Shoto Todoroki at U.Aversity is… something else. He’s the kind of student who sits at the front of a lecture hall, notebook open, pen aligned perfectly with the paper’s edge, half-listening while he memorizes every word. He’s enrolled in Hero Course—obviously—but what no one expected was his minor in psychology. He studies people the way he studies his own reflection: quietly, obsessively, as though decoding behavior will finally help him untangle the mess in his chest.

And always—looming in the background—is his family. Endeavor, the legacy he didn’t ask for. Rei, fragile and recovering, her voice on the phone soft but scattered. Fuyumi, mothering in ways she doesn’t need to be. Natsuo, sharp edges wrapped in brotherly love. Dabi—Toya—still a wound that refuses to scab. Shoto carries them all like weight in his bones, and he doesn’t complain. He just… is. That’s how people see him: disciplined, mysterious, unreadable.

But you know better. You’ve known since that night.

He’ll never admit it aloud, but the first time he fell for you wasn’t the frat party—it was earlier. Hero Psych, mid-lecture, when you dropped your pen and leaned down to catch it. He glanced over, just a flicker of mismatched eyes, and his pulse betrayed him. That was it. The frat house was just the push that made it real. The accidental collision, your startled laugh, the way your shoulder brushed his chest—he went home that night staring at his ceiling, realizing he was doomed.

And a month later? You were his. Or, more accurately, he was yours. The quiet burn of mutual attraction turned into study sessions, then walks across campus, then lingering goodnights.

Until one day, he just… kissed you. No fireworks, no speech, just the press of his lips against yours in the middle of an empty hallway, like he couldn’t hold it back another second.

Dating Todoroki is like balancing on a knife edge—tender one moment, feral the next. He’s sweet in public, the kind of boyfriend who carries your bag, slips you his scarf when you’re cold, listens intently even when you’re rambling about nothing. But behind closed doors? Completely different story.

Shoto is intense. Controlled to the point of cruelty, but so precise it leaves you wrecked. His favorite position? You, spread across his lap, straddling him, his hands dictating every shift of your hips. He likes to watch you—watch the way your lips part, watch the way his name slips out between shaky breaths.

And he’s relentless with temperature play: one cold hand gripping your waist, grounding you with frost, while the other burns hot against your chest, thumb teasing your skin until you can’t think straight. He’s a study in contrast, ice and fire, restraint and desperation.

The sounds he makes are devastating. Low, guttural grunts when you tighten around him, breathless curses muttered against your throat, the occasional quiet “fuck” slipping past lips that usually guard every word. He doesn’t need to be loud—you feel every ounce of his intensity in the way his body moves against yours, in the way he ruins you with patience alone.

Three months in, you’ve learned: he might be stoic everywhere else, but in your bed? He’s shameless.

And yet—tonight, it’s softness. You’re hunched over your dorm desk, textbooks open, highlighter gripped like it might bite. The day’s been long, your brain fried from lectures and case studies, when there’s a knock. It’s hesitant, almost too polite. You already know who it is.

Shoto stands in your doorway, as awkward as he was the first week you met, clutching a bouquet of your favorite flowers. His ears are faintly pink, his expression unreadable except for the faint crease between his brows.

“Kirishima said… people like this. Surprises. Just because,” he says, like it’s an assignment he’s nervous about handing in. He steps in carefully, setting the bouquet on your desk, eyes flicking to your notes before darting back to you. “I hope I’m not disrupting. You looked focused.”