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In her opinion, they are his most prominent features.
Not his beautiful mismatched eyes or his two-toned hair, (though those two do classify as magnificent features by themselves,) but his hands.
They were sculpted as a form of art, with each curve and ridge having a purpose which screams perfection. His entire body is well rounded as an equal balance of fire and ice, and his hands are no exception. In fact, she thinks they represent his constant equilibrium perfectly.
“Have I ever told you about how much I like your hands?” Momo asks Todoroki, holding one of the aforementioned appendages as he sits across from her. They’re both on her bed, his eyes glued to her face and hers to his fingertips.
“Odd compliment,” he grumbles,” but I'll take it.”
She hums and nods, fitting her palm over his before gawking at the size difference. “They’re just… so…”
“So…?” He pries when her voice trails off. She gestures for his other hand which he gladly gives, offering them both right side up so that she can lay her palms atop his.
“I don’t know how to describe it,” she says, looking at her own dainty fingers pressed against his wrist. He shifts, slipping his hands lower so that she can clasp them together and further examine his appendages. “They… represent you,” she mutters.
He gives her an odd look. “Elaborate.”
“Well…” She shrugs, looking up. “Your quirk. It’s half hot and half cold. And your hands—they look the same because they belong to the you, but I think they’re two sides of a coin. Like your quirk. This one,” she lifts up his right hand, “is cool. Not cold, but cool—relaxing. Like a breath of fresh air. And this one,” she lifts up his left, “is warm. Comforting. Like having hot cocoa during winter.”
He quirks a brow at her, and she watches as he mulls over her words. His face has an odd but endearing way of processing information with the way his eyes look up and off the side as though he were searching elsewhere for a response. “You… must think a lot about my hands,” he finally murmurs pointedly. After waiting only for that to be the answer she receives, Momo rolls her eyes and gives him a pointed look.
“Most people would be complimented by other people thinking about them.”
“Well I think it’s creepy.”
Her brows furrow. The most irking thing about Todoroki, she learns, is that she can never tell when he is joking. It’s hard to determine if he’s mocking her out of mirth or distaste, and it has her releasing his hands with a frown.
“You can always just find somebody else to be philosophical about you.” It’s unlike her to act this petulant, but there’s something about him that has her reacting in such extreme ways.
But then, as she makes to crawl away to the edge of her bed, a large pair of arms snake around her waist and tug her back onto her duvet, bringing her journey to a halt. She squeals, and Todoroki presses kisses to the side of her cheek and neck which has her giggling despite herself.
“You’re despicable,” she scolds through a fit of titters.
“No, that would be my father.” Momo would gasp at his comment but then he kisses her in that spot below her ear where she swears she isn’t ticklish which has her snorting instead. “‘S fine,” he goes on to say, noticing the furrow in her brow. He loosens his grip so that she can turn and face him as they lay on their sides, her face bright red and split by a smile embellished by her dark eyes which gleam at him in a way that could devastate the sun. “Thank you for being philosophical about me. Nobody’s ever done that for me before.”
It’s a gentle admission, and it has her heart softening as she tilts her head down to stare up at him through her eyelashes. “Well, thank you for being a subject for me to be philosophical about,” she supplies. “You’re quite nice to think of.”
He cocks a brow. This time, she recognizes the mirth in his eyes and slight quirk of his lips, but before she can groan, he teases and postulates, “oh, do elaborate.”
“I’m not boosting your ego anymore,” she asserts with another roll of her eyes, clawing free from his grasp to sit at the edge of her vast bed. “Philosophical period is over, Todoroki-san.” He gives her a wounded look, but she steels herself with a deep breath. “Sorry. Time for you to leave before someone realizes you’re not in your dorm room.”
“Already?” He whines, and before she can push off her mattress and weave her way away from him, he has his arms around her and has her plummeting back into her lavish duvet yet again. “But sensei, kissing period hasn’t ended yet,” he protests, pouting the way a petulant child would at the end of nap time during kindergarten. Momo feels him punctuate this by pressing his lips all over her face to keep her dizzy from the affection pooling deep in her belly. She almost hates the power he holds over her.
“Fine,” she concedes, though it hardly feels like a defeat when she turns her head and finally meets his lips. He exhales a pleased sigh against her at finally receiving the contact he’s been yearning for, and she can’t deny the way her heart swells in her chest in tandem.
Todoroki presses harder—not harsher, but more firm—and when she yelps out a startled noise in surprise, he sets a hand on the back of her head as though to reassure her. Running his fingers through her obsidian tresses—the contact warm and sure and comforting—Momo somehow has a feeling, deep down, that it’s his left hand in her hair.
(And you know what?
She isn’t wrong.)