Ahhh Hes Learning How To Love Himself - Tumblr Posts

far from the weight of the world — s.todoroki

Shoto loves how it feels to be loved by you

cws: fem reader, descriptive mentions of enji's abuse to shoto and rei (but nothing too detailed), self hatred towards scars, fluff

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He'd never been fond of it.

He always found it ugly. Detestable, even. Worthy of disdain and the contempt of anyone who'd been unfortunate enough to come across it.

It reminded him too much of his father, of everything he couldn't abandon. Despite the passing of time and how often he tried to cast the past away, his left side always reeked of death.

Shoto held a deep loathing towards the scar marring the pallor of his complexion, trailing from his hairline down to the cliffside of his cheekbone. The wound always felt raw, as if the seared flesh had just been inflicted onto his skin.

He used to flinch every time he'd catch glimpse of it in the mirror. Used to graze his fingertips over the scarred tissue, only to pull back, aghast at how much it had stung, at how much everything still seemed to burn.

His hatred for it ran deep, down to the hollow of his bones, seeping into the cracks of his chest, where shame and fury festered into poison.

At some point in time, he had even gone as far as making it a habit to cover up the proof of his upbringing, as if it would mask the cruelty of it all. He'd hide it behind a lock of hair, swept to the side, red strands in a shade familiar enough to ignite the resentment in his heart just shy of fully obscuring his vision.

It rankled him to no end. But he found out that there are some things you learn to live with the older you get, when the seasons pass by you and suddenly, you've grown up and metamorphosed out of a body too feeble to protect yourself and your mother from your paradox of a father.

A villain behind closed doors, but a hero beyond them.

It's almost commendable, the irony of it all. Parents are supposed to lead by example, but the only thing Endeavor had taught Shoto was everything he didn't want to be. A simulacrum of his pathetic excuse of a father.

Someone who could truly protect others, even after the hinges of his front door creaked shut to hide him from the public's prying gaze and he no longer had to play pretend in front of them.

And Shoto can, now. Protect others. He's no longer five years old, hunched over a tatami mat and forced to look face-to-face with the bruises on his mother's bony knees, sullied by an unsightly shade of purple. He's no longer five years old, tears pin pricking the corners of his eyes as he bared his teeth in a weak attempt to guard himself from what always came eventually.

He's stronger now. A pro-hero, too So he's learned to accept his scar as part of who he is, rather than a testament to what he couldn't protect.

That doesn't mean he has to like it, though. Even after all these years, he can't seem to spare a shred of pride for it. And that's fine, he thinks. He's content, living like that. Because he doesn't need to like it, or be proud of it. He just had to learn how to live with it without wincing at his reflection.

He just needed to reclaim it as his own. It's the same with his left side. They're both his, not his fathers. They both belong to him, not to his father.

Not that it makes much of a difference to him. He still finds them ugly, all the same, even if you seem to think otherwise.

"That... tickles."

The memory smeared over the crimson stain painting the left side of face might be one of the reasons it's always been so sensitive — Shoto's not too sure. But what he does know is that unlike him, you've always been fond of the broken parts of him, accepting all his baggage and all his damage as if it were your own.

"Sorry, Sho." You laugh, though it comes out as an exhale more than anything else. "Couldn't help myself."

You make a move to retreat your hand back against your side, but Shoto cranes his head to lean into the curve of your palm before you can.

"No," he says, contentment lacing the drawn-out breath he releases. "I didn't say to stop. I quite like it."

"Really now?" You tease.

A hum. "Yes. Do it more."

"If you say the magic word, maybe."

Shoto has found himself to be quite the spoiled man—

"Please?"

—though you seem to have no issue with indulging him.

Giving into his plea (as always), your thumb brushes against his scar, stroking it fondly while he drinks in the sight of you through half lidded eyes, admiring your highlighted features, courtesy to the glow of moonlight peeking past the window blinds.

"You're such a baby, Sho," you comment.

The slight bob of his head tells you he agrees.

It's funny, how things change. At the start of your relationship, Shoto had been amadant against using pet names. But just like every wall of his you managed to pick apart — carefully and patiently, brick by brick — he soon learned to bask in the affection.

It's a nice thing, to be loved.

Shoto cants his chin up to look you directly in the eye, jutting out his bottom lip as he waits for you to pick up on the silent implication of his gesture.

You lean downwards, and he shuts his eyes in anticipation, but instead of feeling the press of your lips against his own, it lands just above his eyelid — the center of his scar.

Shoto pouts, eyes shining with disappointment. "I didn't mean there..." he whines with a groan, resting the plush of his cheek against your stomach once you've let go.

Your fingers move to thread his hair, carding the silky, dual-toned strands with gentle motions.

"Sorry." You giggle. "My fault."

Shoto huffs, but also presses a kiss through the fabric of your pajama shirt in response, sending off the butterflies in your stomach to go flutter their wings.

"I love you, Shoto."

There should be warnings to these things, he thinks. And limits, to how often you can make a mess out of him like it's absolutely nothing. One day, you're going to kick his heart into overdrive and send him into cardiac arrest.

He's not used to all this, after all. Every kiss still tastes like the first, and every I love you still aches like it hurts.

But he's learning. He's learning a lot — how to love, how to let himself be loved. So even if there are times where he doesn't quite get how you could dote on something as ugly as the scar on his face, or the bruises stamped on his soul, he knows it'll all make sense in due time.

As long as he's with you, he knows it'll be alright.

"I love you too," he confesses, rouged from how easily you make a mess out of him. "The most," he adds.

"Now please, my kiss."

There's a tug on the corner of your mouth.

"So good," you praise, already leaning down to meet him halfway. "Didn't even have to remind you."