constellations | t.shoto⋆˚࿔
no warnings apply 📚
synopsis: artist! s/o drawing on pro hero! shoto’s back.
tags: fluff, admiration, shoto has moles, fake tattoos, anatomy study, gender neutral! reader, shoto is a sweetheart
a/n: i put a little more effort into this bc my classes start thursday. and i needed an outlet to romanticize my major 😞 also wrote this cause i couldn’t sleep, pay no mind to grammatical errors
shoto never noticed his moles.
they live in places he never cared to pay much attention to: one tucked beneath his lip; a couple scattered along the side of his neck, down to his traps, and to the collar bone; a whole litany bloomed across his back. he believes his body is something to train, maintain, and repair when it breaks.
you assumed he knew—they were on his body, after all. but you never made an apparent effort to comment on it. saying it out loud felt embarrassing, like you were admitting you counted them when he wasn’t looking, confessing your love through the desire to ponder.
sometimes, when he leaned over the sink to brush his teeth, you’d catch the one beneath his lip in the mirror and feel something warm bloom in your chest.
and other times, your eyes would linger on the side of his neck while he talked about his day, the mole peaking out from the collar of his shirt just for you to notice.
his back was you favorite. pale, wide, mostly untouched—save for a couple scars from intense training; between them, scattered like dandelion seeds, were his moles.
the light from the afternoon sun caught his skin unevenly, warm to the touch where the light hit him, while its cooler shadows tucked along his side. you laid behind him on the bed, sketchbook abandoned and forgotten, fingers tracing the lines of shoto’s spine without thinking. he sits bare-backed, turned away from you, slightly slouched, scrolling mindlessly through his emails.
you trace the dip between his shoulder blades, following the rise and fall of his breathing. your fingers settle there, pressing just enough to feel how his body tenses to your touch. you circle the hallow, once, then twice, infatuated with it.
on either side, his scapulas shift as he breathes, wings folding and unfolding under your hands. you follow one blade outward, meeting where the bone curves into muscle, then back again, returning to that hallow as its anchor point. Your thumb brushes a mole near the left blade just briefly, but the touch makes your chest ache all the same.
“you keep staring.” he interrupts, clicking off his phone and settling it down to his side.
you freeze, retreating your hand. “…sorry.”
he glances over his shoulder, eyes soft as they stare into yours. “i didn’t mind, i was just asking.”
silence stretches between you two, and you take the moment to look at him. like, really look at him. he’s so sweet in ways that it sneaks up on you when you least expect it. adorable, yes—but devastatingly handsome too, especially when he looks like this; looks at you like this, like you’re something precious he’s afraid he’ll mishandle.
your fingers curl into the sheets.
then finally, quieter, you admit: “i’ve always wanted to connect them—your moles, i mean. like a constellation.”
his inflection makes you laugh before you can stop yourself, the sound seemingly surprising him more than it did you.
you confess to him that you loved his back, how you loved running your hands over it, feeling the lines of his muscles and tracing the bones underneath; and his moles—god, his moles—connecting them to the muscle structure.
he asks you what you’d draw, if you could. not permanently, he clarifies; just to see.
you take a skin-safe marker, hands reverent as you map him gently, dot to dot, breath by breath. he sits very still while you work, like he’s afraid the stars might scatter if he moves.
your fingers brush over the slight ridges of old scars, over the knots in his shoulders, lingering far longer than necessary. each mole becomes a point, connected from one to another, forming the constellations you’ve always imagined.
he flinches once, breath hitching slightly as your fingers touch his sides.
you pause, letting out an almost audible chuckle. “you’re really still.”
“i want to see it properly,” he admits sheepishly, facing away from you as his ears redden. “i want to see how you see me.”
the words make your chest tighten, and when you finally lean back, running your hand lightly over your work, fingertips grazing the lines, a small smile tugs at your lips.
you grab your phone and snap a photo, handing it to him once you’re satisfied. he leans over it carefully, studying your masterpiece, fingers zooming in to see all of the finer details.
“…i think,” he says slowly, “i could get used to this.”
before you can respond, he turns around, leaning, pressing a light, affectionate peck on your forehead, and tugging you close until you’re lying down beside him
you both laugh, quiet giggles spilling out into the space between you as you cuddle, feeling the warmth of his skin pressing into yours.
that photo, will surely live as your home screen for a couple months after.
maybe years, if he doesn’t notice.
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