

for a split second, something bright and impossible flares in his chest — and then doubt crashes down just as fast.

“i-is she,” he says carefully, “is she here? right now?”

the receptionist hesitates.

“…no. she went home.”

something tightens in his jaw.

“you let her go home?” he asks, too sharply.

the receptionist’s smile fades. she studies his face for a moment — the tension, the fear he isn’t hiding very well. then she lowers her voice.

“she didn’t look good,” she says gently. “but...seeing her, maybe a fever. breathing issues.”

she slides a slip of paper toward him, filled with all of your details.

“i’m not meant to do this,” she adds. “but you’re the surgeon.”

shoto doesn’t answer. he takes the paper with shaky hands, and he's already moving towards his car.

keys fumbled. engine roaring to life. he drives faster than he should, heart pounding not with panic — but with something worse.

what if she thought this was it. what if something's terribly wrong?

what if, after everything, after all that silence, the place she came was him... because...

he doesn’t let himself finish the thought. he just drives.

when he arrives, he doesn't knock right away.

he stands in the hallway outside your apartment, breathes uneven uncharacteristically for the amount of working out he normally commits himself to.

his hand hovers with hesitation like he's afraid the door might disappear if he touches it. the address matches, the shoes outside your door seem characteristically you. still, his body doesn't believe it.

then he hears it.

your coughs, soft and muffled from behind the door.

not loud or alarming, but shallow and careful, like each inhale has to be negotiated with your chest.

something in him goes utterly still before he knocks, softly.

"y/n," he says, long before he realizes he's said it.

there's movement inside, slow and unsteady. the door opens only a fraction, chain still connected, like habit hasn't quite caught up to recognition yet.

he sees the bundle of hair, then your eyes. then the rest of you, eyes looking up at him.

it all hits him at once, and he remembers why he kept going.

the years didn't take anything off you. your features matured into something celestial. there was a way your face held memory; the soft accumulation of years spent thinking carefully, selflessly, loving carefully.

there's a steadiness in your gaze that wasn't there before, a quiet confidence that doesn't bloom outward, but settles inward. your brow are clear, glossy eyes cloudless, your lips and the unmistakable structure of your face graced with sensibility and sweetness that nothing else could compare.

and god, even sick, even flushed with fever, you are luminous.

and standing before him — bounded between the door between — fevered, breathing unevenly, hair loose, wearing a life you built around him, you are devastatingly alive that it feels like a mercy just to see you.

"shoto," you whisper, the syllable sweet like honey to shoto's ears.

the chain comes off, the door opens fully. you don't step back, you don't need to. he already knows to be careful.

"you're burning up," he says immediately, instinct kicking in before desperation does. his hand hovers near your wrist before easing off. "why didn't you wait at the hospital?"

you smile faintly, breath hitching with phlegm. "i didn't want to bother anyone."

it's the same answer you always gave, and it guts him. but at the same time, brings him a relief. old habits never die.

he waits till you step aside, allowing him to enter your home. your apartment is quiet, lived-in, warm in a way his never was.

he comes behind you, supporting your elbow as he sits you down on the couch.

he kneels before you, utterly ridiculous in the way his uniform is still on. he tries to keep his focus on his objective, but he almost can't, especially when eye-level with you.

you've grown into yourself. not in a way that's hardened like molten among the surface, but in a way that shows your roots, and you've truly blossomed. it's as if you've learned to take up space without apology, and even in this vulnerable position, there's no shrinking on your end.

he checks your pulse, careful as he applies pressure to your wrist. then to your neck. he checks your temperature, methodically, but there's something just so intimate about being this close to you again.

his hands are steady — they always are — but his eyes keep flickering to your face. truthfully, he's just afraid you'll vanish if he looks away for too long.

with a sigh of relief, his shoulders deflate. "this isn't nothing," he says quietly. "but it's not the end."

you laugh weakly, before it dissolves into a wet cough.

"i know," you say. then softer, almost embarrassed as your face heats. "i just— couldn't breathe today, and i thought—"

you stop, almost realizing it's something you shouldn't finish because it didn't happen.

his throat tightens at the silence — at the implication. he swallows.

"you're fine," he tells you in that same way he tells his patients, but this time it's laced with a promise, not a protocol. "you're breathing, it just doesn't feel like it."

your shoulders loosen at that. just a fraction.

you nod, embarrassed.

"a tough day?"

again, you nod. "a tough week," you reply.

shoto pauses, hovering before settling back on the heels of his feet. "do you... do you want to talk about it?"

"yeah," you shuffle a bit. "yeah, i'd like to."

the look in your eyes, one that's filled with a hopeful light, almost breaks him.

he helps you to your bedroom, careful with the way he lays your down. he rummages through your apartment, not based on random movements, but through pattern recognition. he's imagined it before, what it'd look like.

he fills up a glass cup with water, boiling the kettle dismissively as he prepares a warm honey lemon tea. there's medicine that's enough to suffice for tonight, cool rags too.

every moment is careful, like he's relearning you with his hands.

"can't believe i'm letting a random man into my apartment," you comment, heavy eyes peaking from where you're laying. "you look different."

he exhales a quiet laugh, grateful you're even speaking to him. "you too."

and it's true, unbearably true.

later, when your breathing evens out, and the fever begins to break, he sits on the edge of your bed, hands folded, eyes cautious on your face.

"i didn't do well today," you start.

shoto perks up, shoulders angled to you. "at your book event?"

you shake your head, not forgetting to give him a look. "yeah, it's my first one for a while, so i think i just got really overwhelmed. and there's this awful bug going around the publishment firm, and i just happened to be next victim."

"oh, that makes sense."

"you knew i was at a book event?"

"yeah," he swallows. "i've been reading for a while."

the words sit between you, fragile.

you don't react right away. your eyes stay on the ceiling, lashes heavy, breath finally steady enough that it doesn't feel like work anymore.

"how long is a while?" you ask, voice softer than before.

he hesitates, but that answer seems to be enough.

"since you started publishing," he admits. "maybe earlier. i don't know. i just— i kept seeing your name."

you hum quietly, like you're turning it over, testing the weight of shoto's words. there's no surprise in your expression, just a slow understanding settling into place.

"or maybe you were looking for me on purpose," you say. "though, you never reached out, so i'm not too sure about that."

his fingers curl into the material of his scrubs. "i didn't think i was allowed to, especially after all i've done to you."

that finally gets you to look at him. "allowed? so now you think that? hmm." you realize the sharpness of your tone, and the guilty look on his face. "you were a surgeon by then, shoto. i think you could've handled an email to my inbox."

a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips, gone quickly as soon as it appears. "i'm sorry, y/n." his hands find where your elbow would be. "i'm really sorry — not just for what happened, but for everything. for how i treated you when we were younger. for the things i said and, for not listening to you."

he swallows, his jaw tight.

"i didn't listen to you when you tried to explain yourself. i corrected you instead — and i thought i was being right, and i let that be my own excuse," his voice lowers. "now i see how much you had to carry because of me."

his words fall off certain, bracing for impact. the silence that follows isn't empty — full of everything he's finally stopped avoiding.

you breathe out slowly, mulling over his words like you're basking in it.

"thank you for saying it," you smile. "i didn't realize how much i wanted to hear that until now."

you turn your head slightly, meeting his eyes.

"what you did really hurt me, it used to shape who i was. but it isn't the thing that defines me anymore." you pause. "it shouldn't be the thing that defines you either."

you shift under the blanket, exhaustion pulling you in. you watch as his shoulders ease, not with relief, but with the acceptance of your presence.

"i don't need you to make it up to me," you add quietly. "there's nothing you can do, it's fine."

he shakes his head, throat tight, firm. "i want to."

you shfit slightly on the bed, sitting up. the movement is careful, with the fever softening around you.

"did you like it?" you ask. "the writing."

he looks at you like the answer is obvious, that the question itself is absurd when it came to you.

"i liked that you didn't explain yourself," he started of. "i liked that you trusted the reader, especially with that one psychological horror novel series."

your mouth curves, small and real.

"i liked that you stopped apologizing on the page."

"that's how i knew it was working," you murmur. "it's one of my favorites. it was inspired by you."

silence stretches again, full. shoto watches you with half-lidded eyes, like he's memorizing something he's no longer sure he's allowed to keep.

"you don't have to sit like that," you tell him. "i'm not going anywhere."

"i know," he says.

outside, the city hums on, indifferent and alive. inside, the moment doesn't demand resolution.

the silence is filled with a series of wet coughs, each one dragging itself painfully out of your chest. your body folds in on itself instinctively, shoulders curling forward as you struggle to breathe.

shoto's hand moves without thinking, rubbing slow, steady circles against your back.

"easy," he murmurs quietly, cooing almost. "i've got you."

another cough claws its way out of you, wetter this time. the sound finally fades as shoto holds you through it, fingers spreading along your spine.

shoto's eyes drift before catching on the bedside table. half-hidden beneath a folded receipt and a small pile of novels sits a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

shoto stills, hand paused on your back.

you follow his gaze a second too late, before laughing awkwardly.

there's a subtle shift in the air, one the speaks of shoto's concern. "...i didn't know you picked up smoking," he says gently.

your shoulders lift weakly with your breath. there's not really an explanation to it, other than the fact that it just became routine before you realized it had.

"i kinda just picked it up over the years," you admit. "it just happened."

shoto hums softly, thoughtful. the doctor inside of him is telling him to lecture you, stirring immediately. he can already hear the lecture instinct gearing in his head. the long term damage, statistics of fatality, how it'll hinder your quality of life. but tonight, he swallows it.

"yeah," he hums, thumb tracing slow, tender patterns. "that happens."

"i know it's bad."

"i'm not saying that you don't." he shifts closer, shoulder brushing yours. "i know you know."

shoto's words land gently, and they hit something tender deep within you. you gaze drops, fingers twirling the blanket. knowing doesn't always mean doing better, sometimes knowing even leads to habits.

shoto seems to understand the feeling spinning in your chest, and chooses not press further. his hand presses firmly between your shoulder blades, massaging the tension there.

"we can talk about that later too," he says again. "only if you want."

another shallow breath passes through you, easy and manageable, and in that slow moment, something else slips in.

the room is quiet, and his firm hands are still on you. the closeness is starting to feel louder than the coughing ever was. you tilt your head just slightly, catching a low glance at shoto's face, soaking in the line of his jaw, the softness of his eyes. your gaze shifts, unfocused, before catching onto his mouth as he speaks.

"are you... feeling better?"

the way his lips move when he's careful with his words, the thoughtful pause between sentences, the warmth of his tone.

your shoulders shift without meaning to, body angling closer before your mind can tell you to stop. your fingers curl into the blanket, the feeling of tipping over pulling into something heavier like desire.

shoto seems to feel it as he catches the way your breathing alters, your eyes fixed on his lips.

before you overthink it, you shift, climbing into his lap and planting yourself over bis soft bulge. your knees press onto either side of his thighs, your heat centered on his as your grab his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

"shoto...."

you lean against his chest, hips rolling against his, a light moan leaving you lips.

"y/n—"

you don't kiss him, but the warmth of his mouth is there, the hitch in his breathing as your hips rock again. his hands twitch at your sides, caught between pulling your closer and stopping entirely.

you push your shorts to the side, revealing your panties as you grind closer to him. "hnngh..."

“y/n, nono,” he says, voice strained as he pressed his hands softly against your shoulders. “n—not tonight, i’m sorry.”

you look at him, a faint heat flooding your face. “sorry—“

shoto’s head hung low, shamefully as he held himself back with restraint. “it’s not that i don’t want to, but it’s not the right time, okay?” his hands were careful around the sides of your head. “and you’re sick too so, i wouldn’t want to do anything that’d physically— or emotionally tire you out.”

“i understand,” you say, relaxing into your pillow, eyes heavy. “sorry, i wasn’t thinking then.”

“we can… do stuff, still.” shoto feels embarrassed, more than ever. he’s been balls deep in you before, doing stuff with you — but only this time he’s still so in love with you. a part of him doesn’t want to tarnish the peaceful gap between the two of you now that he's finally in your orbit.

“like?”

“i could make you feel good, if you want to,” he says quietly, not touching you. “only if you want, of course.”

you smile softly, eyes tearing a bit. “yeah, yeah. i can settle— i mean i want that.”

shoto’s gaze hangs on yours for a bit longer, giving you enough time to pull back if you wanted to. your fingers find his, closing around them.

there’s this tightens in shoto’s chest that’s so familiar with it comes to you. it’s here, tenfold, ready to burst through his chest.

he shuffles you, spinning you around so your back is pressed against his chest, spooning your warm body as he closed in around you.

he’s nervous, nerves pulling through his chest, into his muscle and through his ligaments as he carefully slides his hands underneath, and down your shorts, beneath the band.

"fuck...you're soaked," shoto groans, voice pitched as he presses against your bud. "feels soft too.."

his eyes are mindful of the facial expressions you make as he rubs the front of your panties. he feels for your clitoris, middle and ring fingers soft against the muscle, moving in slow rhythmic motions.

“feels good shoto,” you sigh out, head falling back on his shoulder. “you can put your fingers inside..”

“is that what you want?” he asks, breathing slightly hitched as he maintains focus on your sensitive bud.

you nod, slightly frantic. “it’s what i need.”

he listens immediately, dipping the pads of his fingers lower, spreading your labia, before feeling for your soaking entrance, carefully tracing around it with your arousal.

“let me know if it becomes to much and we can stop.” his voice is gentle, pleasant against your ear as he stimulates you.

his fingers push inside, groaning a bit at the blood rushing to his cock. his fingers feel for the tender flesh, pumping slowly as his fingertips graze the walls of your insides.

“your fingers feel nice,” you hum out, pants coming out high. “it’s a—always felt good when it was with you..”

shoto’s breath catches, fingers stilling a bit at your words. his other hand, skillfully joins his other as it finds purchase on your clit.

“i want you to feel good,” he replies, voice cracking as he feels you twitch against his erection. “does this technique feel a bit better?”

with his left hand, he pumps in and out of you, easing in further and further with each pump. meanwhile, his right circling around clit.

“oh, oh, shoto right there—“ you screw your eyes shut, allowing his fingers to compensate for the years he wasn’t with you.

"you're so pretty, y/n." the words come out slow, blurred between the lines of desire and restraint. “what about this?”

his left pump in and out of you, curling occasionally to keep the cycle of pleasure. faint sounds of your slick fill the air, gentle with the way shoto’s right hand swirls around your clit faster, pressing you in all the right sensitive places.

“oh— fuck!” you hand reaches your shoto’s wrists, loud moans leaving your lips as you grind against his hand. “really close, i’m close—“

you push yourself against him, guiding his fingers to move deeper in you.

“kiss me, shoto…” you words come out rushed, tears brimming as a hot coil builds dangerously fast in your abdomen. “pleasepleaseplease—“ you tilt your head a bit more, capturing shoto’s soft lips against yours.

the feeling of shoto’s lips on yours has you tightening, clitoris pulsing heavenly as you writhe against his fingers, rolling your hips faintly against his palm.

your breathes come down heavy, peaceful as you feel shoto shift from behind you, a wetness against your back.

“i think i just came,” he laughs softly, staring down at the patch blossoming across his pants.

with a tired smile, your eyes move downwards. “can i see?”

as if your eyes are expressive enough, he shyly pushes his pants down, revealing a bit of his pubic hair, trailing down to his soaked boxers.

fresh pearls of cum bead through his briefs, the head of his cock twitching the fabric post arousal.

your eyes light up at the sight. “can i?”

shoto stares at you as if you’ve become someone completely different, and for some reason, his balls clenches at the look in your eyes anyway. it’s still you, just more verbal.

“yeah…” he exhales through his nose, limbs tense. “you can.”

with slow moments, you bend down, smiling too happily as you place your sweaty palms against his thighs.

with slow moments, you bend down, smiling too happily as you place your palms against his thighs.

your tongue lays flat against the bulbous spot of cum bleeding through the fabric, collect it slowly with a satisfied swallow. "you taste as good as i remember," you comment, more to yourself.

"...yeah?"

you hum in response, and shoto thinks your work is done, until your mouth finds purchase on his bulge again.

you begin suctioning his tip, licking frantically as you suck on the fabric. you moan against the head of his cock, vibrations running straight down to his balls.

your brows knit together, immersed, almost in an unbreakable gaze, lapping at the wet spot over and over.

shoto frowns, noticing something strange in your expression. his hips inch back a bit as he caresses your hair. "hey... are you okay, y/n?"

"i want you in my mouth."

you loosen your jaw, fitting as much of his clothed cock as you possibly can in your mouth.

"wait, y/n— f—fuck!" his hips ruts uncontrollably against your lips, eyes blown at the feverish, hungry sight splayed all over your face.

suddenly, he pushes your shoulders back slightly, a string of saliva connecting the distance between your lips and his swelling cock.

he presses the back of his hand against your forehead before laying you down.

"you're sick, i don't want you to do that — not like this."

you pout a bit, before agreeing. "you're right."

shoto let out a shaky sigh, pulling his pants over his bulge. "you looked really into it just then," he said, moving a strand of hair away from your face, before giving you a pat on the cheek.

"i really like the way your cum tastes," you reply, almost without shame. you pause, realizing you're in your head. "i'm sorry— that came out really fast."

a warmth floods shoto's face, but chooses not to pry further, as if knowing of your oral fixation. "old habit?"

you nod, bashful. "yeah."

shoto moves swiftly to your bathroom to grab two towels, coming back to clean the mess between your thighs, and the other for your lips.

"as soon as we figure this out — get on better terms. proper terms." his thumb brushes your bottom lip. "i can give you as much as you want."

"this conversation is so weird."

shoto frowned. "i thought we were on a middle ground."

the two of you smile at each other, embracing the sheer presence of each other.

"do you..." he starts again, palms sweaty as refolds the cloth, wringing it out with more care than necessary before placing it back on your forehead. "do you remember all the novels i gave you?"

you nod, feverish as you fade in and out of consciousness, eyes fluttering half-closed as the room swims in and out of focus. "yeah, every single one." you shifted underneath his warm palm, shrinking into the sheets. "you started giving them to me out of nowhere, all at once. kinda overwhelming."

shoto gave you a hesitant look, shuffling to the edge of the bed, close enough that you could reach him if you wanted to. he keeps his hands pulled politely in his lap. polite, restrained. like he's afraid of overstepping even now. "yeah, i did."

you smile up at him, faint and unfocused, letting the boundary between the two of you exist without trying to cross it.

"kinda surprised me," you whispered out. "thought you'd be too busy with medical school to read that much — but then again, i guess you've always been good at a lot of things so."

something in him caves.

shoto shrank into his position, posture folding inward as he brings his hands up to his face, calloused fingers pressing briefly into his eyes like he's bracing himself.

when he speaks again, his voice is muffled. "i wrote it over the years."

you blink once, eyes widening. the words take a moment to register. "over the years?"

he nods without looking at you.

your heart stutters, a warmth swelling across your chest. "...including like—"

"all the way back to tenth grade," he says. then, after a beat, quieter. "yes."

your eyes widen, fever forgotten for a moment as something cold and heavy settles in your chest. “when we were… sixteen?”

he lowers his hands slowly, finally looking at you. there’s no pride in his expression. no satisfaction. just something bare and unguarded that you’ve only ever seen in fragments.

“i started annotating books i thought you’d like,” he says. “back then.”

your mouth opens, then closes again.

“i didn’t give them to you,” he adds quickly, like he knows what you’re thinking. “i didn’t think i could.” his jaw tightens. “i just… wrote in them.”

you stare at him, the memory rearranging itself all at once — the cruelty, the attention, the way he always seemed to know exactly where to aim. the way he watched you, even when he pretended not to.

“while you were—"

“being awful to you?” he supplies. not defensive. honest. “yes.”

the admission sits between you like something fragile.

“i didn’t know how to be… normal about it,” he says after a moment. “about you.” his fingers flex once in his lap. “reading was easier.”

you swallow hard.

“every time you spoke in class,” he continues, words coming a little faster now, less filtered, “or argued for something you believed in, or said something that wasn’t efficient but was kind—” he stops himself, breath hitching. “i’d think of a book. or a passage. something that matched the way your mind works.”

your chest aches.

“i wrote in the margins like i was talking to you,” he says. “as if i was responding to you in my head, like you could hear me without me having to… say it.”

you think of the annotations. the early ones, sharper. colder. the later ones, hesitant. questioning. the way they softened without ever quite apologizing.

“by the time i gave them to you,” he says quietly, “they were already finished — the ones in red ink anyway..” he paused, guilt flooding him at the memory of your saddened expression. “the ones in blue were the ones i wrote during the book club...you were right.”

something about that breaks you open.

all this time, you thought the books were an offering. a beginning. you never considered they were an archive.

“you don’t have to—” you start, then stop. you don’t even know what you were going to say. "i just don't understand."

he reaches out then, tentative, resting his hand lightly over yours atop the blanket. his touch is warm. steady.

“i know it’s strange,” he says. “you don’t have to forgive anything. i’m not asking for that.”

you look at him, really look at him — at the boy who learned how to hide everything in plain sight, who chose margins over conversation, cruelty over honesty, silence over risk.

“i don’t think it’s strange,” you say slowly. “i think it’s sad.”

his breath catches.

“and kind of terrifying,” you add, because it’s true.

he nods once, accepting it. “yeah, you are right there.”

the fever seeps back in, exhaustion tugging at your limbs. your eyes flutter closed again, but you keep your hand where it is, letting him stay.

“guess that means,” you murmur drowsily, “i’ve never really been reading alone.”

his thumb shifts, brushing your knuckles — the smallest movement.

“no,” he says softly. “you haven’t.”

"i just wanted us to talk," he admits quietly, hands sweaty against the material of his jeans. "to have normal conversations — i guess i just wanted to understand you, but i just kept messing up." he turned to look at you, jaw tightening at the epiphany.

"maybe," he hesitates, then finishes, softer, "maybe this is all it took, huh?"

the words linger between you, fragile in the low light.

you don't answer right away, your head feels heavy, fever pulling you under, but you force your eyes open long enough to look at him.

you allow yourself to sit in the uncomfortable silence, gracing yourself with permission to linger to really look. not at the version everyone else sees, not the one who corrects and controls and with holds.

"maybe," you reply, voice gentle with the way your navigate his realization. "or maybe

it was just bad habit."

the word lands differently than he expects, but it's something he can hold onto without flinching.

"habits can change," he says after a moment, eyes hopeful.

you hum, shrugging. "i don't know, shoto."

a corner of his mouth lifts, small, and challenged.

he reaches for the book on your bedside table — the same one you've both circled around for years — and turns it in his hands.

when he looks at you this time, it isn’t evaluative. it’s open, all for you.

“will you read with me?” he asks.

you shift closer, shoulder brushing his as you settle against the headboard. the contact is easy. unremarkable in the best way. he opens The Remains of the Day somewhere near the middle, where the pages are already soft from use.

“you start,” he says.

you glance at him. “really?”

he nods. “i want to hear how you read it.”

your voice is quiet at first, tentative — but it finds its rhythm.

when you accidentally mess up a sentence, "sorry—"

shoto's hands wrap around yours, supporting the one that holds the spine. "it's okay, just start over."

you pause where you want to pause. linger on sentences that feel heavy. when you stop to comment, he listens. really listens. no interruption. no correction waiting behind his eyes.

when you finish a passage, he doesn’t tell you what it means. instead, he asks.

“why that part?”

you smile, surprised. “because he keeps mistaking restraint for virtue.”

shoto considers that. then nods, letting out a sigh.

“i think you’re right,” he says.

the words feel strange in his mouth, but it's freeing.

you read like that for a while — side by side, knees touching, the book balanced between you. sometimes you read aloud. sometimes he does. sometimes you just sit there, sharing the silence without needing to fill it.

it’s simple, and it’s more than enough.

eventually, your head tilts toward his shoulder, exhaustion catching up to you. he doesn’t move away. doesn’t stiffen. just stays.

“maybe you should take over,” you murmur.

“i can do that,” he admits.

and for the first time, the habit isn’t something that pulls you back.

it’s something you both choose to sit with together.

the habit doesn't disappear, it never has. but now, it listens when you speak, and finally, the story feels shared.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as tentacle sex, monster fucking, cosmic horror element, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As you work on your latest novel, the line between reality and horror are skewed.

Characters: Nick Fowler

Note: I hope you all enjoy this. Hoping to have another scary story on the way.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me❤️

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The moonlight gleams like moisture on the unfurling tentacles. Horror shines in her eyes as she watches the beast emerge from his mortal shell. The man is not what he seems. He is creature, he is beast. His svelte silhouette contorts and convulses. 

also were forming them. so uhhhh

You: would you prefer that I yelled “oh my god it’s captain america!!!”

Steve:

You: or “oh my god I’m with steve rogers!!!”

Steve: don’t—

You: or cAPTAIN ROGERS

Steve: (Y/N) i swear to god

You: STEVE AMERICA?!?

WIP Game