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Todoroki Shouto was a simple man with a simple wish: he just wanted to go home .
Unfortunately, the crowd of reporters in front of him was determined to keep him there for as long as possible. They did not seem to care that he was tired, or that he was busy, or that the villain had landed a rather painful blow to his abdomen. No, they were more curious as to whether he would attend the upcoming Hero Gala and if he preferred green or chamomile tea. It irked him even more that the questions stopped being related to the villain he just apprehended and have ventured to more useless topics, meaning his job was essentially done and he had every right to go home and rest.
But Todoroki Shouto was a good man. He knew better than to lose his temper, especially at people who were, at the end of the day, just doing their job—even if said job was to interrogate him on his favorite clothing brand when all he wanted to do was sleep. Yes, Momo taught him better than that, and she certainly wouldn’t approve of him lashing out at reporters on live television.
The thought of Momo made his heart clench. He missed her. Their schedules haven’t aligned in weeks, and even their regular date nights had to be pushed back. He missed those too. Although…if he remembered her schedule correctly, Momo should be coming home early today. He could plan a special evening, make a reservation at her favorite Italian restaurant—that is, if he could escape these reporters fast enough to do so.
Worst villain he’s fought this week? This one (because of the media coverage, but he kept that part to himself).
Favorite TV channel? The national news.
Thoughts on Creati’s revealing hero costume?
Shouto blinked, not sure if he had heard the question properly. He was thinking of an excuse to leave as soon as possible, but that particular question was so sudden and jarring that his mind stopped working altogether. His heterochromatic eyes narrowed at the reporter who had asked it, a lean man in a gray suit with brown, curly hair.
“What was that?” Shouto asked, the other reporters quieting down as the temperature dropped a dozen degrees.
“Uh…,” the man squeaked, squirming under the hero’s intense gaze. “What are your thoughts on Creati’s…um…rather revealing hero costume? As your girlfriend…don’t you want her to be more conserved…?”
For a moment, all Shouto could do was stare at the man stupid enough to ask such a question, anger starting to burn low in his gut. It was public knowledge that he and Momo had been dating for years, but a part of him sometimes wished they never made that announcement at all. Sure, he loved showing Momo off and could more easily protect her from persistent suitors (he was a jealous man too, he would admit), but those benefits came at the cost of their privacy—and, at times, Momo’s reputation. An occasional idiot like this one would somehow forget that Creati was Creati —not Shouto’s girlfriend, not his high school sweetheart, not someone who was defined solely by her affiliation with him.
She was a Pro Hero, and a damn good one at that. She was the mastermind of countless tactical operations, and her strategies have led to the demise of major crime organizations and drug distributors. She was also among the best heroes at search and rescue, having an extensive knowledge of first aid. Not to mention a talented fighter, with an entire arsenal of weapons and guns at her immediate disposal. And as if her hero work weren’t enough, she also owned a few charity organizations and some initiatives for women. Little girls idolized her, whether they aspired to become future heroes or otherwise.
Shouto, for the life of him, couldn’t understand how people constantly overlooked all her achievements and skills. She was adept at everything, and yet she still remained humble and compassionate towards others. To him, she was perfect, the ideal hero, his hero—and he hated that no one else could see it. Rather than Momo being recognized as “Shouto’s girlfriend,” he thinks it would be much more appropriate for himself to be referred to as “Creati’s boyfriend.”
After all, it was he who didn’t deserve a woman like Momo—not the other way around.
“Creati is her own person,” he said firmly, glaring down at the reporter with hard eyes. “Her body is her property, and the choices she makes on her clothes and hero costume are hers and hers alone. My job is to support all her decisions, and those decisions are none of your business. You have no right to criticize her for anything.”
There was a time when Momo was overly conscious about her hero costume. Shouto hated to see her feeling so insecure, because she was beautiful and perfect and all the things a hero should be. Although he had helped her be more comfortable with it back in U.A., he couldn’t stop the leering eyes and unsavory comments that were directed her way when she made her debut. It wasn’t her intention to be an R-rated hero, but of course people didn’t care about that at all. The most Shouto could do was freeze ogling perverts and make anonymous accounts to put those users in their place.
And despite all that, Shouto was proud to see that Momo remained undeterred. The confidence she had spent years building up didn’t crumble so easily, and he would protect it with her. She took the comments in stride, never allowing them to affect her performance. Somehow she seemed to glow even more brightly, and Shouto was glad that she didn’t pay any attention to them. She’d leave a sarcastic comment here and there, a more harsh one when necessary. But she’d ignore them outright for the most part, not deeming them worthy of her time.
That was Momo, though.
Shouto, on the other hand, had no intention of just letting things slide.
“Creati’s quirk requires the exposure of her skin. Her costume is merely a reflection of that, so she can maximize her abilities and respond quickly. Remember that the next time she saves you from a villain,” he added. The reporter was now trembling from either embarrassment or fear, and Shouto felt the slightest tinge of satisfaction at the sight. “Besides, this is Creati we’re talking about. Considering her track record and achievements, her hero costume should be the last thing you pay attention to.”
“I-I apologize—”
“Perhaps you really are a decent person,” Shouto interjected, “but I suggest you be more considerate in asking questions in the future.” He did not want to hear an apology from the man, or maybe he just didn’t want to hear him speak at all. It wasn’t Shouto that he needed to apologize to, anyway. “I do not take such comments about women lightly, especially if they are directed towards the woman I love and admire.”
Shouto was met with silence, and yet he continued to glare at the reporters, hoping to drive the message home. The brown-haired man couldn’t even meet his gaze anymore, staring intently at the floor with a frown. Shouto took this as acknowledgement of his words and found no other reason to stay a second longer.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, inclining his head before walking away.
No one dared to stop him, and rightly so—an angry Shouto was not someone to be trifled with, a fact now known by villains and reporters alike. In his wake, a chill seemed to linger in the air, and the crowd was left wondering whether it was caused by his words or the temperature that had dropped with his mood. They did know, however, that they had received a valuable warning that day, one they would certainly do good to remember.
Whoever dares to disrespect Pro Hero Creati is bound to face the wrath of fire, ice, and the one who wields them.
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.
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Shouto did not, in fact, make it out in time to book a dinner reservation at Momo’s favorite Italian restaurant. He had apparently lost against the Friday night dinner rush, much to his dismay.
His mood was already sour from his exchange with the reporters, and this was just the cherry on top. The only consolation was that he was able to order take-out from a Chinese restaurant they both loved, meaning he still had a chance to salvage their special evening. Chinese take-out and a movie of her choice—one of Momo’s favorite combinations for a quiet night in.
When Momo came home early that evening, Shouto felt all the tension and stress melt away at the warmth of her embrace. As bad as his day was, it seemed it could still end on a good note if he had Momo in his arms. She prepared their food in the living room, while he played a movie she told him about last week. She laughed at all the jokes, and he basked in the sound. She gave him her dumplings, and he smiled because she knew they were his favorite.
Yes, he’d take all the bad days the world had to give if it meant he could have these little moments with Momo. In fact, he had already forgotten about—
“I saw your interview today,” Momo said as the credits of the movie rolled through the screen and she set her empty plate down on the coffee table.
Well, so much for forgetting about it completely.
Shouto frowned, setting his own plate down next to Momo’s. Although he had no regrets about what he said, he had wished Momo would never see the interview at all. He didn’t want to add to her pain and insecurities, and the words of an idiotic reporter didn’t deserve an ounce of her attention.
“I meant what I said,” he replied, not sure of what else he could say. He truly did mean every word, and looking back, he’d do it again if he could. He’d do it every time, as much as it takes for people to finally realize how amazing she truly is.
“I know,” she smiled at him, and Shouto softened. Her smile conveyed everything she wanted to say—
“Thank you.”
“You didn’t have to (but I’m glad you did).”
“You’re my hero.”
“I love you.”
These were words they’ve spoken to each other countless times, and sometimes words aren't necessary at all. A smile, a meaningful look, the leaning of her head against his shoulder. The credits of a movie he let her choose and a belly full of food she gave to him.
Sometimes, that was all they needed.
And sometimes, it was the words spoken when the other wasn’t in the room.