Rated R for Rivalry

by amwriting

Summary:

In an industry built on skin and sin, two rival porn stars finally agree to film together.

One is a walking inferno with rage issues and abs like a Greek tragedy.
The other is a human contradiction with daddy problems, glacial eye contact, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass.

They’re not supposed to fall for each other. They’re supposed to fake it. On camera. For money.

Unfortunately, they’re very good at their jobs.

[Enemies with benefits, enemies to lovers, feelings happen, the bedframe suffers.]

*

I'm just goofing off once again y'all. This is like... Those old fashioned porn star stories/movies lol. I'm taking a lot of creative liberties here, but it's like casual porn with plot. What could go wrong? hahaha

Notes:

I just want to be clear. This is a non-hero universe. They're all consenting adults here, y'all.

This story contains:

Steamy scenes (like, actually steamy—bring hydration)

A slow burn so intense OSHA might need to get involved

Professional-level sex with not-so-professional emotional boundaries

Brief non-Todobaku pairings (they're porn stars, babe—it’s in the job description)

Eventually? Monogamous emotional destruction

Pray for the camera crew. And maybe the readers, too.

Chapter 1

In the world of adult cinema, there were two names you couldn’t avoid.

 

Bakugo Katsuki—raw, explosive, a god of intensity who left viewers breathless.

 

And Todoroki Shoto—cold fire incarnate, a contradiction of icy restraint and slow-burning heat.

 

Different studios. Different styles. But always, always compared.

 

They'd never worked together. Not once.

 

Fans cried about it weekly. Reddit threads were dedicated to it. Twitter wars broke out over it.

 

"Who’d make who beg first?" "Who’s more versatile?" "Would the earth shatter or just the bedframe?"

 

For years, they ignored each other’s names like rival monarchs ruling separate kingdoms.

 

Bakugo called Todoroki a "walking temperature problem" once in an interview. Todoroki didn’t respond. Which pissed Bakugo off more.

 

It was inevitable, really, that the industry would start sniffing opportunity.

 

And it was only a matter of time before someone made the offer no sane man could refuse.

 

But that part hadn’t happened yet.

 

Not today.

 

Today, Todoroki was half-naked, tangled up with Midoriya on a plush, velvet-covered set bed beneath soft studio lighting.

 

One of his hands was buried in Midoriya's hair, the other splayed along his co-star’s bare back.

 

Their mouths moved together with the sort of intensity that made fans hit pause, rewind, and whisper, goddamn.

 

A breathless noise slipped from Midoriya just before a voice echoed across the studio:

 

"Cut. Hold that pose. We’re adjusting the side cam."

 

Todoroki pulled back just an inch, blinking slowly.

 

Midoriya flopped onto his back with a huff, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist.

 

"You okay?" Todoroki asked, voice low.

 

Midoriya grinned, cheeks pink. "Fine. Just wasn’t expecting you to go that hard on a Wednesday."

 

"Director wanted heat. I delivered."

 

"Mm. Heated, yes. My jaw agrees."

 

They both laughed. Midoriya reached for a nearby bottle of water and tossed it to Todoroki, who caught it easily and twisted the cap.

 

"But anyway. You were telling me something earlier," Midoriya said, more softly now, gaze drifting up toward the lights above them, "are you still covering everything for your mom?"

 

Todoroki took a long drink before answering. "Yeah. The clinic just raised their rates again. Specialized care like that isn’t cheap."

 

Midoriya winced. "Shit. Can’t your family do anything? Your dad’s studio still makes a fortune, right?"

 

Todoroki looked at him like he’d just burped during a live shoot. "I’d rather film in a warehouse with no air conditioning than take a single yen from him."

 

"Right. Sorry. Stupid question."

 

Todoroki shrugged one shoulder. "It’s fine. I make enough money on my own, and I’m not ashamed of the work."

 

"You’re one of the best in the business," Midoriya said easily. "People would pay to watch you fold laundry."

 

"Wouldn’t pay as much."

 

Midoriya snorted. "You ever think about quitting?"

 

A pause.

 

Todoroki stared up at the studio lights, blinking against the brightness. "Sometimes," he admitted. "But not yet. Not until she’s okay."

 

Midoriya was quiet a moment. Then he bumped his shoulder against Todoroki’s. "Well, for what it’s worth, I hope someday you can. And not because you have to, but because you want to."

 

Todoroki glanced over, lips twitching. "Thanks."

 

"Also," Midoriya added, grinning again, "that last kiss? Gonna haunt me. I almost believed that you really liked me."

 

"You were moaning like we were actually alone."

 

Midoriya laughed again, tossing a pillow at him. "Shut up. You started it."

 

From somewhere off-camera, Aizawa sighed. "I can still hear you two."

 

Todoroki and Midoriya smirked in tandem, eyes meeting, the ease between them palpable.

 

Professionals. Friends. Teammates in an industry that asked for skin but never offered softness back.

 

And neither of them knew that halfway across town, Bakugo Katsuki was just finishing up his own scene.

 

*

 

"Cut! That’s a wrap on scene three. Good work, everyone."

 

Bakugo exhaled like he’d just bench-pressed a small car. He flopped backwards onto the bed, chest still heaving, muscles slick with sweat.

 

Beside him, Kaminari wheezed out a laugh. "Bro. You looked like you were trying to melt the camera."

 

"That’s the job, right?" Bakugo said, breathless but grinning.

 

"You scared the boom guy. He nearly dropped his mic."

 

Bakugo barked a short laugh, letting it melt into a groan as he stretched his arms overhead.

 

Kaminari rolled off the bed and shuffled toward a nearby table stacked with wet wipes and bottled water. "No lie, that was great. You crushed it."

 

"You too," Bakugo muttered, sitting up to grab a wipe of his own.

 

Kaminari tossed him a fresh robe. "So what’s on your schedule now? Hot date? Wild party? The usual post-shoot champagne orgy?"

 

"Nah. Just heading home. Gonna make dinner."

 

"Kugo. My dude. You always say that. Come out tonight. Just once. It’s a little thing with some friends, nothing insane. I was only joking about the orgy."

 

Bakugo gave him a look. "I don’t do little things. Or insane ones."

 

Kaminari slung on his robe and pointed dramatically. "One day, I’m gonna get you to join us. You can’t just keep living off takeout and protein powder. You deserve some joy, you know."

 

"I got joy," Bakugo said, toweling off his hair. "I’ve got me. That’s all I need."

 

Kaminari gave him the world’s most theatrical sigh. "Tragic."

 

Bakugo flipped him off fondly, already walking toward the dressing room.

 

The hallway outside was buzzing with post-shoot activity, crew members shuffling equipment, someone yelling about lost lighting gels.

 

Just as he turned the corner, a deep voice stopped him in his tracks.

 

"Bakugo. Got a minute?"

 

Bakugo turned, shoulders tightening.

 

Todoroki Enji —legendary director, industry powerhouse, and the reason Bakugo was famous in the first place—was waiting outside his office. His arms were crossed, eyes sharp even behind the fine lines of age and stress.

 

“Got something for you,” Enji said, stepping back to gesture inside.

 

Bakugo followed with a muttered, “Yeah, alright.”

 

Enji’s office was stark and cold, like a very expensive interrogation room. Awards lined the shelves.

 

A single framed photo of three kids sat on the desk, facing away.

 

Bakugo didn’t bother to sit.

 

Enji handed him a folder. “New project. Special request. High-profile.”

 

Bakugo flipped it open.

 

His jaw went tight.

 

Staring back at him—on page two, under “co-star details”—was a high-res press photo of Todoroki Shoto.

 

Too good-looking, too well-mannered, and exactly the kind of guy Bakugo hated on principle.

 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered.

 

Enji didn’t blink. “It’s a crossover collab. Big money. Full creative team. Three episodes minimum. Contract’s generous.”

 

Bakugo stared at the image for a beat longer.

 

Todoroki’s face looked carved from marble and touched by Photoshop.

 

Perfect. Blank. Like nothing ever fazed him.

 

Like the whole industry was a chore he barely tolerated.

 

God, he hated that.

 

“He even agree to this?” Bakugo asked.

 

“He will,” Enji said flatly. “We’re working on it.”

 

Bakugo shut the folder with a snap. “I’m not doing it.”

 

“You are,” Enji replied. “Or you’re walking away from the biggest paycheck of your career. And a chance to prove you’re still number one.”

 

Bakugo paused at the door.

 

He didn’t turn around when he said, “I don’t need to prove that to anyone.”

 

But he didn’t hand the folder back, either.

 

***

Chapter 2

The next day, Todoroki found himself in another scene.

 

Todoroki didn’t blink as Sero shoved him against the side of the vanity, hands in his hair, breath hot against his mouth.

 

They moved in sync—practiced, paced, rhythmic.

 

Todoroki’s shirt hit the ground. Sero’s followed.

 

They kissed like they meant it, lips clashing, shoulders rolling.

 

The lighting was perfect, the camera panning in, the heat building like a slow burn—

 

THUMP.

 

Sero’s foot snagged on something on the floor and the whole illusion shattered.

 

He yelped as his balance disappeared and he went down fast, smacking the floor with an awkward thud that echoed off the set walls.

 

“Cut!” Aizawa shouted from somewhere behind the camera, sounding like he aged five years in one word. “Reset positions. Sero, watch your step.”

 

Todoroki winced and dropped to one knee beside Sero. “Are you okay?”

 

Sero blinked up at him from the floor, face caught between pain and laughter. “I think I crushed my dignity.”

 

Todoroki looked down. “You tripped on my shoe. I shouldn't have tossed it there.”

 

Sero glanced over, saw the offending sneaker in the middle of the set rug, and burst out laughing. “Of course I did. My eyes were a little distracted, you know.”

 

Todoroki stood up and offered him a hand. “Sorry. That was me. I’ll fix it before the next shot.”

 

“Apology accepted, sweetheart,” Sero said dramatically, letting himself be pulled upright. He leaned against the vanity, still chuckling. “Damn, and we were just getting to the good part.”

 

“Still a few hours left in the day,” Todoroki replied with a shrug, handing Sero a bottle of water from the off-set table.

 

Sero cracked it open, took a long swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hey—before I forget. You get that contract offer from the other agency?”

 

Todoroki tensed, the motion subtle. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not doing it.”

 

Sero raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

 

“It’s my father’s agency,” Todoroki said simply, adjusting the waistband of his briefs. “I’m not interested.”

 

Sero pulled a face. “Okay, yeah, fair. But… it’s Bakugo.”

 

“And?”

 

“And it’s Bakugo,” Sero repeated. “The guy’s basically a legend. Top of the rankings, highest engagement rate in the industry, most requested partner across all demographics—hell, the fans are still frothing over that last scene he did with Kaminari.”

 

Todoroki didn’t look impressed. “I’ve never seen any of his work.”

 

“You’re the only one,” Sero muttered under his breath. “Listen, I get it, you’ve got your pride, and your weird family politics. But you should think about it.”

 

Todoroki glanced over at him.

 

Sero shrugged. “I’m just saying… Getting asked to do a scene with him is a huge compliment. You don’t throw that away unless you’ve got a damn good reason.”

 

Todoroki went quiet.

 

A crew member passed behind them adjusting the lighting. The set was buzzing again, people moving around like bees in a hive.

 

Finally, Todoroki said, “The money would be nice.”

 

Sero nodded. “Yeah.”

 

“My mom’s hospital just raised her monthly fees again.”

 

“Damn.”

 

“And my air conditioner broke last week.”

 

“Now that’s a tragedy.”

 

Todoroki cracked the barest smile. “You just want me to say yes so you can brag about knowing me before I was stupidly famous.”

 

“Exactly,” Sero said brightly. “I want to ride your coattails all the way to award season. Let me have this.”

 

Todoroki sighed, just as Aizawa called out, “Back to one, people. Reset the top of the scene.”

 

Sero smirked. “Think about it, man.”

 

Todoroki moved into position again, facing him with that signature unreadable expression.

 

“I will,” he said softly, just loud enough for Sero to hear.

 

The camera started rolling again.

 

And Todoroki leaned in—blank-faced, calculated, mechanical.

 

But for just a split second… there was something else in his eyes.

 

Not attraction. Not even curiosity.

 

Just the look of a man already preparing for a fight.

 

*

 

The inside of Bakugo’s beat-up black SUV smelled like clean leather, sweat, and regretfully ordered fast food.

 

Kirishima sat in the passenger seat with the window cracked, sipping something violently neon through a straw.

 

Kaminari lounged in the backseat, one foot on the center console, scrolling through his phone with the wicked grin of someone about to make very poor decisions.

 

The drive-thru line hadn’t moved in three minutes. Tension was building.

 

Bakugo tapped the steering wheel with the side of his thumb like it owed him money.

 

“This place always takes forever,” Kirishima muttered. “Hope it’s not the dude who forgets our orders.”

 

“Hope they remember my extra sauce,” Kaminari said. “Last time I asked for spicy mayo and they gave me some sad little packet of lies.”

 

“Tell your therapist,” Bakugo grunted.

 

Kaminari ignored him. “Hey, speaking of spicy…”

 

Bakugo didn’t like the tone of that sentence one bit. “No.”

 

“C’mon, you gotta look at this,” Kaminari said, flipping his phone around between the front seats like it was Excalibur.

 

Bakugo glanced—then squinted. “Is that him? Todoroki?”

 

“Shoto,” Kaminari corrected, grinning. “From that old shoot with Sero. This one broke the internet for, like, a week.”

 

On screen, Todoroki was sprawled across a velvet couch, shirt halfway off, neck flushed and lips parted.

 

Sero hovered above him, hand curled around Todoroki’s hip, and Todoroki’s eyes were smoldering. Not fake-hot. Not acting. Smoldering.

 

Bakugo’s jaw ticked. “You’re watching porn. In my car.”

 

Kirishima laughed into his drink. “He’s doing research.”

 

“For what? Mutual destruction?”

 

“Just trying to help you make an informed decision,” Kaminari said innocently. “Ooh—hang on, let me pull up the one with Midoriya. That one’s got serious romantic tension. Like, ‘oh no we shouldn’t but we must’ vibes.”

 

Bakugo didn’t look away in time.

 

Midoriya was above Todoroki this time, one hand braced against the bed, the other sliding under Todoroki’s thigh. Their mouths met like it hurt.

 

Todoroki moaned, low and desperate.

 

The sound hit Bakugo straight in the sternum. “Off,” he barked.

 

“Okay, okay,” Kaminari said, but he was smirking like he’d already won something. “Didn’t even show you the one with Shima yet.”

 

Bakugo shot Kirishima a look. “Seriously?”

 

“It was years ago, before I got into Enji's studio.” Kirishima shrugged, cheeks pink. “Hey, it was a good scene. Real respectful. We even got nominated for a fan-voted category—‘Best Use of Wall-Mounted Harness.’”

 

“I’m kicking both of you out of this car,” Bakugo muttered, but he didn’t actually unlock the doors.

 

Kaminari leaned forward again, nudging Bakugo’s shoulder. “You’re telling me you don’t wanna tap that? Not even a little?”

 

Bakugo’s mouth twisted. He stared ahead at the unmoving line of cars. “He’s hot. I’ll give you that.”

 

“Hot?” Kirishima scoffed. “Dude’s a chameleon. He can do sweet, rough, submissive, dominant—whatever the director needs. And he still looks like a damn model doing it.”

 

“Yeah,” Kaminari added. “Plus, the internet ships you two already. Have you seen the fan art?”

 

“I don’t look at fan art.”

 

“You’re in so much fan art,” Kirishima laughed. “It’s weirdly wholesome.”

 

Bakugo exhaled hard through his nose and tapped the steering wheel again, eyes fixed on nothing.

 

Todoroki’s face lingered in his mind.

 

Flushed. Focused. Hair falling across his forehead.

 

Hands loose but precise. Lips parted like he was in prayer and sin at the same time.

 

Bakugo shook the image off like water. “I’m not signing that contract.”

 

Kaminari tilted his head. “Even for the challenge?”

 

“I don’t need a challenge. I’m already the best.”

 

Kirishima sighed. “You’re the best, man. But maybe you’d like it. Y’know, someone different. Someone that actually pushes your limits.”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer.

 

The line moved up one car.

 

The sound of Todoroki’s voice echoed in his skull like a whisper through smoke.

 

“Harder,” it had said. “Just like that.”

 

Bakugo’s hand clenched tighter on the wheel.

 

Kaminari leaned back with a satisfied hum. “We’re just saying… Might be fun to play with fire.”

 

“Yeah... Maybe you're right.”

 

*

 

A few hours later, Todoroki stood in the center of Enji’s office, arms crossed and jaw clenched like he was resisting the urge to punch drywall.

 

He wasn’t sure what pissed him off more—being summoned here like some unpaid intern, or the fact that he’d actually shown up.

 

Aizawa had asked him to grab a few camera rigs Enji had agreed to sell the studio. Fine. He’d play delivery boy.

 

But then—of course—he’d ended up trapped in a verbal chokehold instead.

 

“I don't want to comment on my son's sex life, but... From a business standpoint? You’re wasting your potential,” Enji said, seated behind his desk like a king giving judgment. “It’s a high-profile crossover. Do you have any idea what this project is worth?”

 

Todoroki didn’t blink. “You’re asking me to film with someone I don’t know, under a contract I didn’t ask for, in a building I don’t want to be in. I think I’ve got the math covered.”

 

Enji’s eye twitched. “Money,” he said, like it was a spell. “A lot of it. Name your number. We’ll meet it.”

 

Todoroki’s arms tightened. “I’m not for sale.”

 

Before Enji could retort, the door opened behind Todoroki.

 

“Yo.” A low voice, rough and half-bored. “You said you wanted to—”

 

Bakugo Katsuki stepped into the room, half-dressed in sweats and a hoodie, hair damp like he’d just finished a shoot or a shower—or both.

 

He paused instantly, eyes locking on Todoroki like he’d walked in on a tiger.

 

Todoroki stared back.

 

There was silence.

 

Then Enji, smug as a cat with a bird in its teeth, slid a crisp folder across the desk toward Bakugo. “Your agent renegotiated.”

 

Bakugo didn’t look away from Todoroki as he reached for it.

 

Then he did.

 

And whistled low. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

 

The dollar amount staring back at him looked like a bank account glitch. Like someone typed an extra zero and no one corrected it.

 

Bakugo glanced at Enji. “You’re serious?”

 

Enji nodded. “That’s just the base. Residuals and streaming rights not included.”

 

Bakugo ran a hand through his hair. “Damn.” Then he turned to Todoroki. “Can we talk?”

 

Enji looked between them and, mercifully, did not hover. “Fine. I’ll be back in five.”

 

As soon as the door closed behind him, Todoroki exhaled hard and said, “He lured me here.”

 

Bakugo smirked. “Yeah. Me too. Old bastard’s getting sneakier.”

 

Todoroki raised a brow. “So, what—he baited both of us and now he’s hoping we’ll sign just to avoid having to come back?”

 

“Wouldn’t be the worst strategy,” Bakugo muttered.

 

Todoroki turned toward the equipment crates near the wall. “I’m not doing it.”

 

Bakugo stepped closer. “You should.”

 

“No.”

 

“You really should.”

 

Todoroki faced him, voice calm. “I don’t want to work for my father’s agency. And I don’t want to work with you.”

 

“Cool,” Bakugo said, folding his arms. “I don’t give a shit.”

 

Todoroki blinked, unimpressed.

 

Bakugo continued. “This video would blow up. Fans already lose their minds when we’re even in the same building. We do a series together? That’s awards, headlines, streaming bonuses...”

 

“I don’t care about awards.”

 

“Then care about money. Or your studio. Or your damn fans, if you have any.”

 

Todoroki stepped toward him. “You don’t know anything about me.”

 

Bakugo’s mouth tilted up. “Not yet. But I'd like to.”

 

A slow, dangerous pause.

 

Todoroki’s eyes narrowed. “Are you flirting with me?”

 

Bakugo took one step closer—close enough that Todoroki could feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace turned just shy of dangerous. “I’m giving you an opportunity.”

 

“Is that what you call it when you breathe down someone’s neck like a wolf in heat?”

 

“Don’t pretend you’re not curious.”

 

Todoroki’s lips barely twitched. “I’ve seen enough.”

 

Bakugo smirked, cocky and smug. “Liar. You’d let me ruin you if I asked nicely.”

 

Todoroki tilted his head. “So this is your plan? Seduce me into signing?”

 

“If I wanted to seduce you, you’d already be on the desk.”

 

“In my father's office though? Don't you have any respect?”

 

Bakugo looked around, like he’d only just remembered where they were. “Yeah. Okay. Gross.” He stepped back a little, then tilted his head, considering. “Still… Seems like it’s working.”

 

Todoroki opened his mouth to fire back something dry and final—but Bakugo moved.

 

Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just… deliberate.

 

Bakugo closed the space between them in two quiet steps, his voice dropping low and lazy.

 

“You know how good this would be,” he murmured, fingertips brushing the fabric at Todoroki’s shoulder, just enough to register heat. “Two of the biggest names in the business. Top billing. All eyes on us.”

 

Todoroki stood very, very still.

 

Bakugo’s hand slid down slowly, landing light on his arm like an afterthought. “People already fantasize about it. We’d just be giving them what they want.”

 

His fingers lingered.

 

His breath was close.

 

Todoroki turned his head slightly—and their faces ended up inches apart.

 

Their eyes met. 

 

And for one precarious second, everything narrowed down to this: the shared breath, the tension humming between their mouths, the parting of Todoroki’s lips like he was about to say something—or do something—

 

Bakugo leaned in.

 

Closer.

 

Closer.

 

And then—

 

Todoroki pulled back.

 

Not fast. Not harsh.

 

Just enough to kill the spark.

 

Todoroki exhaled, eyes unreadable. “I’ll think about it.”

 

Bakugo’s expression didn’t change. But the twitch in his jaw said plenty.

 

Todoroki turned toward the equipment crates again like nothing had happened, like his skin wasn’t still buzzing where Bakugo touched him.

 

“Tell Enji he can stop trying to corner me. If I say yes, it’ll be on my terms.” Todoroki muttered.

 

Bakugo watched him for a moment longer. Something sharp flickered in his eyes—want, irritation, maybe both.

 

Then he gave a crooked smile.

 

Impressed.

 

Irritated.

 

“Can’t wait to see what your terms look like, pretty boy.”

 

***

Chapter 3

Bakugo shoved Kirishima against the padded wall of the set with enough force to rattle the hanging mic above them.

 

Kirishima let out a half-laugh, half-groan. “Okay—wow. A little aggressive today, huh?”

 

“Shut up,” Bakugo growled, pressing in close, hips already grinding down, arms bracketing Kirishima in with a grip tight enough to leave bruises.

 

The camera was already rolling, lights hot, set bathed in a low red glow.

 

It was a high-intensity shoot—no script, just raw chemistry and instinct.

 

And Bakugo was radiating energy like a live wire.

 

He bit at Kirishima’s throat. Not playful. Not gentle.

 

Kirishima hissed. “Dude. Are you okay?”

 

“No,” Bakugo snapped. “I’m pissed.”

 

He dragged his hands down Kirishima’s sides, nails digging in hard, breath coming faster than it should have this early in the scene.

 

His movements were sharp, urgent, full of too much heat.

 

Kirishima arched into it, hands sliding down Bakugo’s back. “You wanna talk about it while you’re grinding the soul outta me or—?”

 

Bakugo didn’t slow down. “He turned me down.”

 

Kirishima blinked. “Who?”

 

“Shoto.”

 

Kirishima tried—and failed—not to laugh. “Oh my god, you are thinking about him.”

 

Bakugo slammed his mouth down on Kirishima’s collarbone, muttering curses between every breath. “He acted like I was some washed-up second-stringer. Like the idea of working with me was beneath him.”

 

Kirishima winced in pleasure and pity. “You’re literally biting me because someone told you no?”

 

“Nobody tells me no.”

 

“Apparently he does.”

 

Bakugo growled again, fingers tightening in Kirishima’s hair as he yanked his head back slightly, lips hovering above his mouth.

 

“He’s smug. He’s arrogant. He’s ice-cold even when he’s shirtless and moaning into someone else’s neck, and don’t even ask me how I know that.”

 

Kirishima grinned. “I wasn’t gonna.”

 

“He knows what this scene could do. He knows we’d make bank. He knows the internet would collapse. But he just stood there and looked me in the face like I was nothing. Not worth his time.”

 

Kirishima reached up, palming the back of Bakugo’s neck. “Yeah. You’re totally unaffected.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“You’re thinking about him more than you’re thinking about me right now.”

 

Bakugo paused.

 

Kirishima raised an eyebrow. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

 

Bakugo scowled. “This isn’t about him.”

 

Kirishima leaned up, kissed his jaw, and muttered, “You’re literally fucking your feelings into me right now, man. It is so about him.”

 

Bakugo growled something unintelligible, shoved Kirishima down onto the mattress, and shoved his legs apart even harder.

 

And the camera caught all of it.

 

*

 

At the same time, there was another scene taking place across town.

 

The lights were low, the set filtered in gold and warm shadows, like sunlight on a lazy afternoon.

 

The bed was simple. Clean sheets. Gentle colors. Intimate.

 

Midoriya straddled Todoroki’s hips, body already slick with heat, hands warm as they mapped across Todoroki’s chest.

 

“Hey,” Midoriya murmured, voice soft as his fingers brushed a scar just under Todoroki’s collarbone. “You okay?”

 

Todoroki blinked back to reality.

 

The room snapped into focus again—the crew just out of frame, the cameras humming, the faint scent of citrus body oil lingering in the air.

 

“I’m fine,” Todoroki said automatically.

 

Midoriya frowned. “You sure? You seem kinda far away today.”

 

Todoroki hesitated. “Sorry. Just… distracted.”

 

Midoriya nodded, not pushing.

 

He leaned down to press a slow kiss to Todoroki’s shoulder, then another, trailing them lower, over his sternum, his ribs.

 

“You want me to stop?” Midoriya asked softly, without judgement.

 

Todoroki shook his head. “No. I’m good.”

 

Midoriya kept going, mouth warm as he kissed down the center of Todoroki’s chest.

 

His breath ghosted against his skin, every press patient, reverent, professional.

 

They’d worked together often enough to fall into rhythm easily, to move with the camera and each other.

 

But Todoroki barely felt it.

 

Because in his head—

 

The mouth wasn’t Midoriya’s.

 

It was Bakugo’s.

 

Todoroki’s breath hitched without warning.

 

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to stay here, to stay present, to feel the soft drag of Midoriya’s lips as they reached his navel.

 

But it didn’t help.

 

His mind betrayed him.

 

He thought of Bakugo’s mouth—smirking, sharp, hot and loud.

 

He imagined it moving lower, not reverent but demanding, biting just to leave a mark, saying something infuriating like, “Look at you. Already losing it.”

 

He imagined the grip of Bakugo’s hands on his thighs.

 

The heat of his breath.

 

The sound he’d make when he knew Todoroki wanted him.

 

“Shoto?” Midoriya’s voice floated up from somewhere south of his waistband. “Still with me?”

 

Todoroki blinked down at him, flushed and guilty.

 

Midoriya’s eyes were warm, concerned, kind. Too kind.

 

Todoroki offered a weak smile. “Sorry.”

 

Midoriya leaned forward, cupping his face. “You’re not feeling it today.”

 

Todoroki’s throat worked.

 

He didn’t answer.

 

Midoriya just nodded, understanding. “You wanna stop? It's okay if you do.”

 

Todoroki looked away.

 

And for the first time in a long time, he whispered, “Yeah.”

 

*

 

After work, Bakugo’s apartment was quiet.

 

Not the peaceful kind of quiet. Not the meditative, post-shoot, light-a-candle-and-breathe-it-out kind.

 

No. This was the kind of quiet where the walls felt too close and the thoughts in his skull wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

 

He stood under the shower until the water ran lukewarm, scrubbing down with practiced efficiency.

 

Routine was comfort. Routine kept the brain busy.

 

But tonight, even the steam couldn’t fog up the mental image of Todoroki standing too close, smelling like bergamot and Earl Grey tea, staring at him with that goddamn calm face while saying no like it was a perfectly reasonable answer.

 

Bakugo towel-dried his hair like it owed him money.

 

He ate dinner standing over the counter—rice, eggs, and blistered green peppers, too spicy for most people but not nearly enough to distract him.

 

The smell was still in his nose.

 

Not the peppers.

 

Him.

 

Bakugo sat down with a grunt, bowl in one hand, chopsticks tapping against ceramic.

 

And then, like a man possessed by every bad decision he’d ever made, he grabbed his phone and opened the private app.

 

The one only performers had access to. Full resolution, full access to their own catalogs—and those of their rivals.

 

It wasn’t stalking. It was research.

 

Professional curiosity.

 

He typed in Todoroki, Shoto.

 

The screen flooded with thumbnails.

 

Bakugo stared.

 

There were more videos than he expected.

 

Solo shoots. Partnered scenes. Blond partners. Redheads. A rare one with a woman.

 

One with Kirishima, which made Bakugo groan under his breath and scroll faster.

 

His thumb hovered over a video labeled “Snow & Sweat.”

 

The thumbnail was Todoroki on his back, shirt halfway open, arms above his head, one hand gripping the edge of a sheet like he was trying not to come undone.

 

Bakugo clicked it.

 

Just for research.

 

The video started slow—music low, lighting warm.

 

Todoroki sat on a wide window ledge, bathed in afternoon light, sleeves rolled up and legs spread as another performer kissed down his chest.

 

His eyes were half-lidded. Breath shallow. He arched his back when the partner sucked on his neck.

 

Bakugo exhaled, jaw tightening.

 

Todoroki’s mouth parted.

 

He let out a soft sound—barely audible, but sharp. Controlled.

 

Like even his moans had discipline.

 

Bakugo swallowed hard.

 

His food sat forgotten on the table, cooling.

 

The video kept going.

 

Todoroki’s hips rolled up to meet a hand, his voice catching.

 

His fingers tangled in someone else’s hair, and for the briefest second—just a flicker—his expression cracked.

 

Eyes fluttered open. Lips trembled.

 

Need.

 

Bakugo blinked.

 

Paused the video.

 

He set the phone down on the table like it was about to detonate.

 

He sat back in his chair, breathing slow and heavy, heat crawling down his spine like a warning shot.

 

“Fuck,” he muttered.

 

Because now it wasn’t just about the contract.

 

It wasn’t even about pride.

 

It was about wanting.

 

About what it would feel like to be the one Todoroki arched under.

 

To pull that perfect composure apart piece by piece.

 

To see him crack—not for the camera. Not for the script.

 

For him.

 

Bakugo stared at his phone like it had personally betrayed him.

 

Then leaned forward.

 

Unpaused the video.

 

“Shit,” he said again, softer this time. “I’m in trouble.”

 

***

Chapter 4

The next morning, Bakugo tried to go about his day as usual.

 

The second Bakugo stepped into the studio, he knew something was up.

 

The air felt different. Like it had been replaced with tension and cologne and the faint scent of expensive smoke machines.

 

Assistants moved around faster than usual, adjusting lights, re-taping cords, prepping backdrops like they were setting the stage for a play—and not the kind with a happy ending.

 

He rounded the corner to find Enji waiting outside his office, arms crossed, smile tight.

 

“Good timing,” Enji said.

 

“I wasn’t late,” Bakugo muttered.

 

“I didn’t say you were,” Enji replied smoothly, then gestured for him to follow. “Got something to run by you.”

 

Bakugo fell into step beside him, boots thudding across the tile. “What now? Another contract?”

 

“Actually no,” Enji said, “our favorite runaway is still dodging mine.”

 

Bakugo didn’t need clarification. “Shoto.”

 

“Refuses to sign. Still.”

 

Bakugo rolled his eyes. “Shocking.”

 

Enji smirked. “But. He did agree to appear in Nectar—you know, that explicit quarterly? Studio spread, double-page interview, fan service included.”

 

Bakugo blinked. “Todoroki’s gonna be in that?”

 

Enji nodded. “Magazine’s doing a special on top-tier stars in the area. They’re here today shooting the whole spread. Using our beautiful studio downstairs.”

 

Bakugo crossed his arms. “So?”

 

“So,” Enji said, in that deeply fake casual tone he always used when he was setting something up, “they’ve still got some slots open. Kaminari’s already on board. Thought you might want to hop in too.”

 

Bakugo snorted. “Since when do I do group features?”

 

“Since you realized your image could use a little variety. Since you said you liked a challenge. Since I’m offering you the centerfold if you show up shirtless and play nice.”

 

Bakugo raised an eyebrow. “Centerfold, huh?”

 

Enji shrugged. “Think of it as networking. A chance to meet a few new faces.”

 

Bakugo paused. Considered it.

 

Todoroki, half-naked in his studio.

 

Fan buzz. Studio buzz. Magazine buzz.

 

And him, right in the middle of it.

 

“Fine,” Bakugo said, already cracking his knuckles. “Tell them I’m in.”

 

Enji didn’t smile. But he definitely smirked.

 

*

 

Thirty minutes later, Bakugo was in wardrobe, stripped to his jeans, flexing in front of a mirror while an assistant rubbed highlighter down his collarbones.

 

Kaminari leaned against the wall behind him, laughing into his water bottle. “You know this is a trap, right?”

 

Bakugo scowled at him. “What?”

 

“This. Todoroki. Shirtless photos. You getting all oiled up for a group feature? Classic bait-and-thirst combo.”

 

Bakugo didn’t respond.

 

Mostly because the sound of Todoroki’s voice had just drifted in from the hallway.

 

Low. Even. Distracted.

 

Bakugo didn’t move a muscle—but his eyes snapped to the door like a predator hearing footsteps in the dark.

 

Kaminari caught the look and grinned. “Damn, you're down bad, huh? You’re so screwed.”

 

Bakugo cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders once, and muttered, “Not yet.”

 

*

 

The studio lights cast a warm golden wash over the set, soft but dramatic—like the late afternoon sun through half-open blinds.

 

The bed was styled with dark velvet sheets. A matching chair sat off to one side, draped in rich red fabric. The air smelled faintly of powder and sweat and hairspray.

 

And in the middle of it all stood Todoroki.

 

He wore black silk pants low on his hips, nothing on top.

 

His skin gleamed faintly under the lights, one arm raised to run fingers through his hair as the other hovered lazily at his waistband.

 

The camera clicked.

 

Again.

 

Again.

 

Each flash caught him in a different mood—cool detachment, soft tension, casual power.

 

He didn’t move much. He didn’t need to. His whole body told a story without trying.

 

Or… without appearing to try.

 

From the far wall, Enji stirred—silent, arms crossed, eyes fixed.

 

Todoroki didn’t look at him right away. Just held his pose, fingers still at his waistband.

 

Then, without turning: “Can you leave?”

 

A few heads lifted. The photographer blinked.

 

Enji didn’t move.

 

Todoroki’s voice stayed calm, almost bored. “I’m not thirteen anymore. You don’t need to supervise me. It's a little creepy, if you think about it.”

 

That one hit.

 

Enji’s mouth flattened, but he said nothing. Just turned and walked out, boots heavy against the floor.

 

Todoroki adjusted his stance like nothing had happened. Ran a hand through his hair. The camera clicked again.

 

All heat and control and not a flicker of discomfort.

 

Across the room, Bakugo walked in with Kaminari, laughing at something the assistant director said—but the second his eyes landed on the scene, he went dead silent.

 

He stood near the back, arms crossed, chin tilted like he wasn’t watching at all.

 

He was absolutely watching.

 

Todoroki didn’t look at him, no matter how much Bakugo wanted him to.

 

Todoroki just arched his back a little more.

 

Turned his head, lips slightly parted.

 

Let his fingers drift just below his waistband like he was contemplating sin.

 

The camera shutter went off five times in a row.

 

“Beautiful,” the photographer said. “Hold that tension in your jaw—good, now relax your lips, just a little more—perfect.”

 

Todoroki exhaled slow and even.

 

Right into Bakugo’s last nerve.

 

Kaminari leaned over, grinning. “You okay, buddy?”

 

“I’m fine,” Bakugo snapped.

 

“You sure? You've got that look on your face. Not sure if I should be scared or not.”

 

“I said I’m fine.”

 

“Okay, okay. Just let me know before you start foaming at the mouth.”

 

Before Bakugo could fire back, the photographer called out: “Alright, let’s get Midoriya in here for a few. We want soft chemistry. Intimate, not aggressive.”

 

Midoriya jogged on set, already shirtless, all shy smiles and friendly waves.

 

Bakugo made a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a death threat.

 

Todoroki still didn’t look at him.

 

And when Midoriya slid behind him and placed two careful hands on his hips, Todoroki’s body shifted—not to resist. To respond. Just slightly.

 

The camera clicked again.

 

Midoriya leaned in. Whispered something in Todoroki’s ear.

 

Todoroki smiled.

 

Not big. Not obvious.

 

Just enough to ruin Bakugo’s whole week.

 

Kaminari snorted under his breath. “You’re so not fine.”

 

Bakugo rolled his neck, cracking his knuckles one at a time. “It’s okay,” he said, voice low. “Everyone gets a turn.”

 

And when his turn came? He’d make damn sure Todoroki forgot every other hand that had ever touched him.

 

*

 

The moment Bakugo stepped in front of the camera, the tone of the room shifted.

 

He wasn’t posing. He wasn’t even trying.

 

He just stood there—bare chest gleaming under the lights, arms flexed at his sides, lips parted like he’d just been interrupted mid-growl—and everyone in the room sat up straighter.

 

The photographer murmured something that sounded suspiciously like, “Jesus Christ.”

 

Kaminari leaned against a lighting rig off-set, grinning. “That’s our feral prince.”

 

Bakugo ran a hand up his stomach, slow and cocky. The flashbulbs popped like gunfire.

 

He changed positions with ease—knee propped on the velvet chair, head thrown back, hand tangled in his own hair.

 

And then—

 

“Alright,” the stylist called. “Outfit change for Todoroki—black briefs, clean oil. We’re gonna bring him back out for the pairing.”

 

Bakugo raised an eyebrow. “Pairing?”

 

The stylist responded shortly. “Enji called it a screen test.”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer.

 

Because Todoroki had just walked out.

 

And every conversation on set stopped.

 

He wore nothing but tight black briefs, subtle shimmer dusted across his collarbones, and the cool detachment of a man who could dismantle you with a glance.

 

He looked like sin in a luxury catalog.

 

Ice in lingerie. Regret wrapped in silk.

 

And he was walking straight toward Bakugo.

 

Todoroki stepped onto the platform beside him. Close, but not touching.

 

They faced each other.

 

Stared.

 

The camera crew was silent, adjusting focus.

 

Todoroki cleared his throat. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

 

Bakugo tilted his head. “You sound disappointed.”

 

“I’m not. Just… surprised.”

 

Bakugo’s mouth curved. “You worried?”

 

Todoroki gave him a flat look. “Just to be clear, anything that happens right now is me being a good actor. Not me agreeing to anything.”

 

Bakugo stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You always act with your tongue on someone’s neck? Or just when you're focused on feeding your ego with awards?”

 

Todoroki didn’t blink. “I'm not going to apologize just because you're intimidated by my success.”

 

The director snapped his fingers. “Alright, let’s shoot. Gentle hands, eyes on each other, heat—but keep it artistic. Let’s see some angles.”

 

Bakugo reached out first—his palm settling low on Todoroki’s back.

 

He could feel the heat radiating off him, skin warm beneath a thin sheen of oil.

 

His thumb dragged lightly over the dip of Todoroki’s spine.

 

Todoroki’s fingers came up to rest against Bakugo’s jaw, just to slide down a little further.

 

One stroke down his throat. One soft press to his collarbone.

 

The photographer gasped. “Hold that—good, yes—damn.”

 

The room had gone silent. Even Kaminari had stopped chewing his gum.

 

The two of them moved like magnets—tense, deliberate, controlled.

 

Their bodies curved together naturally, like some divine geometry had planned it.

 

Bakugo bent slightly, head brushing Todoroki’s shoulder, lips just shy of skin.

 

Todoroki let his head tilt back, lashes low, one leg shifting to slot alongside Bakugo’s.

 

The camera clicked.

 

Flashed.

 

Clicked again.

 

Every shot was a painting.

 

Every breath was a dare.

 

And they knew it.

 

Todoroki met Bakugo’s eyes again, and for a half-second, everything was stripped bare—no studio, no cameras.

 

Just heat.

 

And want.

 

And you’re in my space, and I don’t hate it.

 

Bakugo smirked.

 

Todoroki didn’t smile back.

 

But he didn’t step away, either.

 

***

Notes:

Omg yall this sexual tension is thick enough to spread on toast - I have so many ideas for this one lol, glad y'all are enjoying it <3

Chapter 5

Notes:

Yall I am loving this story as much as you are lol.

Wrote another chapter for us to enjoy, so here ya go. Little double update today ;)

The shoot ended to the sound of scattered applause.

 

Not the polite kind.

 

The stunned, slow-building kind that happens when everyone just collectively witnesses something they weren’t emotionally prepared for.

 

A tech assistant near the back muttered something like “Jesus Christ I need a cigarette,” and a stylist fanned herself with a lighting diffuser.

 

Todoroki stepped off the set first, tugging a robe around his waist.

 

His face was calm. His hands were steady. But his skin buzzed like static.

 

Bakugo followed a moment later, cracking his neck like he’d just walked off a battlefield.

 

Neither of them looked at each other.

 

Not until the photographer called, “Hey, you two—come check this out.”

 

Bakugo frowned. “What for?”

 

“Preview shots,” she said, already scrolling through the digital gallery on her tablet. “Couple of them are absolutely killer.”

 

Todoroki approached first. Bakugo lingered a step behind, arms crossed.

 

And then they saw it.

 

Shot after shot—angles perfect, skin glowing, expressions caught in that precise sliver between hunger and restraint.

 

Todoroki’s lips parted, Bakugo’s hand low on his back. Bakugo’s head dipped near Todoroki’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded and dark.

 

Together, they didn’t look posed.

 

They looked completely natural. Ethereal.

 

Todoroki stared at the screen for a moment too long.

 

Beside him, Bakugo’s fingers flexed once. Twice.

 

“They’re…” the photographer said softly, “…kind of unreal. Like, potential cover photo stuff. Studio’s gonna flip.”

 

Todoroki said nothing.

 

Bakugo muttered, “It’s the lighting.”

 

The photographer smiled. “Sure it is.”

 

Another swipe.

 

Another photo—Todoroki looking down at Bakugo, a ghost of something almost vulnerable in his expression.

 

Bakugo’s lips pressed against Todoroki’s shoulder, hand curled possessively around his hip like he meant it.

 

Bakugo stared. Swallowed hard.

 

“Just acting.” His voice wasn’t fooling anyone—not even him.

 

*

 

The preview images glowed from the tablet screen like forbidden fruit.

 

Shot after shot—angles perfect, skin luminous, tension so thick it practically steamed off the glass.

 

Bakugo and Todoroki side by side, body heat like gravity.

 

Fingers pressed. Eyes locked. Jawlines like weapons.

 

But it was the last one that hit like a freight train.

 

Todoroki on his knees.

 

Head tilted up, lips parted just slightly.

 

Bakugo stood over him—one hand curled under Todoroki’s jaw, thumb resting lightly on his bottom lip.

 

Not forceful. Not demanding.

 

Just there.

 

A touch like a question he already knew the answer to.

 

Bakugo didn’t remember doing that.

 

But the look in his own eyes—caught in perfect lighting—was unmistakable.

 

Possessive. Hungry.

 

Todoroki looked up at him like he didn’t want to breathe unless Bakugo said he could.

 

Bakugo stared at the image like it had peeled his ribs open.

 

He leaned in slightly, voice low, just for Todoroki. “You look so fuckin’ good on your knees.”

 

Todoroki’s breath hitched.

 

Just slightly.

 

His shoulders tensed—but he didn’t pull away. Not right away.

 

For a moment, he just stared at the screen.

 

Then he turned. Fast.

 

He didn’t say anything to Bakugo. Didn’t look back.

 

Just muttered quiet thanks to the photographer, to the lighting crew, to the wardrobe assistant still coiling cords near the wall.

 

And then he disappeared into the dressing room.

 

Bakugo watched the door for a beat too long.

 

Then followed.

 

*

 

Inside, the room was quiet. Fabric rustled. Shoes scraped lightly against tile.

 

Todoroki was halfway into his jeans, shirt draped over a chair. He glanced up when Bakugo stepped in, jaw tight.

 

Neither of them spoke for a minute.

 

Just dressing.

 

Just tension.

 

Just that image still burning behind both of their eyes.

 

Bakugo pulled his shirt over his head. “You sure you’re not reconsidering?”

 

Todoroki’s hands paused at the buttons of his shirt.

 

Then he exhaled—short, sharp, tired. “I don’t know what your deal is,” he said, voice calm but biting. “If this is about winning, or proving something, or stroking your own ego—fine. Do what you want.”

 

Bakugo straightened.

 

“But for me?” Todoroki continued. “This isn’t a career. It’s not a ladder. I’m not chasing fans or awards or headlines.”

 

His eyes locked with Bakugo’s, steady and quiet.

 

“I’m just trying to pay my mom’s medical bills. I’m trying to keep her in a good place. A safe place. That costs more than I make in a year. So yeah, I’m doing this—for now.”

 

He shrugged his shirt on, fingers moving with steady, practiced precision.

 

Todoroki continued, “But I also need to be able to sleep at night. And I can’t do that if I’m selling myself to the highest bidder just because the paycheck’s bigger.”

 

Bakugo didn’t say anything.

 

Couldn’t.

 

Todoroki buttoned the last button on his shirt and looked at him, gaze flat but not cruel. “I’m not trying to be rude. I'm flattered, and I know we've got great chemistry. But I'm just trying to survive right now.”

 

Then he grabbed his bag.

 

And left.

 

Bakugo stood there alone, the dressing room quiet except for the distant murmur of the crew outside.

 

He thought about stopping him. But nothing he could say felt like it would help.

 

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled hard, and muttered under his breath, “…Shit.”

 

*

 

The studio was still stretching awake when Todoroki walked in the next morning.

 

Lights warming up. Crew sipping coffee. Someone down the hallway was already rehearsing low dialogue for a scene that hadn’t started yet.

 

Todoroki was tired.

 

He hadn’t slept much.

 

The image of Bakugo’s hand on his chin—gentle, possessive, like a claim—kept flashing through his brain every time he closed his eyes. And worse than that?

 

He didn’t hate how it made him feel.

 

He was halfway to wardrobe when he heard it:

 

“Todoroki. Office.”

 

Aizawa’s voice. Low. Gravelly. Dread-inducing.

 

Todoroki turned, sighed, and changed course.

 

*

 

Aizawa was seated at his desk with a paper cup of coffee and the dead-eyed stare of a man who had been watching half-naked actors fake orgasms since 7 AM.

 

The contract sat in the middle of the desk.

 

Again.

 

Todoroki didn’t even sit down.

 

“Are you serious?” Todoroki started, jaw already tightening.

 

Aizawa raised a hand. “Look at it.”

 

Todoroki scoffed, crossing his arms. “It’s not going to change anything.”

 

“It might,” Aizawa said.

 

Todoroki’s eyes flicked down.

 

Same studio letterhead. Same thick folder. Same exhausting print.

 

But then—his brow furrowed.

 

The payment section was different.

 

And the signature line on the bottom already had a name.

 

Bakugo Katsuki.

 

Aizawa sipped his coffee. “He signed it last night. But there’s a note in the margin to change the payment distribution.”

 

Todoroki leaned in, eyes scanning the scrawl written in sharp, aggressive pen strokes:

 

"All proceeds—including royalties and licensing are to be given solely to Shoto. —BK"

 

Todoroki stared at the words like they might burn through the paper.

 

Aizawa spoke again, quieter this time. “He’s not getting paid a cent. Everything goes to you. The studio doesn’t even get to touch it until after you’ve been paid out. Both studios.”

 

Todoroki’s throat went tight.

 

He stepped back slowly.

 

He should’ve felt relieved.

 

Elated.

 

Grateful, even.

 

But instead, his chest ached like something sharp had slid between his ribs.

 

He sat down hard in the chair across from Aizawa.

 

Ran a hand through his hair, and muttered, “Do you have his phone number?”

 

Aizawa didn’t flinch.

 

Just slid a sticky note across the desk.

 

Todoroki took it.

 

Folded it once, twice, and tucked it in his pocket.

 

*

 

He didn't call until later that night.

 

Bakugo didn’t answer the first time his phone rang.

 

Or the second.

 

By the third call, he was standing shirtless in his kitchen, drinking water straight from the tap like hydration might save him from himself.

 

He grabbed the phone off the counter, checked the caller ID—and nearly choked.

 

Todoroki.

 

Bakugo stared at the screen for three full seconds.

 

Then he swiped to answer and muttered, “Didn’t think you’d actually call.”

 

Todoroki’s voice came through, calm and cold. “Are you out of your mind?”

 

Bakugo scratched the side of his jaw. “Little late to ask that.”

 

“I saw the contract.”

 

“Yeah, figured.”

 

“You gave me everything.”

 

Bakugo opened the fridge. Closed it again without grabbing anything. “So?”

 

“So why?”

 

Bakugo wandered over to the window. The city looked smug beneath him. “Marketing.”

 

Todoroki blinked. “What?”

 

Bakugo leaned on the glass. “You and me. Same shoot. Same spread. Same damn firestorm online. You know how much buzz we’ve stirred up with the rumors flying around?”

 

“That’s not—”

 

“I’m leveraging it,” Bakugo cut in. “Big name, bigger image. Your fans eat this shit up. Mine do too. Studio wins, I win, and you—” he paused, “—well. You get a paycheck. Everyone’s happy.”

 

Todoroki was quiet. Then he said, “That’s bullshit.”

 

Bakugo grinned faintly. “Is it?”

 

“You didn’t even tell anyone. You didn’t post. Didn’t tweet. No announcement. You just… signed.”

 

Bakugo’s voice dropped. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t know what I was doing.”

 

“But why wouldn't you want a paycheck?”

 

“I didn’t say that.”

 

“You literally did.”

 

“Maybe because it’s a cleaner story that way,” Bakugo snapped. “You get the payout, I get the attention. The fame. Everyone loves a selfless bastard, right?”

 

Todoroki exhaled slowly. “You don’t know how to do anything without turning it into a fight, do you?”

 

Bakugo laughed under his breath. “Only way I know how to win.”

 

“You didn’t have to do this.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You could’ve just walked away.”

 

“Yeah,” Bakugo said, quieter. “But I didn’t want to.”

 

Todoroki didn’t answer.

 

For a second, the silence felt like a cliff.

 

Then—

 

“I haven’t said yes yet,” he murmured.

 

Bakugo smiled. “You called me.”

 

“I called to ask if you’d lost your mind.”

 

“And?”

 

“I'm still not a hundred percent sure.”

 

Bakugo laughed again, low and surprised.

 

“Get some sleep,” Todoroki said.

 

“You too, pretty boy.”

 

And then the line went dead.

 

But Bakugo didn’t stop smiling for a long time.

 

***

Chapter 6

Notes:

Alright y'all the wait is over

I really flexed on this one - can't wait for you to read it haha

it's about to get STEAMYYY prepare yourselves lol

The parking lot outside Aizawa’s studio was quiet. A few scattered cars. Early sun glinting off windshields.

 

The hum of distant traffic like background noise in a life Todoroki didn’t really live.

 

He sat in the driver’s seat of his car, half-listening to the end of a morning news segment on the radio while he waited until the last minute to go inside to clock in.

 

His phone rang.

 

He answered without thinking.

 

“Mr. Todoroki?” came a bright, professional voice. “This is admin from Sekai Rehabilitation Center. We’re following up on your mother’s most recent billing statement.”

 

Todoroki blinked once. “Is there a problem?”

 

“No, not a problem exactly. But the recent treatment adjustment requires a larger monthly deposit. We processed your last payment, but we’ll need to discuss an increase in your payment plan in the future.”

 

Todoroki stared at the dashboard.

 

“We just wanted to give you a heads-up. There’s no penalty—yet—but the schedule for her next sessions may shift without the next deposit.”

 

“Okay,” he said.

 

“Would you like to arrange payment now?”

 

“No. I’ll handle it when I get off work.”

 

“Of course! Thank you, and we appreciate your prompt attention.”

 

The call ended with a cheerful chime.

 

Todoroki lowered the phone. Stared at the screen for a second.

 

Then scrolled to another number.

 

Enji.

 

He tapped call.

 

The line rang. Once. Twice. Then—

 

“What?” came Enji’s voice. Tired. Irritated. Like he’d been interrupted during something important.

 

“They're asking for more money,” Todoroki said calmly. “The hospital.”

 

A pause. The click of a lighter. The faint exhale of smoke.

 

“You’re still paying for that?”

 

Todoroki didn’t answer.

 

Enji sighed. “You know she has other options.”

 

“She doesn’t,” Todoroki replied, sharper now. “Not ones that won’t destroy her progress.”

 

“Well, I’m not footing the bill for your pride, Shoto.”

 

Todoroki’s grip on the phone tightened.

 

“You’re a rising star, aren’t you?” Enji went on. “Fan favorite. Camera darling. If you’re going to put yourself on display, at least make it profitable.”

 

“I’m not doing it to be profitable.”

 

“Then you’re doing it wrong.”

 

Todoroki went very still.

 

“You think this is about rebellion,” Enji continued, voice low. “It’s not. You’re playing a role, just like everyone else. The difference is, I’d make sure you got paid well for it.”

 

Todoroki’s jaw locked. “I’m not asking you for your studio. Or your opinion. I'm asking you to help out your family.”

 

“You’re asking me for money,” Enji replied. “And I don’t give handouts to people who walk out.”

 

There was a long silence.

 

Then Todoroki spoke—flat, quiet, lethal. “Thanks for the reminder.”

 

He ended the call.

 

No goodbyes. No emotion.

 

Just a quiet thud as he dropped his phone onto the passenger seat and opened the car door.

 

The sun was a little too bright now. The coffee in the cup holder had gone cold.

 

Todoroki stepped out, slammed the door behind him, and crossed the parking lot.

 

*

 

Todoroki marched into Aizawa’s office like a man heading to war.

 

The contract was already waiting.

 

So was Aizawa, sitting behind his desk with a lukewarm cup of tea and the ghost of a smirk. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”

 

Todoroki ignored the comment. “I’ll sign it.”

 

Aizawa raised a brow.

 

“But I have one condition.”

 

“I’m listening.”

 

“We film here. Not at Enji's studio. My father stays out of it.”

 

Aizawa nodded once. “Done.”

 

Todoroki picked up the pen and signed his name in smooth, deliberate strokes.

 

Just like that, it was real.

 

The biggest scene of his career.

 

Locked in.

 

*

 

The next afternoon, the studio hummed with low activity—lighting crews checking angles, gaffers setting up rigging for possible standing shots, a velvet chaise lounge being wheeled into the center of the room like it was a throne.

 

Todoroki stood with his arms crossed, eyes scanning the set like he might still change his mind.

 

“Nice place,” a voice said behind him.

 

Todoroki didn’t turn.

 

“Wasn’t sure you’d actually go through with it.”

 

Now he turned.

 

Bakugo strolled in with the confidence of a man who had never once doubted he'd win.

 

He wore jeans, a sleeveless hoodie, and a grin that said he was already imagining Todoroki in several compromising positions.

 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Todoroki said coolly.

 

“Oh, I’m not thanking you,” Bakugo said, hands on his hips as he surveyed the room. “I’m just thinking about where I’m gonna bend you over.”

 

Todoroki blinked once. Then looked away. “Charming.”

 

Bakugo gestured toward a sleek ottoman near the window. “That one looks good. Could get a solid grip on your hips with the right angle.”

 

Todoroki rolled his eyes. “You really don’t turn it off, do you?”

 

“Why would I?” Bakugo shot back. “You hired me to be hot and annoying. I’m just maximizing efficiency.”

 

“I didn’t hire you. You volunteered to lose money and be a menace.”

 

Bakugo grinned. “And you signed the contract. So maybe you’re into it.”

 

Todoroki sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Remind me why I didn’t run when I had the chance?”

 

“Because you like the view,” Bakugo said smugly, gesturing to himself.

 

Todoroki turned and walked toward the vanity station. “I'm gonna need to request a blindfold.”

 

Bakugo followed after him, hands in his pockets. “You’re gonna request a lot more than that by the time I’m done.”

 

Todoroki stopped walking.

 

Just for a second.

 

He didn’t turn around.

 

But Bakugo caught the way his shoulders tensed. Just enough to register. Just enough to prove he’d heard every word.

 

*

 

The cameras weren’t rolling yet.

 

But the set was lit like a painting—warm sunlight through fake windows, gold bouncing off Bakugo’s shoulders as he stood shirtless by the ottoman, wearing nothing but low-slung black pants and tension.

 

Todoroki stood across from him, buttoning the last clasp on a dark, silky robe, his torso bare underneath.

 

They didn’t speak for a moment.

 

Lighting crew moved around them, checking angles.

 

Aizawa stood off to the side with a clipboard and a look that said try not to kill each other.

 

Finally, Todoroki broke the silence. “Don't hit me.”

 

Bakugo scoffed. “I’m not stupid.”

 

Todoroki nodded once. “Nothing in my mouth unless I say so.”

 

Bakugo rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

 

“No breath play.”

 

“Anything fun allowed?” Bakugo muttered.

 

Todoroki ignored him. “And don’t kiss me.”

 

Bakugo blinked. His voice dropped. “What?”

 

Todoroki looked him dead in the eye. “No kissing. Not on the mouth.”

 

Bakugo folded his arms across his chest, muscles tight. “You’ve kissed, like, every actor in this building. That last Sero scene? That one with Midoriya on the balcony? You’ve got entire compilation videos.”

 

“Congratulations on your research,” Todoroki said, completely unbothered.

 

Bakugo’s jaw clenched. “So what the fuck?”

 

Todoroki shrugged. “Those are my rules.”

 

Something bitter curled in Bakugo’s throat. “Fine.”

 

Aizawa’s voice called out from the monitors. “Alright. Ready in five.”

 

Bakugo turned to the camera crew, jaw tight, blood already hot in his veins. Todoroki adjusted the hem of his pants under his robe, eyes calm, unreadable.

 

God, he was infuriating.

 

He made no sense.

 

And somehow—somehow—it only made Bakugo more attracted to him.

 

“Camera speed,” someone called.

 

“Sound rolling.”

 

“Scene mark.”

 

Aizawa looked up from his monitor. “Whenever you're ready.”

 

Bakugo didn’t hesitate.

 

He didn’t walk. He surged forward.

 

Fists curling in Todoroki’s robe, he shoved him backward—hard—into the wall beside the window.

 

The set thudded slightly from the impact, lights practically flickering as Todoroki’s back hit the flat with more force than necessary.

 

His eyes flashed with something like surprise.

 

Bakugo leaned in, breath hot at his jaw.

 

“You said no kissing,” Bakugo growled, voice low enough to make the boom mic dip closer. “Didn’t say anything about manhandling.”

 

Todoroki’s chest rose against him. “No,” he said, voice soft and sharp, “I didn’t.”

 

Bakugo’s hand slid to Todoroki’s waist—tight, rough, controlling. Their foreheads almost touched.

 

Camera flash bounced off the sweat beginning to form at the base of Todoroki’s throat.

 

Aizawa said nothing. The crew said nothing.

 

Because the moment was blistering.

 

Bakugo didn’t kiss him.

 

But god, he wanted to.

 

*

 

The moment Bakugo slammed Todoroki into the wall, the room changed.

 

The crew went still.

 

Even the camera guys—jaded veterans who’d filmed everything from tender kisses to people getting railed on treadmills—froze behind their lenses like they knew something real was happening.

 

Bakugo’s hand curled in the front of Todoroki’s robe, yanking it open with one rough tug.

 

The fabric slid down Todoroki’s shoulders, baring his chest and throat.

 

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

 

Todoroki just whispered, lips right against Bakugo’s ear, “Might get boring if roughness is your only setting.”

 

Bakugo almost snarled at him.

 

He grabbed Todoroki by the hips and spun him, slamming him chest-first into the set’s windowpane.

 

The glass shuddered but held. Todoroki’s breath caught—just audible enough for the mic to pick up.

 

Bakugo’s mouth dropped to his neck, biting hard—not to kiss, not even to mark.

 

To claim.

 

Todoroki gasped.

 

Bakugo’s teeth grazed his shoulder, then lower. Back. Side. Hip.

 

Every inch of skin except his mouth.

 

Especially his mouth.

 

Todoroki gritted his teeth.

 

His hands dug into the faux windowsill in front of him as Bakugo pushed him forward just enough to press his hips against the curve of Todoroki's ass.

 

“Don't be a brat,” Todoroki hissed. “Don't chew on me like a toy just because I said something you didn't like.”

 

Bakugo dragged his fingers down Todoroki’s back. “I’m not. I'm doing this because your body is begging for it.”

 

Todoroki turned his head over his shoulder, breathing hard. “Begging? You must be imagining things.”

 

“Oh, yeah?” Bakugo muttered, grabbing his jaw, yanking his head back. “Then stop making those fucking noises.”

 

Todoroki moaned. Deliberate. Dramatic.

 

It echoed across the set.

 

One of the assistants gasped.

 

Bakugo’s hand tightened. “You little shit.”

 

“That's right,” Todoroki rasped, voice low and wicked. “Let them hear how much you want me.”

 

Bakugo didn’t hesitate.

 

He shoved Todoroki forward—palms flat against his back, driving him down onto the ottoman.

 

Todoroki hit the soft velvet surface chest-first, his body folding over it like he’d done this before. His knees spread instinctively, thighs open, arms bent beneath him for balance.

 

Bakugo’s hands moved fast—down Todoroki’s waist, under the band of his pants, peeling them off with unceremonious heat. Todoroki kicked them away blindly, letting the last of the fabric fall like it didn’t matter.

 

Bakugo followed immediately, pinning him with his weight. One knee wedged between Todoroki’s, his other foot planted firmly behind for leverage.

 

He didn’t give Todoroki time to reset, to regain control—he gripped his hips and flipped him with practiced force, Todoroki's back hitting the cushion, legs hooked over the edges, wide and waiting.

 

Todoroki let himself be manhandled like a rag doll—flexible, willing, taunting, and now staring up at Bakugo with more trust than he felt Bakugo deserved.

 

Bakugo paused—just for a second—hovering above him like he couldn’t decide where to touch first.

 

His eyes dragged down Todoroki’s body, slow and greedy, like he was trying to memorize the layout of sin. “Fuck,” he muttered, voice low and reverent. “Look at you.”

 

Todoroki was breathing heavily, staring up at him just waiting to be touched. Anywhere, and hopefully everywhere.

 

Then Bakugo grinned. Sharp and dangerous. “Laid out like a goddamn gift.” He leaned in, breath hot against Todoroki’s throat. “And it’s not even my birthday.”

 

Todoroki turned his head, hiding half his face in the crook of his arm. His cheeks were pink.

 

Not from shame.

 

From the way Bakugo looked at him. Like he meant it.

 

Todoroki exhaled slowly, eyes lidded, lips curled in something between a smirk and a dare. “You sound impressed,” he murmured. “Didn’t realize your standards were so low.”

 

Bakugo laughed—low, wicked, delighted. He leaned in again, voice rough in Todoroki’s ear. “You really don’t get it, do you?” he said, almost too quiet. “You’re fucking beautiful.”

 

The words landed heavier than either of them expected.

 

Todoroki blinked. Just once. Bakugo’s hand faltered on his thigh.

 

Then Bakugo cleared his throat, gruff and fast, like the moment hadn't happened.

 

“Still a brat, though,” Bakugo murmured, and shoved Todoroki's legs further apart. “Guess I’ll have to fuck that attitude right out of you.”

 

And just like that, the tension snapped back to where it belonged—white-hot and blinding.

 

Bakugo only made eye contact with him one more time, just to check, as he lined their hips up and slowly pushed his cock inside.

 

Bakugo didn’t just dominate the scene—he commanded it. His hands mapped every inch, mapping Todoroki’s ribs, his hips, the soft skin just beneath his navel.

 

His movements were precise. Powerful. Designed to punish, to ravage—but never cross a line.

 

And Todoroki played his part like a damn Oscar was on the line.

 

Arching just enough. Breathing just loud enough. Smiling like a man who knew exactly how to be ruined.

 

“There you go,” he breathed, voice low and lazy, hands curling into the cushion. “Make a mess of me.”

 

Bakugo slammed into him again—slow, deliberate, devastating.

 

Todoroki arched with it, back bowing off the ottoman, shoulders trembling with restraint.

 

Todoroki moaned louder. “Oh, fuck, yes—just like that, don’t stop—”

 

Bakugo’s mouth was on him again—at his throat, then lower.

 

Sucking hard enough to leave a trail of blooming bruises down his collarbone, his chest, his ribs, his stomach. His skin was flushed, slick with heat and sweat, and Bakugo kissed everywhere.

 

Everywhere but his mouth.

 

Their eyes met once, during a lull—Bakugo looming above him, panting. Todoroki flushed and wrecked but still grinning like the devil, propped up on his elbows now, one thigh still slung around Bakugo’s hip.

 

Bakugo hovered closer, lips ghosting near but never touching. “Tell me what else I’m not allowed to do,” he murmured, voice low.

 

Todoroki’s smile widened, slow and infuriating. “Why?” he breathed. “So you can break every rule?”

 

Bakugo’s smirk deepened. His hand slid back up Todoroki’s thigh, possessive and shameless. “No,” he said. “So I can make you beg me to.”

 

And just like that, they were back in motion—tension snapping, breath colliding, control unraveling by the inch.

 

*

 

Bakugo had Todoroki right where he wanted him.

 

Sprawled. Breathless. Bruised just enough to count. One hand gripping the velvet edge of the ottoman, the other twisted in Bakugo’s hair like it was the only thing anchoring him.

 

Everything was heat and rhythm and quiet gasps now, the scene reaching its peak.

 

And then—suddenly—Todoroki moved.

 

Fast.

 

He shoved Bakugo backward, hard enough to knock him off balance.

 

Bakugo hit the couch behind them with a surprised grunt, hands instinctively catching on the frame.

 

Before he could speak, Todoroki climbed into his lap.

 

One knee on either side of Bakugo’s hips. Straddling him. Towering.

 

He leaned forward, palm flat against Bakugo’s chest, pushing him back until his spine hit the cushions.

 

“Stay,” Todoroki said, voice low and controlled.

 

Bakugo froze.

 

Not out of obedience.

 

Out of shock.

 

Todoroki adjusted his knees. He lined them up again—hips aligned, chests nearly touching, Todoroki’s hair falling forward like a curtain over his eyes.

 

Then he sank back down on Bakugo’s cock with agonizing precision, slow and steady, like he was making a point.

 

He watched Bakugo’s face the whole time.

 

And what a view it was.

 

Bakugo’s mouth parted in a silent curse, head tipping back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut as a groan ripped from his throat.

 

Todoroki rolled his hips once—just once—and Bakugo’s hands shot out, gripping Todoroki’s thighs like he needed an anchor or he might fall straight through the floor.

 

“Oh, fuck,” Bakugo gasped, breathless.

 

Todoroki leaned in close, lips brushing Bakugo’s jaw. “That mouth of yours finally running out of things to say?”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His whole body was tense—lit from the inside like a live wire.

 

Todoroki dragged his mouth down the edge of Bakugo’s jaw, then bit gently at his throat—not hard, but enough to make Bakugo arch beneath him, hips jerking up in a helpless reflex.

 

“You look hot when you shut up,” Todoroki whispered.

 

And for once, Bakugo did.

 

The camera caught it all.

 

Todoroki riding slow and deep, hair falling across his eyes, Bakugo’s hands sliding up his waist, gripping, worshipping, desperate for more.

 

But it wasn’t the movement that told the story.

 

It was Bakugo’s face.

 

Because in that moment, his eyes stopped trying to hide anything.

 

He wasn’t acting. Not anymore.

 

Those eyes were wide open.

 

Worshipping.

 

Wanting.

 

So loud they didn’t need sound.

 

So raw it made the crew forget how to breathe.

 

And Todoroki felt it.

 

He felt every inch of it.

 

He didn’t smirk.

 

Didn’t gloat.

 

He just held Bakugo’s stare.

 

And for one, dangerous moment, the scene almost felt real.

 

***

Chapter 7

Todoroki didn’t move fast.

 

He rolled his hips again—slow, deep, and deliberate—grinding down with just enough pressure to keep Bakugo gasping.

 

And then he did it again.

 

And again.

 

A maddening rhythm. Just slow enough to be cruel.

 

Just controlled enough to keep Bakugo pinned beneath him, jaw tight, fists clenched on Todoroki’s thighs.

 

Bakugo arched—tried to thrust up—but Todoroki’s hand snapped to his chest, flat and firm, pressing him down into the cushions.

 

“I said stay,” Todoroki murmured.

 

Bakugo’s breath hitched. He stilled.

 

But his hands curled tighter around Todoroki’s legs, fingers twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to squeeze or beg for forgiveness.

 

Todoroki rolled his hips again.

 

Bakugo moaned.

 

Low. Strangled.

 

His head tipped back, throat bared, sweat glistening along the column of it.

 

His mouth opened, but nothing came out—just broken breathing and the ghost of a curse.

 

Todoroki leaned forward, lips brushing his ear. “You want to move?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You desperate?”

 

Bakugo gritted his teeth. “Yes.”

 

“Then beg.”

 

A beat passed. Two.

 

Bakugo didn’t speak.

 

Didn’t need to.

 

Because his eyes said it all—glassy with restraint, jaw clenched like it might snap, fingers digging into the couch like they could anchor him to earth.

 

But Todoroki waited.

 

Poised above him. Unshaken.

 

Until—

 

“…Please.” The word was rough. Barely audible. Ripped from the back of Bakugo’s throat like it hurt to say.

 

But Todoroki didn’t move.

 

Didn’t flinch.

 

He just stared down at him, unimpressed.

 

“Speak up,” Todoroki said, cool as frostbite. “Didn’t hear you.”

 

Bakugo’s jaw flexed.

 

His grip on Todoroki’s thighs tightened—white-knuckled, like he could squeeze the shame away.

 

His eyes flicked to the camera for just a split second, then back to Todoroki.

 

He wanted to fight it.

 

Wanted to shove him off and retake control like he always did.

 

Wanted to never have to say that word again.

 

But the way Todoroki was looking at him—calm, steady, waiting—it wasn’t a challenge.

 

It was a promise.

 

And Bakugo felt it like heat behind his ribs.

 

Todoroki rolled his hips just once—barely.

 

Just enough to make Bakugo jolt like a live wire, his breath punching out in a growl.

 

“Try again,” Todoroki whispered. “Let me hear you.”

 

Bakugo’s head dropped back against the couch, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a sprint.

 

Then—

 

“…Please,” he said again, louder now. “Please, Shoto. I want to move. I—fuck—I need to.”

 

Todoroki paused for just a second longer.

 

Then smiled. Not smug. Not cruel.

 

Just satisfied.

 

Like he’d been waiting to hear it all along.

 

“Go ahead, baby,” Todoroki murmured.

 

And Bakugo did—with a growl and a shudder, his hips snapping up so hard the couch nearly bucked beneath them, his hands flying up to drag Todoroki down, down, down into the fire they’d both lit and refused to put out.

 

They moved together, now.

 

Equal parts surrender and conquest.

 

And still—still—not a single kiss.

 

Just eye contact.

 

Just heat.

 

Just everything but softness.

 

Todoroki’s rhythm stayed steady—but his hands had started to tremble.

 

Just barely.

 

Not enough for the camera to see.

 

But Bakugo felt it.

 

Felt the shift in his weight, the tension in his thighs.

 

The way his breath hitched—not from dominance, but from something that felt dangerously close to feeling something more than he was ready to handle.

 

Bakugo’s own hands slowed, sliding up Todoroki’s sides.

 

He let his fingers press against his ribs, his chest.

 

Not to grope, not to grab—just to feel him breathe.

 

“You’re doing so good,” Bakugo murmured, so quiet only Todoroki could hear.

 

Todoroki didn’t answer.

 

His eyes were glazed now—still locked on Bakugo’s, but softer. Frayed.

 

Bakugo lifted one hand to Todoroki’s cheek, knuckles brushing over flushed skin. “You’re so pretty up there,” he whispered.

 

Todoroki’s mouth parted like he wanted to speak—but no words came.

 

Instead, he rolled his hips one more time, and this time, the movement wasn’t sharp or punishing. It was slow. Needy.

 

And Bakugo met it—gently.

 

Steady.

 

Matching him now, not leading. Not forcing. Just following the rhythm Todoroki gave him, like it was the only thing anchoring them both.

 

Bakugo didn’t stop him.

 

Didn’t tease.

 

Didn’t say another word.

 

He just held him. Let him move. Let him feel whatever he needed to feel.

 

And for a minute—maybe less, maybe more—they weren’t acting at all.

 

*

 

Todoroki moved once more, slower now, rhythm unraveling like thread slipping from a spool.

 

His breath was ragged, skin flushed and slick, control splintering at the edges.

 

And then, quietly, without warning, he lifted himself off Bakugo’s lap and collapsed forward.

 

Not to pull away. But to fall against Bakugo’s chest.

 

He buried his face against Bakugo’s shoulder, breathing hard, heartbeat racing between them like something wild.

 

His body trembled slightly, from exhaustion, from relief, from something he wasn’t quite ready to name.

 

Bakugo didn’t push him away.

 

He didn’t tease him.

 

Instead, carefully—so carefully—he wrapped his arms around Todoroki’s shoulders, palm sliding gently up the curve of his spine.

 

He tilted his head down, and pressed a single, quiet kiss into Todoroki’s hair. “Fuck, you were amazing,” he murmured, voice low enough that only Todoroki could hear. “So fucking good.”

 

Todoroki didn’t speak. Didn’t lift his head. But his breathing evened out, softened, as he pressed just a fraction closer.

 

Bakugo turned his head, meeting the crew’s stunned, wide-eyed gazes. “Alright, we’re done,” he said, voice rough but clear. “Cut it. That’s enough for today.”

 

No one argued.

 

Aizawa gave a single, slow nod from the back of the room. “You heard him. Wrap it up.”

 

Bakugo’s hand moved slowly, gently rubbing circles into the skin of Todoroki’s back.

 

Neither of them moved for a long moment, bodies still tangled, heartbeats syncing quietly in the silence that fell across the set.

 

“You’re heavy,” Bakugo murmured finally, but there was no bite behind the words.

 

Todoroki huffed softly against his chest. “And you’re rough.”

 

But Bakugo felt him smiling against his skin.

 

He couldn’t help it—he smiled too, faintly, his thumb tracing an idle, reassuring pattern between Todoroki’s shoulder blades.

 

They’d crossed a line today.

 

Not just physically, but somewhere deeper—somewhere neither of them had expected to go.

 

They weren’t exactly friends. Weren’t exactly lovers. But here, right now, in this quiet aftermath, they were something else entirely.

 

Something dangerous. Something soft.

 

Bakugo let out a long, low exhale and brought a hand to the back of Todoroki’s neck. He didn’t squeeze.

 

He just held him there.

 

“You okay?” he murmured, voice rough with more than just effort.

 

Todoroki didn’t lift his head. “Yeah.”

 

Bakugo shifted, pressing a kiss—soft, slow, not for the camera—to Todoroki’s bare shoulder.

 

“You did a great job,” he said against his skin.

 

Todoroki’s breath caught.

 

He didn’t know what he expected after that kind of scene.

 

Cocky comments, maybe.

 

A smirk.

 

A muttered ‘You liked that, didn’t you?’

 

Not… this.

 

Not praise whispered gently between panting breaths.

 

Not warm fingertips still resting on his waist, grounding him. Not kindness.

 

Bakugo gave him another moment, then shifted underneath him. “Hold on,” he said, patting Todoroki’s thigh once. “Don’t move yet.”

 

Todoroki blinked as Bakugo gently moved him off his lap and stood, rolling his shoulders once before heading toward the edge of the set.

 

A minute later, he returned—with Todoroki’s robe draped over one arm and a clean towel in the other.

 

“Here,” Bakugo said, tossing the towel first, then stepping in to help slide the robe over Todoroki’s shoulders like it was second nature.

 

Todoroki stared at him.

 

Bakugo didn’t meet his eyes. “Wasn’t too rough, right?” he asked gruffly, fingers adjusting the fabric. “I got a little—into it.”

 

Todoroki cleared his throat. “No. It was… it was good. Great.”

 

Bakugo’s jaw ticked, but he nodded.

 

Bakugo finally looked up. “I didn’t cross a line?”

 

Todoroki opened his mouth to say of course not—to say you were a monster but it worked—but the words got stuck.

 

Because Bakugo looked worried.

 

Not just professionally.

 

Genuinely.

 

Like he cared whether he’d gone too far.

 

Todoroki adjusted the robe across his chest, slowly. “You were intense.”

 

Bakugo raised an eyebrow.

 

Todoroki gave the barest hint of a smirk. “But you didn’t kiss me. Didn't cross any of my lines. That's all I really cared about.”

 

Bakugo rolled his eyes. “Not for lack of temptation.”

 

That pulled a tiny exhale from Todoroki—something between amusement and surprise.

 

Bakugo looked like he was about to say something else.

 

But the crew began moving again—loud, sudden, and back to work like nothing had happened.

 

Someone called for water bottles. Someone else for towels. A few whispered to each other.

 

Todoroki watched them scatter, then turned back to Bakugo. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

 

Bakugo stilled. Then smirked—just a little. “Don’t get soft on me now.”

 

Todoroki shook his head. “You started it.”

 

*

 

The next day, Todoroki took his time coming in to work.

 

He didn't sleep very well. He couldn't get that scene out of his head.

 

And today certainly wasn't going to help, because Aizawa had asked him to head to the editing room to double check some of the shots from the video.

 

The editing room smelled like too many hours of coffee and compressed audio files when he walked in.

 

The lighting was low, screens flickering with footage so hot it made one of the interns nearly short-circuit their external drive.

 

And in the middle of it all sat Bakugo Katsuki.

 

Half-lounging in a rolling chair, arms crossed, eyes locked on the massive monitor as the crew scrubbed through the raw footage from yesterday’s scene. 

 

Todoroki’s voice was a breathy, broken thing through the speakers.

 

Bakugo’s fingers twitched. “Back it up five seconds,” he muttered to the editor, leaning forward. “Right before he climbs into my lap. Yeah—there. That face. Zoom in on it.”

 

The editor nodded, obedient and a little terrified.

 

Bakugo smirked.

 

The door opened behind them.

 

Todoroki stepped into the doorway, still in his coat, hair tousled like he hadn’t bothered styling it yet.

 

He blinked once, then leaned against the doorframe. “Who let you in?”

 

Bakugo didn’t look away from the screen. “Your boss asked me to stop by. Enji agreed, wanted me to approve this shit since you won't let him have any control over it.”

 

Todoroki walked in slowly, stopping just behind him.

 

Onscreen, the scene played in slow motion—Todoroki climbing into Bakugo’s lap, fingers curling against his chest, their bodies slotting together like gravity had planned it.

 

Todoroki’s eyes were locked on the screen.

 

He didn’t blink.

 

“You look so good here,” Bakugo said softly, pointing to a moment where Todoroki arched, head tossed back, lips parted. “Right there. Look at that face.”

 

Todoroki’s heart didn’t stop, but it definitely stumbled.

 

He stared for another moment. Then turned to Bakugo, voice smooth. “Leave the editing team alone.”

 

Bakugo leaned back in his chair like he had all the time in the world. “Just giving helpful notes.”

 

Todoroki raised an eyebrow.

 

Bakugo stood slowly, stretching once before leaning down beside the editor and murmuring, “Zoom in on his face during that part. Right when he takes control. Close. I want to see every breath.”

 

Todoroki sighed, turned, and walked back into the hallway.

 

It was too early in the morning for this much porn and authority.

 

Bakugo followed him out. Obviously.

 

They walked side by side for a few seconds—silence stretching between them like a cord pulled taut.

 

Todoroki’s eyes flicked to Bakugo’s neck.

 

The bruises were visible even under his hoodie—dark, blooming along his throat and collarbone like they’d been painted there.

 

Todoroki’s voice was quieter this time. “Sorry. For the bruises.”

 

Bakugo scoffed. “I’m not.”

 

Todoroki looked at him.

 

Bakugo shrugged. “You should’ve seen my inbox this morning. Studio’s already calling it the most electric performance of the year. Everyone wants to know when the next scene is scheduled for.”

 

Todoroki rolled his eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”

 

Bakugo smirked. “Is it?” He paused just before they turned the corner. “‘Cause I'm excited for the next one too.”

 

*

 

Midoriya’s apartment smelled like curry and warm rice.

 

Steam curled from the bowls on the low table between them, and Todoroki sat cross-legged on the floor in one of Midoriya’s borrowed hoodies, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back.

 

Soft lighting. Rain tapping the windows. The kind of quiet that felt earned.

 

“Are you sure you don’t want another soda?” Midoriya asked, reaching for his own cup. “I think there’s still ginger ale—”

 

“I’m fine,” Todoroki said, taking another bite of rice. “This is good.”

 

Midoriya smiled. “Thanks. I used the recipe Uraraka’s mom sent me. She said I needed more spice in my life.”

 

Todoroki hummed. “That checks out.”

 

They ate in comfortable silence for a few more minutes, the kind of easy rhythm you only get with someone who’s seen you half-naked and crying at least once.

 

Then—Todoroki’s phone buzzed.

 

Then again.

 

And again.

 

And again.

 

Todoroki didn’t look at it.

 

Midoriya did. “…Do you need to check that?”

 

“I don’t want to,” Todoroki said flatly.

 

But the buzzes didn’t stop.

 

A second later, Midoriya’s own phone lit up on the counter.

 

He stood to grab it, glanced at the screen, and blinked. Hard. “Oh.”

 

“What?”

 

“The studio just posted your video.”

 

Todoroki sighed, already unlocking his phone.

 

The thumbnail alone was chaos: him in Bakugo’s lap, hair tousled, body arched, hands clinging to those ridiculous arms.

 

Bakugo had one hand splayed possessively on his thigh, the other buried in Todoroki’s hair, looking like the physical embodiment of “mine.”

 

Todoroki’s feed was already flooded.

 

Fan tweets. Screengrabs. Edits. Hot takes.

 

@XxVoltxGodxX: wish somebody would throw me around like that

 

@half_and_halfwife: he looks so GORGEOUS and malleable and soft i’m going to SCREAM

 

@kacchanspitfire: the CONTROL. the POWER. never seen bakugo so unhinged.

 

Todoroki immediately muted his notifications.

 

Midoriya sat back down, quietly pushing another dumpling into Todoroki’s bowl. “You okay?”

 

Todoroki took a breath. “It’s fine. I knew it would blow up.”

 

Midoriya tilted his head. “I mean… Are you okay?”

 

Todoroki glanced at him.

 

Midoriya looked worried. Really worried.

 

“If he was too rough,” Midoriya said softly, “you can tell me. I’ll talk to Aizawa. Or—I don’t know, anyone. I just want to make sure you don’t—regret it. Especially since the contract still has a few more scenes in it.”

 

Todoroki poked at his food for a moment. Then shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t regret it.”

 

Midoriya studied him.

 

Todoroki sighed. “I needed the money. I got it.”

 

“And Bakugo?”

 

Todoroki didn’t answer right away.

 

His fingers tapped lightly against his bowl, and then—

 

“He was…” Todoroki hesitated. “Surprisingly amazing.”

 

Midoriya’s brows shot up. “Amazing?”

 

Todoroki shrugged.

 

Midoriya grinned. “Wait. Did you like him? You enjoyed it?”

 

“I didn’t say that.”

 

“You kinda did.”

 

Todoroki picked up another dumpling and popped it in his mouth like that would somehow silence the blush climbing his ears.

 

Midoriya leaned in, teasing. “You like him.”

 

Todoroki, mouth full: “Shut up.”

 

Midoriya laughed and grabbed his phone again. “Well. Apparently, the internet agrees. You two just broke a bunch of fan pages and crashed the studio’s website.”

 

Todoroki rolled his eyes and reached for another bite.

 

But behind it all, behind the half-lidded gaze and the quiet chewing, there was something else.

 

A smile.

 

Because he knew how special Bakugo had made him feel. Not that he could ever say it out loud.

 

But he knew.

 

***

Chapter 8

The gym smelled like metal, sweat, and bad decisions.

 

Kirishima was benching something heavy.

 

Kaminari was pretending to do crunches but mostly just laying on a yoga mat texting thirst traps to his entire contact list.

 

Bakugo was sitting on the edge of a workout bench, elbows on his knees, sweaty tank top sticking to his chest—watching porn.

 

No, seriously.

 

“Dude,” Kirishima said between reps. “Are you watching that video again?”

 

Kaminari immediately sat up like a meerkat. “Wait—is he?! You are!”

 

Bakugo didn’t look up. “Shut up.”

 

Onscreen, Todoroki was on top of him, hair a little messy, mouth parted just slightly, hands planted firmly on Bakugo’s chest as he rolled his hips in slow, deliberate rhythm.

 

Bakugo exhaled slowly through his nose, thumbing the pause button. “Right here,” he said, holding the phone out to them like it was holy scripture. “Look at that. Look how fuckin' hot he is.”

 

Kaminari blinked. “Dude.”

 

“I'm serious,” Bakugo pointed. “That’s not acting. That’s power. That’s—”

 

“That’s totally your I've got a crush face,” Kirishima said cheerfully from the bench press.

 

Bakugo snapped his head around. “What?”

 

Kaminari immediately started laughing. “Oh my god. It is! You’re simping in 4K.”

 

“I am not!”

 

“You’re pausing porn to admire his bone structure!”

 

“It’s not porn, it’s footage.” Bakugo scowled, stabbing at the screen again. “And look at it. You're gonna tell me this man isn't perfect?”

 

Kaminari stared at him.

 

Kirishima racked his weights and sat up. “Kugo.”

 

“What.”

 

“Buddy.”

 

“What.”

 

“You've got the hots. So bad.”

 

Bakugo stood up like that might help. “I do not. I don’t do that shit. I don’t catch feelings. It was just a scene. He’s hot. That’s it.”

 

Kaminari grinned. “He’s hot and?”

 

Bakugo pointed aggressively. “That’s it.”

 

Kirishima leaned in, grinning like a man who’d seen Bakugo punch a vending machine but never blush this much. “You like him.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“You find him attractive.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“I've never heard you call another man 'perfect' in my entire life.”

 

“So?”

 

Kaminari threw a towel at him. “Bro. It’s okay. You can say it. We’re your friends. Just admit it.”

 

Bakugo stared at them both.

 

Then looked back down at his phone.

 

Todoroki was moaning again. Hands tangled in Bakugo’s hair. Eyes glassy, mouth open.

 

Bakugo’s thumb hovered over the screen.

 

He didn’t hit pause this time.

 

“…Shut up,” he muttered.

 

*

 

A few days passed.

 

The bruises faded first.

 

Then the fan reactions slowed, shifting from tidal wave to a dull, persistent buzz in the background.

 

The retweets became edits. The edits became compilations. The compilations became analysis videos with titles like “Todoroki: A Study in Controlled Submission.”

 

Todoroki muted all of them.

 

By the fourth day, he’d almost—almost—convinced himself he was over it.

 

It was his day off.

 

He spent the morning visiting his mother, reading to her from a novel she liked, walking with her through the facility’s garden.

 

She’d smiled more than usual. It made something soft bloom in his chest.

 

He brought her new sketching pencils.

 

He stayed longer than planned.

 

He left feeling like he'd done something right.

 

By the time he got home, the sun was low and the apartment was quiet.

 

He dropped his keys in the bowl by the door, pulled off his shoes, and—without thinking—checked his phone.

 

Big mistake.

 

Bakugo’s studio had posted again.

 

Four new scene teasers.

 

One of them featured Bakugo.

 

And Kirishima.

 

Todoroki’s thumb hovered over the thumbnail.

 

It wasn’t jealousy, he told himself. Just… curiosity. Professional curiosity. Research.

 

He clicked it.

 

It opened with Bakugo leaning over Kirishima on a sleek leather couch, all dark shadows and heavy breathing.

 

Kirishima was shirtless, already flushed. Bakugo looked—well. Like himself.

 

Commanding. Powerful. Smirking like he owned the world.

 

And Todoroki couldn’t look away.

 

He told himself he was watching Kirishima. He told himself it was a technical evaluation.

 

But his eyes never left Bakugo.

 

The way his jaw tensed as he leaned down. The way his hand slid low, steady and confident.

 

The way his voice dropped—quiet, cocky, rough.

 

Todoroki felt it in his teeth.

 

He paused the video halfway through and set the phone face-down on the table.

 

He stared at the wall.

 

Then ran a hand through his hair.

 

“This doesn’t bother me,” he said out loud, to no one.

 

It echoed.

 

Like a lie.

 

He stood up, went to the kitchen, and started making tea.

 

He didn’t check the video again.

 

But he thought about it all night.

 

And every time he did, he saw Bakugo’s hands.

 

Not on Kirishima.

 

On him.

 

*

 

The dressing room was too bright, too loud, and reeked of body spray.

 

Bakugo walked in with a protein bar in his mouth and a gym bag slung over his shoulder, ready to change and ignore everyone as usual—only to find Kaminari and Ojiro hunched over a phone, eyes wide, grinning like idiots.

 

He rolled his eyes. “Seriously? Are you idiots watching porn before your shoot?”

 

“It’s not porn,” Kaminari said, dead serious. “It’s Shoto.”

 

Bakugo blinked.

 

Paused.

 

Chewed once.

 

Then slowly walked over, swallowing the last of his snack. “What?”

 

Ojiro held the phone out. “New scene. Just dropped this morning. Him and Sero. It’s kinda insane.”

 

Bakugo didn’t mean to look.

 

He really didn’t.

 

But he heard it.

 

A sound—low, desperate, a little cracked.

 

Familiar.

 

Todoroki’s moan.

 

And Bakugo turned his head.

 

The video was already mid-scene—Todoroki flat on his back, shirt open, hair fanned across dark bedding as Sero hovered over him, hand wrapped gently—intimately—around Todoroki’s throat.

 

Bakugo’s stomach dropped.

 

The image flickered, light shifting as Sero leaned down and kissed him.

 

Todoroki responded easily.

 

Eyes fluttered. Hips arched.

 

Kaminari hit pause.

 

Bakugo’s voice came out quiet. “…Is that new?”

 

Ojiro nodded. “Yeah. Posted, like, three hours ago.”

 

Bakugo’s jaw ticked.

 

His whole body buzzed—low and hot and wrong.

 

Because Todoroki had rules.

 

No choking. No kissing on the mouth.

 

And now— Here he was.

 

Letting Sero do all of it.

 

Bakugo took a step back like the air had turned sour.

 

He didn’t say anything.

 

Didn’t snatch the phone.

 

Didn’t punch a wall.

 

He just stood there.

 

Watching.

 

That soft hand around Todoroki’s throat. That parted mouth. That kiss.

 

Kaminari blinked up at him. “You okay, dude?”

 

Bakugo grit his teeth.

 

Didn’t answer.

 

He turned around.

 

Walked out of the dressing room.

 

And spent the next ten minutes standing alone in the hallway, arms crossed, jaw locked, trying to figure out why his chest felt like it was trying to cave in.

 

He’d known it wasn’t exclusive. He'd known he didn't own Todoroki, and Todoroki was free to make his own decisions.

 

But this?

 

This felt like something else.

 

Like rejection.

 

Like he hadn’t been good enough to earn those parts of Todoroki.

 

And now someone else had them.

 

He didn’t even realize he’d pulled his phone out until he was halfway through Todoroki’s studio feed.

 

Looking for the timestamp.

 

Looking for anything.

 

Still telling himself he didn’t care.

 

And absolutely, undeniably lying.

 

*

 

A few hours later, Aizawa’s voice was flat as ever. “You both agreed to three scenes. The first was a success. So. We’re due for the second.”

 

Todoroki nodded once from across the desk, calm and cold in his usual way. His legs were crossed, a clipboard balanced against one knee, and not even a twitch of emotion on his face.

 

“Any timeline in mind?” he asked.

 

“End of the week. Earlier, if possible. We’ll use our studio again, like you and I discussed.”

 

Todoroki nodded, already scribbling notes.

 

Bakugo wasn’t there yet.

 

And Todoroki was glad.

 

He didn’t want to deal with whatever smug attitude Bakugo might bring into the room. Not after that hallway smirk. Not after that video.

 

Not after the way Bakugo had looked at him last time—like he wanted to devour him and break the camera in the same breath.

 

Aizawa dismissed himself a few minutes later, leaving Todoroki alone to finalize the paperwork.

 

The door opened again.

 

Bakugo stepped in, hoodie sleeves shoved up, jaw set, mood already simmering just below a growl. “Let’s get this over with,” he muttered.

 

Todoroki didn’t look up. “Any scene preferences?”

 

“What?”

 

“For the next shoot,” Todoroki said, still writing. “You want to do something new? Bondage? Roleplay? Me on top?”

 

Bakugo blinked. His brain stalled for a second—Me on top—and then kicked into overdrive.

 

“I don’t mind,” he said quickly. “Whatever you want to do.”

 

Todoroki made a note on the form. “Fine. I’ll plan the first draft of the scene.”

 

He didn’t notice the shift in Bakugo’s stance. Not right away.

 

But then Bakugo’s voice came low. “What I want to do,” he said, “is get my hand on your throat.”

 

Todoroki froze.

 

“And kiss you.”

 

His pen stilled.

 

Todoroki looked up slowly, glare sharp. “You remember my rules.”

 

Bakugo’s mouth twitched—more snarl than smirk. “Yeah. I do. And I think they're bullshit.”

 

Todoroki stared him down.

 

Bakugo leaned in just slightly. “You told me no kissing. No choking. And then I watched that new scene,” He added, voice tightening. “The one with Sero.”

 

A flash of something flickered in Todoroki’s eyes. “You’re watching my scenes now?” he asked, tone teasing, eyebrows raised.

 

Bakugo didn’t blink. “Damn right I am.”

 

He stepped forward, knuckles pressing into the table between them.

 

“You let him pin you. Let him kiss you. Let him put his hand right here—” Bakugo’s fingers tapped his own neck. “And all I could think was—that should’ve been me.”

 

Todoroki’s jaw clenched. “We filmed a good scene. Why do you care?”

 

Bakugo huffed a laugh. “You’re seriously asking me that?”

 

“I’m asking why it bothers you.”

 

“Because you’re handicapping me,” Bakugo snapped. “You want a good scene? Then let me give you one. Let me leave you breathless. Shaking. Give me all of you, not just the sanitized, studio-approved version.”

 

Todoroki stood up, eyes narrow. “You think that scene with you was sanitized?”

 

“I think it was filtered,” Bakugo growled. “You gave him more than you gave me, and I’m the one still thinking about it every night. So if we’re doing this again—then give me a fucking chance.”

 

“Sero has been one of my intimate partners for years. Same with Midoriya. The set of rules I asked you to follow are rules for strangers. Because that's what you are. You're from a different studio, and I haven't known you that long. But you expect me to feel some sort of guilt for not feeling safe with your hands around my neck?”

 

“I'm asking you to trust me. It's not like I'm some random Tinder hookup. I'm a goddamn professional.” Bakugo searched his eyes for a second, and then added, “You could at least fuckin' kiss me.”

 

Silence stretched between them.

 

Todoroki stared, breath caught, heart somewhere in his throat.

 

And then— He picked the pen back up.

 

“Fine,” Todoroki said. “No more filters.”

 

Bakugo’s chest rose sharply.

 

“But the second you cross a line,” Todoroki added, meeting his gaze, “I walk.”

 

Bakugo’s smile was slow and wolfish. “I won't.”

 

*

 

Todoroki was just starting to stir the miso when his phone rang.

 

He glanced at the screen.

 

Bakugo. Great.

 

His finger hovered for half a second. Then he answered, pressing the phone to his ear with his shoulder while he stirred.

 

“Hello?”

 

The voice on the other end came low. Rough. Dead serious. “Don’t film with anyone else this week.”

 

Todoroki nearly dropped the spoon. “Hm?”

 

“I’m serious,” Bakugo said, voice gravel and heat. “Don’t fuck anyone. Don’t kiss anyone. Don’t even look at a goddamn camera until Friday.”

 

Todoroki blinked, stirring the pot like his brain hadn’t caught up. “Why?”

 

“Because I want you desperate,” Bakugo said without hesitation. “I want you pent up. I want you crawling out of your skin by the time you walk into that studio. I want it to show on your face when I touch you.”

 

Todoroki’s stomach dropped. A slow, dangerous thrill pooled in his chest like something molten.

 

He switched the burner off.

 

“You can’t just—” he started, but Bakugo cut him off.

 

“You got to have your rules last time, so now it's my turn. For the quality of the scene,” Bakugo added, as if that made it professional. “That’s all.”

 

Todoroki scoffed softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

 

“I’m serious,” Bakugo growled. “Swear to me.”

 

Todoroki leaned against the counter, pulse skittering. “I have two scenes already scheduled this week,” he said carefully.

 

“Cancel them.”

 

Todoroki hesitated. “You want me desperate?” he said finally, voice low. “Then so are you. Nobody touches you until Friday.”

 

Bakugo was quiet for a beat. Then he said, “Done.”

 

The line went dead.

 

Todoroki stared at the phone.

 

At the cooling pot of miso.

 

Then at the wall, where the silence echoed around him like Bakugo’s breath still clinging to his ear.

 

He didn’t text anyone.

 

He didn’t reschedule the shoots.

 

He just turned the stove back on.

 

And tried not to think about Friday.

 

Tried, and failed.

 

*

 

Todoroki had a calm week after that.

 

Annoyingly calm.

 

He hated the way that the silence always made everything feel louder.

 

So he did what he always did. Worked.

 

He’d cleared his schedule, rescheduled his scenes, and politely declined every flirty message in his inbox with a single, dry thumbs-up emoji.

 

Nothing fazed him. Not even when Sero sent a winking selfie captioned “Miss me yet?”

 

He didn’t.

 

Not right now.

 

Because his focus had shifted.

 

Entirely.

 

He was going to top Bakugo.

 

And he was going to ruin him.

 

It started with a walkthrough.

 

Aizawa had reserved one of the larger studio sets for them—high ceilings, natural light, minimalist furniture. It wasn’t flashy, but it was intimate.

 

There was a low couch positioned near the back wall, a bench under a window, and the sort of lighting rig that could make sweat glisten just so.

 

Todoroki stepped onto the set alone, and imagined it.

 

Bakugo here.

 

Half-dressed. Or not at all.

 

Out of breath.

 

On his back.

 

Todoroki moved around the room.

 

Imagining angles. Planning shots.

 

He’d spent the past two nights scrolling through Bakugo’s video catalog—not for fun (mostly)—but to confirm a theory:

 

Bakugo Katsuki almost never let anyone else take control.

 

A few scenes hinted at it.

 

The occasional tease, a feigned moment of surrender. But full-on submission?

 

Never.

 

It made Todoroki smile to think about it. Challenge accepted.

 

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

 

He didn’t check it right away.

 

He finally pulled his phone out once he was done circling the room.

 

[Bakugo, 1:47 PM]: Hope you’re staying out of trouble, princess. Only a little longer before I ruin that attitude again.

 

Todoroki raised an eyebrow.

 

[Bakugo, 1:48 PM]: Don’t get too comfortable with the idea of being on top. We both know where you belong.

 

Todoroki stared at the screen for a beat.

 

Then he smirked.

 

[Todoroki, 1:50 PM]: You’re going to let me do things to you no one else ever has. Try not to cry about it.

 

The reply came five seconds later.

 

[Bakugo, 1:50 PM]: You wish. But go ahead and try.

 

Todoroki locked his phone and tucked it away.

 

He didn’t need to respond.

 

Not yet.

 

Friday would speak for him.

 

And Bakugo?

 

Bakugo wouldn’t be smirking for long.

 

***

Chapter 9

After work, Bakugo was lifting like the weights had personally offended him.

 

He’d already snapped a resistance band and scared off three people from the bench next to his.

 

Kirishima sat on the floor beside him, stretching and pretending not to be concerned. “You good, man?”

 

Bakugo didn’t look up.

 

Just grunted, pushing through another set of reps like he was training for a deathmatch. Shirt already damp, arms flexing with every motion.

 

Kirishima waited a beat. “You sure? ‘Cause you’ve been mumbling ‘let me top, my ass’ under your breath for like ten minutes.”

 

Bakugo slammed the barbell back into its rack. “It’s not even about that.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“It’s the way he said it,” Bakugo growled. “All smug. Calm. Like he’s got it all figured out. Like he’s not gonna lose his fucking mind when I flip the table and show him who—”

 

“—who’s really in charge?” Kirishima offered.

 

Bakugo glared at him.

 

Kirishima just smiled, annoyingly patient. “Dude. It’s okay to be nervous.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

Kirishima raised both eyebrows.

 

Bakugo wiped his face with a towel and huffed. “I just… I’ve never let anyone do that shit before. Not really.”

 

Kirishima leaned back on his hands. “Yeah. I know.”

 

Bakugo paused. “You do?”

 

“I mean, it’s kinda obvious. You’re the alpha of the entire industry,” Kirishima said, shrugging. “You set the pace. You dominate. You tie people up and wreck them in three angles of lighting. Hell, I've known you for years, and you still don't let me top.”

 

Bakugo snorted despite himself.

 

Kirishima grinned. “But Todoroki’s not like you. You try to break people. He’s probably just gonna… I dunno. Kiss your chest and whisper affirmations while gently ruining your life.”

 

“Fucking—shut up,” Bakugo muttered, heat crawling up his neck.

 

“All I’m saying is, maybe this isn’t a war,” Kirishima said, serious now. “Maybe it’s just… Someone wanting to see another side of you.”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer for a long time.

 

He tugged at the hem of his gym shirt. Looked away.

 

“…I can say no,” Bakugo mumbled. “If I want to.”

 

“One hundred percent. If you're not comfortable, there's no shame in that. You can absolutely say no.”

 

Another long pause.

 

Then Bakugo laughed. Dry. Rough. “But I’m not gonna back down from a challenge like that.”

 

Kirishima’s grin came back like the sun. “Didn’t think so. Even though I just got done saying it's not a challenge, but alright.”

 

Bakugo grabbed his water bottle and stood up, eyes sharper now. “If he wants to top,” he muttered, heading toward the punching bag, “he better earn it.”

 

*

 

The day of the second scene, Bakugo showed up fifteen minutes early.

 

Which, in his world, was like showing up an hour early, sweating through your shirt, and debating whether to fake your own death.

 

He wasn’t fidgeting.

 

He was assessing.

 

Totally normal stuff—walking the set, checking light angles, kicking the edge of the rug to see if it would trip him.

 

You know. Professional things.

 

Aizawa watched him from behind a cup of coffee, all deadpan disinterest and quiet judgment.

 

Bakugo cleared his throat. “So. This thing.”

 

“Yes,” Aizawa said.

 

Bakugo stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Todoroki’s really directing?”

 

“Mm-hmm.”

 

“He… does that now?”

 

“He’s trying it out. Wants to experience different aspects of the industry.”

 

Bakugo scowled. “And you’re letting him?”

 

“Of course. He storyboarded the whole scene and pulled the lighting plan himself.”

 

Bakugo blinked. “Storyboarded?”

 

“He sketched it out. It's important to him, I think. To direct. Enji didn't allow it at the other studio.” Aizawa shrugged. “It’s a little intense. But he’s… good. He's just as experienced as you, y'know.”

 

Bakugo stared at him.

 

Aizawa stared back, unbothered.

 

Then, as if on cue, the door opened.

 

Todoroki walked in.

 

Calm. Crisp.

 

Black jeans, black button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Hair half-tied.

 

Phone in one hand. Clip of notes in the other. Like he was walking into a Vogue shoot and not a sex scene.

 

He barely glanced at Bakugo before moving to the center of the room. “Lighting looks good,” he murmured. “I’ll want to adjust one of the side rigs. I want a good angle for when he bends forward on the couch.”

 

Bakugo nearly swallowed his own tongue.

 

Todoroki finally turned to him. “You walked the room already?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Good. Then you know where I want you.”

 

Bakugo’s eyebrow twitched. “You didn’t tell me where—”

 

“I’m going to,” Todoroki interrupted smoothly, already walking toward him.

 

He handed off the clipboard like a director on set.

 

“I want to use the bench, and probably the back of the couch. I’ll start slow. Use my hands on you for a bit. Maybe we end on the bed. You okay with that?”

 

Bakugo opened and closed his mouth.

 

Todoroki tilted his head, then softened slightly. “…Do you have any hard limits?”

 

Bakugo blinked. “I…” His voice faltered.

 

Todoroki waited.

 

Bakugo exhaled, and this time, he was softer. Less sure. “I don’t want it too rough,” he admitted.

 

Todoroki’s expression didn’t change.

 

“I mean—” Bakugo ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t pull me. Don’t hit me. Don’t push me down too hard. I don’t want any… bruises. And no bondage.”

 

He didn’t look at Todoroki when he said it.

 

But he felt Todoroki shift.

 

A beat of silence passed between them.

 

Then, Todoroki stepped a little closer. Not crowding. Just… nearer. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Then I won’t do any of that.”

 

Bakugo’s jaw tightened.

 

Todoroki looked at him for a moment longer—eyes softer now, more curious than smug.

 

Like he was finally seeing something real under all that growling bravado.

 

“You sure you want to do this?” Todoroki asked.

 

Bakugo’s answer came quick. “Yeah.”

 

Todoroki nodded once. “Then let’s do it right.”

 

*

 

Todoroki watched Bakugo sit on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, back rigid with tension.

 

He looked like he’d been caught in a spotlight—every muscle tight, every breath shallow.

 

This wasn’t the swaggering, cocky performer Todoroki had seen in video after video.

 

This was something else.

 

Something… real.

 

Todoroki glanced at Aizawa by the door and dropped his voice. “Leave a few cameras running,” he murmured. “Wide shots. One by the couch. One by the bed. Ottoman if you can angle it. Low lighting only.”

 

Aizawa raised an eyebrow. “No crew?”

 

“No one else. Just us.”

 

Aizawa held his gaze for a beat. Then nodded. “You're the boss.”

 

It took less than two minutes to set the cameras and dim the lights.

 

A gentle amber glow swept the room, softening the harsh edges and dropping shadows in all the right places.

 

Todoroki waited by the door until the last person left, then shut it behind them with a quiet click.

 

When he turned back around, Bakugo was still on the bed.

 

Still quiet.

 

Still trying not to look like he was counting the seconds until Todoroki came closer.

 

Todoroki didn’t waste time.

 

He stepped across the room in three long strides and dropped to his knees in front of him, fingertips brushing the hem of Bakugo’s shirt.

 

Bakugo flinched—just slightly—but didn’t stop him.

 

“Hey,” Todoroki murmured, voice lower now. “We can stop at any time. I mean that.”

 

Bakugo’s eyes flicked up, burning with that same fire as always—just buried now under nervous deflection.

 

Todoroki tugged gently at his shirt. “Lift your arms, please.”

 

Bakugo did.

 

The shirt slid off in one fluid motion.

 

Todoroki leaned in and kissed his chest once—soft and slow—before whispering, “I’m not gonna use any footage that you don't like. Promise.”

 

Bakugo swallowed nervously, but thanked him.

 

*

 

Todoroki was the first to move. Slow hand dragging down Bakugo’s chest like he was tracing a constellation only he could read.

 

Bakugo didn’t stop him—didn’t flinch, didn’t snap, didn’t bite. Just breathed.

 

His eyes flicked open for half a second, gaze locked on Todoroki’s.

 

Not defiant. Not cocky.

 

Just... watching.

 

And for once, letting himself be seen.

 

Todoroki’s touch drifted lower, every motion telegraphed before it landed.

 

His voice, when it came, was a breath at Bakugo’s throat. “If you get nervous, let me know. If anything feels wrong, you tell me.”

 

Bakugo’s throat worked around a swallow. “It won’t.”

 

“It might,” Todoroki murmured. “And that’s okay.”

 

Bakugo’s fingers curled in the sheets, jaw clenched like he wanted to argue—but didn’t. Not this time.

 

Instead, he whispered, “Okay.”

 

Todoroki leaned in again, lips brushing along Bakugo’s collarbone, light and careful.

 

Then Todoroki leaned in closer, lips brushing the edge of Bakugo’s jaw. “Did you prepare? Stretch out or anything?”

 

Bakugo huffed. “What do you think?”

 

“I think you like being thorough,” Todoroki said, deadpan but fond.

 

Bakugo rolled his eyes. “Stretched, cleaned, hydrated. Slept eight hours. Ate light. You think I’d walk in here half-assed?”

 

Todoroki smiled against his cheek. “Didn’t think you’d walk in here at all.”

 

Bakugo snorted, the tension in his shoulders finally starting to bleed away. “Yeah, well. I’m here. Don’t make me regret it.”

 

“You won’t,” Todoroki promised, low and certain.

 

And then he kissed him—gentle but sure—like he already knew Bakugo was going to let him in, and that he’d take good care of what he found there.

 

His hands roamed with more confidence now—his rhythm patient, coaxing, reverent in its slowness.

 

Bakugo’s head fell back against the pillow, breath catching with each shift of pressure.

 

He didn’t fight it. Didn’t hide from it. He let it happen.

 

Let himself be handled.

 

Let himself be held.

 

And Todoroki—who could’ve taken advantage, could’ve made a point, could’ve drawn blood just for revenge—chose instead to give.

 

He whispered soft praise against skin that had only known punishment.

 

“You’re doing so good.”

 

“You’re beautiful like this.”

 

“I’ve got you.”

 

And Bakugo—maddening, prideful, impossible Bakugo—believed him.

 

For the first time, he believed him.

 

He didn’t say anything back. Didn’t know how.

 

But when Todoroki’s hand laced gently with his, Bakugo held it.

 

*

 

Todoroki adjusted his grip, letting go of Bakugo’s hand only long enough to guide his hips higher, shifting their bodies until he could slide a pillow beneath Bakugo’s lower back.

 

He moved slowly, checking for resistance, but Bakugo didn’t fight him.

 

Just grunted and let him arrange him like a reluctant prince, limbs loose, jaw tight, cheeks flushed.

 

“You good?” Todoroki asked quietly, brushing a thumb along the inside of Bakugo’s thigh.

 

Bakugo nodded once. Then again, firmer. “Yeah. I just—don’t stop being like that.”

 

Todoroki blinked. “Like what?”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer right away. He looked up at the ceiling, then dragged his eyes back to Todoroki’s. “Y'know... Careful.”

 

Something flickered in Todoroki’s chest. He nodded, steady. “Anything you want, baby.”

 

Then he leaned down again, pressing a kiss to the sharp edge of Bakugo’s hip—soft, almost reverent.

 

And when he moved, it was slow. Measured. Designed not to overwhelm, but to coax—like he was unlocking something fragile.

 

Like the power wasn’t in taking, but in making Bakugo want to give.

 

Bakugo sucked in a breath as Todoroki’s body met his, a deep, steady push that had them both gasping—but not for the same reason.

 

Todoroki braced himself with a hand at Bakugo’s waist, the other sliding up his side, grounding him. “Still good?” he murmured.

 

Bakugo nodded again, more breath than voice. “Yeah. Keep going.”

 

Todoroki shifted, about to move—but paused.

 

Bakugo’s body had gone tense again.

 

His shoulders were tight, his thighs drawn just slightly inward. One of his hands had balled into the sheet so hard his knuckles had gone white.

 

Bakugo spoke up, “Wait—”

 

Todoroki froze. “Okay,” he said gently. “Tell me.”

 

Bakugo didn’t look at him. He stared at the ceiling like it might give him a script.

 

His voice came low, tight. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

 

Todoroki softened immediately. “That’s okay.”

 

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to act. I don’t know if I’m doing it right. I just…”

 

His chest hitched.

 

He finally glanced at Todoroki—and there was panic there, buried under the pride.

 

“I feel like I’m gonna mess it up,” he admitted, voice barely a breath. “And I don’t want to look fucking stupid.”

 

Todoroki leaned in slowly, brushing their foreheads together. His voice was calm, quiet, anchored. “Then we stop. Right now. If you want.”

 

Bakugo blinked. “What?”

 

“We stop,” Todoroki said again, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “We can cuddle. We can get food. We can burn the set to the ground. I don’t care. I don't want you to be uncomfortable and miserable.”

 

Bakugo’s lip twitched like he almost wanted to laugh—almost.

 

Todoroki kissed his jaw, soft as breath. “You don’t have to be anything but here. With me. But if you want to quit, we quit.”

 

Bakugo let out a shaky exhale. His hand released the sheet. “And if we keep going... You’re not gonna think I’m weak? Or lame... For not knowing what I'm doing?”

 

Todoroki shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “I think you’re brave as hell.” A pause. Then, quieter, “You're doing better than you think.”

 

Bakugo’s throat worked around a swallow. “Okay,” he said again—barely audible. “Just… Don’t stop talking to me.”

 

“I won’t.” Todoroki kissed him, slow and deep, and shifted forward again.

 

And Todoroki continued—rolling his hips with patience, watching every shift in Bakugo’s expression like it told a story only he could read.

 

He murmured praise between the kisses he laid across Bakugo’s chest and neck. “Just like that…”

 

Bakugo’s hands found Todoroki’s wrists—not to push, not to control. Just to hold.

 

Like he needed something to anchor to.

 

And Todoroki let him.

 

He curled his fingers between Bakugo’s, squeezed back, and didn’t break rhythm.

 

Not once.

 

They moved together like a tide—slow, building, emotional as it was physical.

 

Todoroki let Bakugo feel every part of it without needing to chase a climax or dominate the frame.

 

He wanted this to mean something.

 

For Bakugo to feel what he always gave to others—worship. Safety. Trust.

 

Bakugo’s breath hitched on the next thrust, his chest arching, eyes fluttering shut.

 

“You’re shaking,” Todoroki noticed, voice barely above a breath.

 

Bakugo swallowed hard. “I know.”

 

“You want me to stop?”

 

“No.”

 

“You want it slower?”

 

“…Maybe just—” Bakugo huffed. “Don’t stop talking.”

 

Todoroki’s brows lifted—surprised, but not mocking. “Okay,” he whispered. Then added, warmer, “You’re doing so well, baby.”

 

Bakugo turned his face away—but not before Todoroki caught the crack in his mask.

 

A flicker of emotion.

 

A blink too long to be anything but real.

 

And he kissed Bakugo's neck and said, so soft it barely caught on camera, “Let me take care of you.”

 

*

 

There was something in the way Todoroki touched him now.

 

Not practiced. Not rehearsed.

 

Like he was listening.

 

He kissed the underside of Bakugo’s jaw and waited for the twitch in his throat.

 

He dragged his palm across Bakugo’s stomach and paused when the muscles jumped.

 

Every touch was a question. Every reaction, an answer.

 

And Bakugo—Bakugo, who had built an entire persona around never needing anyone—answered.

 

He grunted when something felt good.

 

He moved closer when he wanted more.

 

He tangled his legs around Todoroki’s waist, let him in, let him guide, let him take the reins of a performance that didn’t feel like performing at all.

 

This wasn’t a scene anymore.

 

This was a study.

 

And Bakugo?

 

Was the thesis.

 

He’d always been strong. Always been the one doing the ruining. The one pressing others into soft beds and hard limits.

 

He’d carved a reputation into the bones of this industry—dominant, relentless, untouchable.

 

But now? Now, Todoroki was learning him.

 

The way his breath caught when fingers slid slow between his thighs.

 

The way his body arched not when it was forced—but when it was invited.

 

The sounds he made when pleasure edged past pride, when it stopped being something he could cage.

 

Todoroki moved with intention.

 

He didn’t want to break Bakugo.

 

He wanted to honor him.

 

And Bakugo let him.

 

Todoroki rocked into him again, deeper this time—his rhythm steady, unhurried.

 

A quiet hum rumbled in his throat at the way Bakugo arched, the way his body finally started to meet him halfway.

 

“That's it,” Todoroki murmured, voice low and reverent. “That’s what I wanted to see.”

 

Bakugo’s fingers clutched at his forearms now, not in protest but in need.

 

His hips rolled upward on instinct, the tension in his body shifting from defense to desire, pure and unfiltered.

 

His breath was coming in pants now—raw, gasping, needy—and the flush across his chest was blooming like heat lightning.

 

“You’re gorgeous like this,” Todoroki said, barely more than a breath. “You don’t even know, do you?”

 

Bakugo let out something between a growl and a whimper—his pride still trying to fight, even as his body surrendered entirely. “I know,” he grit out, but it was barely believable.

 

Todoroki bent low again, forehead brushing Bakugo’s, their lips not quite touching. “Liar,” he whispered. “But I’ll show you.”

 

And then—he changed the angle just slightly, and shifted the pace.

 

He adjusted slightly—angling his hips upward, pressing in at a deeper tilt—

 

Bakugo gasped. “Oh my god—”

 

“There,” Todoroki said, breath catching now too. “There it is.”

 

“Fuck—Shoto—” Bakugo’s head hit the pillow behind him, and that did something to Todoroki.

 

He moaned, soft and desperate, hips snapping just a little faster now. “You feel so good,” Todoroki whispered. “You don’t have to hold back. I want to hear you.”

 

Bakugo didn’t argue this time.

 

He just let it out.

 

Every sound. Every shiver.

 

Every pulse of heat that rocked through his body as Todoroki moved inside him, steady and deep and so goddamn careful, like every part of Bakugo mattered.

 

Their bodies slick with sweat, pressed so close there was no telling where one ended and the other began.

 

Todoroki kept whispering—low, steady, sinful. “You’re perfect like this. You can let go, baby. Let go for me.”

 

And Bakugo did.

 

With a broken moan, he came hard, fingers clawing into Todoroki’s shoulders as his whole body shuddered beneath him.

 

No hiding. No control. Just feeling.

 

Todoroki held onto him, arms tight around him like the moment might slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold on.

 

And for a few breathless seconds—no camera, no crew, no contract—it wasn’t a scene.

 

It was just them.

 

Messy and shaking and wrapped in each other like they’d never known anything else.

 

***

Chapter 10

Notes:

Omg I'm just warning y'all I went a little overboard HAHA this is so longggg

and I forgot to add to the tags so I'm doing it now - but this chapter has a little edging in it, toward the end of the chapter.

Avoid it if you aren't into it <3

Bakugo lay back against the sheets, chest still rising and falling in shallow bursts.

 

Muscles loose, skin flushed, hair clinging to his forehead.

 

He’d just survived being topped on camera for the first time in his life.

 

So, naturally, his next move was to crack a half-smirk and mutter, “Alright. You got your footage. Hope you’re happy, you dramatic bastard—”

 

Todoroki didn’t respond.

 

He just leaned down and kissed his collarbone.

 

Soft. Slow. Almost reverent.

 

Bakugo stiffened like he’d been struck. “The hell—”

 

Another kiss, this time to his throat. Then his jaw.

 

Bakugo blinked, the tension creeping back into his limbs. “What are you doing?”

 

Todoroki didn’t answer.

 

He hovered just above his mouth, foreheads brushing, breath mingling.

 

And then, voice barely audible— “I wanna kiss you. Let me?”

 

Bakugo’s breath hitched. “You—” His voice broke, rough from use. “You said no kissing.”

 

“I did.” Todoroki’s fingers brushed the side of his neck, cradling him gently. “Changed my mind.”

 

Bakugo’s heart pounded so loud he was sure the cameras could pick it up.

 

His hands twitched at his sides. “…You sure?”

 

Todoroki nodded, barely. “Are you?”

 

There was a long pause—an inhale that felt like it lasted years.

 

And then Bakugo surged up.

 

Their mouths met in a jolt of heat—clumsy at first, all startled contact and breathless surprise.

 

But then Bakugo groaned into it, deep and wrecked, and everything tilted.

 

Todoroki barely had a second to react before Bakugo rolled them both over—gently this time, with a careful hand behind Todoroki’s head, cradling him into the pillow.

 

And then they were kissing like they’d been waiting all damn day to get here.

 

Todoroki’s hands curled into Bakugo’s back.

 

Bakugo’s mouth moved like he was starved—hungry, yes, but soft too. Searching. Letting himself feel.

 

Todoroki gasped when their hips bumped, and Bakugo caught it with another kiss—grinning against his lips, like he couldn’t stop himself.

 

“You’re smiling,” Todoroki murmured, dazed.

 

“Shut up,” Bakugo whispered back, breathless. “You’re smiling too.”

 

Todoroki didn’t argue.

 

They just kissed again.

 

Slower now. Messier. Like they didn’t care about angles or lighting or camera positioning.

 

Like none of that mattered.

 

Bakugo’s hands found Todoroki’s face, cupping his jaw with a surprising gentleness. His thumb brushed the corner of Todoroki’s mouth like he was memorizing it.

 

And Todoroki just stared at him, eyes soft, cheeks flushed. “Guess I’m breaking my rules today,” he murmured.

 

Bakugo smirked, but it didn’t quite land—it was too tender at the edges. “Guess I don’t mind,” he said.

 

Then he collapsed beside him, burying his face in Todoroki’s shoulder with a muffled, exhausted groan.

 

Todoroki laughed—actually laughed, startled and giddy. “You okay?”

 

“No,” Bakugo said into his skin. “You broke my brain.”

 

Todoroki grinned, wrapping an arm around him. “Good. One point: Shoto.”

 

*

 

The next day, Todoroki texted Bakugo inviting him over to Todoroki's apartment. 

 

Aizawa had given Todoroki creative control over this last video, and Todoroki had taken it upon himself to take the video home to edit it. 

 

He probably could've done it without Bakugo, but he also wanted Bakugo to glance over it and make sure there weren't any scenes included that Bakugo didn't like, or didn't want to show the world.

 

The moment Bakugo stepped into Todoroki’s apartment, he wanted to lie on the floor and scream.

 

Not in horror.

 

In some weird, chest-tightening, what the hell is this softness doing to me kind of way.

 

It was clean. Not showroom clean—lived in clean. Warm lights instead of cold overheads. Throw blankets folded neatly over the couch. A faint scent of herbal tea lingering in the air.

 

It smelled like peace.

 

It was disgusting.

 

“I’ve got the footage on my laptop,” Todoroki said, already padding barefoot across the living room, laptop tucked under one arm. “Cameras 1 through 3 were fixed angles. The fourth one’s odd—I want your opinion on the framing before I cut it.”

 

Bakugo followed, trying to act normal.

 

Chill. Professional.

 

He failed immediately when Todoroki dropped onto the couch and gestured for him to sit beside him—and Bakugo realized the only available cushion was right up against him.

 

He sat.

 

Very stiffly.

 

Todoroki opened the laptop and hit play.

 

And suddenly, there they were.

 

There he was.

 

Naked. Open. Vulnerable in a way he’d never seen himself before.

 

Todoroki watched intently, head tilted, one hand braced beside the trackpad while the other rested lightly on the back of the couch behind Bakugo’s shoulder.

 

Bakugo tried not to combust.

 

“That lighting here’s really good,” Todoroki murmured, clicking to a different angle. “I’m glad I turned off that side fill. Your body catches the contrast here—see? You look amazing.”

 

He rewound the footage to a slow, sensual pan across Bakugo’s hips.

 

Bakugo made a sound in his throat.

 

Todoroki didn’t look up. “You’re angled perfectly. The camera caught everything. This shot right here—” he pointed with surgical precision “—that’s the one. That’s the image people are gonna lose their minds over.”

 

Bakugo could not respond. His brain had short-circuited somewhere around you look amazing.

 

But Todoroki kept going, completely immersed in his work. “This one too—look at your expression here.” He paused on a frame. “You’re not even acting. It's so authentic, it's perfect.”

 

Bakugo glanced at the screen.

 

He saw himself—lips parted, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. Not in pain. Not even overwhelmed.

 

Just— Open.

 

“I’m gonna cut the next angle,” Todoroki said. “It's a little too up close and personal on you.”

 

Bakugo looked at him.

 

Not the screen.

 

Todoroki.

 

So focused. So careful. His expression was calm but not blank—there was emotion in the line of his brow, in the way his eyes softened as he watched.

 

He wasn’t just directing this.

 

He was protecting it.

 

Protecting him.

 

Bakugo swallowed. “You’re good at this,” he muttered.

 

Todoroki blinked. Looked at him for the first time since the footage started. “You mean editing?”

 

“No,” Bakugo said, voice low. “You. Taking care of people. Me.”

 

Todoroki’s brows lifted, almost surprised.

 

Then his mouth curled—just a little.

 

Soft. Almost proud.

 

“I meant it,” Todoroki said, closing the laptop slowly. “That I’d never use a shot you weren’t okay with. You trusted me. I won’t betray that.”

 

And then—

 

Silence.

 

But it wasn’t uncomfortable.

 

It was the kind of silence that meant something had shifted.

 

Bakugo stayed close.

 

He didn’t move.

 

Didn’t pull away from the warmth of Todoroki’s thigh against his. Didn’t shift when Todoroki reached forward to set the laptop on the table and stayed leaning close.

 

Pressed together, watching the glow of the paused footage flicker on the dark screen—two professionals, two performers, two very stupid men pretending they weren’t completely fucked when it came to each other.

 

*

 

It had been hours.

 

The lights in Todoroki’s apartment had dimmed.

 

The only glow left came from the laptop screen stretched between them, their bodies sprawled side by side on the floor—shoulders grazing, bare feet knocking every so often.

 

At some point, the couch had become too cramped. And somewhere between trimming audio and comparing camera angles, they’d drifted down to lay on their stomachs on the carpet.

 

Todoroki's head had shifted until it rested on Bakugo’s forearm, one arm tucked under him like a pillow.

 

He’d dozed off maybe ten minutes ago.

 

Bakugo hadn't noticed at first—he was too busy scrubbing through raw footage, dragging the mouse with practiced precision, analyzing every frame like it held state secrets.

 

But now…

 

Now he was just staring.

 

The scene on screen played in slow motion—Todoroki’s back arching, mouth parted, fingers curling tight against Bakugo’s chest.

 

His abs glistened under the low camera angle, all muscle and control and holy shit.

 

Bakugo hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath.

 

And the worst part?

 

He knew this was a bad idea. He knew watching Todoroki move like that—breathe like that—was doing something to him.

 

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking down to the man curled beside him.

 

Still asleep.

 

Or so he thought.

 

Until—

 

“You gonna jerk off right here or wait until I leave the room?”

 

Bakugo jumped.

 

Literally flinched so hard he almost launched the laptop across the floor. “Jesus, Todoroki—”

 

Todoroki cracked an eye open, that annoyingly perfect smirk tugging at his lips.

 

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Todoroki said, voice low and drowsy. “You were really focused. Like, dangerously focused.”

 

Bakugo gritted his teeth, clicking pause on the footage. “I was working, asshole.”

 

“Uh-huh.” Todoroki yawned, slowly pushing himself up on one elbow, still looking far too pleased with himself. “You sure weren’t watching yourself.”

 

Bakugo’s ears turned red.

 

He didn’t dignify that with a response.

 

Instead, he shut the laptop halfway—just enough to kill the glow on Todoroki’s stupid, smirking face—and muttered, “Shut up.”

 

Todoroki nudged him with his foot. “You know, if you wanted a copy of the footage for personal use, you could’ve just asked. I won't be offended if you need some new jerk off material.”

 

“Will you be offended if I kill you in your sleep?”

 

“You’re blushing.”

 

“I’m not—”

 

“You’re thinking about the third scene, aren’t you?” Todoroki said casually, cutting him off with the same calm cruelty that had destroyed people on camera for years. “The contract still has one more written in.”

 

Bakugo glared at him, jaw tight.

 

But Todoroki leaned in—just a bit. Close enough to speak without raising his voice.

 

Close enough that Bakugo could feel the heat of him across that inch of space.

 

“You wanna film it here?” Todoroki asked softly, teasing just for the thrill of it. “Or would you rather do it at your place? Fewer distractions, just us. I could bring a tripod.”

 

Bakugo opened his mouth. Closed it.

 

Then croaked, “You’re the worst.”

 

Todoroki shrugged, still smiling. “Just trying to be accommodating. Wouldn’t want you to get distracted halfway through with how good I look.”

 

Bakugo shoved him.

 

Todoroki didn’t budge.

 

Instead, he dropped his head back onto Bakugo’s arm like a smug, heavy cat and mumbled, “Wake me up when you’re done ‘working.’”

 

Bakugo didn’t say a word.

 

He just sat there.

 

Hot. Flushed. Silent.

 

And entirely screwed.

 

*

 

Todoroki had just settled back against Bakugo’s arm, all smug and sleepy, when Bakugo moved.

 

Fast.

 

He grabbed Todoroki by the wrist and flipped him flat onto his back in one smooth, practiced motion, pinning him with a thigh between his legs and a glare that could've peeled paint.

 

Todoroki blinked up at him, unfazed. “Wow.”

 

Bakugo’s voice was low and sharp. “You wanna keep running your mouth?”

 

Todoroki smirked, infuriatingly calm beneath him. “Only if you keep climbing on top of me every time I do.”

 

Bakugo tightened his grip just enough to make a point. “Keep pushing me. See how that works out for you.”

 

“You threatening me now?” Todoroki asked, voice all breathy tease. “Because I gotta say, it’s not very convincing with you blushing this hard.”

 

Bakugo growled under his breath, and leaned in close—nose brushing Todoroki’s cheek, lips ghosting his jawline.

 

“You think I won’t shut you up right now?” he murmured, every word hot against Todoroki’s skin. “You think I won’t have you begging before the camera even rolls?”

 

Todoroki’s breath caught—but his grin didn’t waver. “You talk a big game.”

 

“Yeah?” Bakugo slid his hand up Todoroki’s side, fingers skimming the edge of his shirt. “Then shut the fuck up and let me prove it.”

 

Todoroki surged up, kissing him hard—messy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth and heat.

 

Bakugo groaned into it, catching Todoroki’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugging just enough to hear that sharp little gasp he knew meant victory.

 

They broke apart, panting, flushed, glaring.

 

“You’re such an asshole,” Todoroki whispered, his voice frayed around the edges.

 

“Yeah?” Bakugo smirked, pressing his forehead to Todoroki’s. “You’re the one moaning.”

 

Todoroki shoved at his chest, but Bakugo didn’t budge.

 

Didn’t even try to budge.

 

*

 

Todoroki was trying to talk again.

 

Trying being the operative word—because Bakugo had one hand still working inside his briefs, and the other clamped firmly over his mouth.

 

“Mmph—!”

 

“Nope,” Bakugo muttered, eyes locked on his face, enjoying every twitch and shift beneath him. “No more smartass commentary. I want your body, not your damn opinions.”

 

Todoroki narrowed his eyes, biting down just slightly on the heel of Bakugo’s palm like he wanted to pick a fight.

 

Bakugo grinned. “Yeah?” he said, voice low, cocky. “Keep that up and I’ll put you flat on your stomach and make you say thank you.”

 

That earned him a muffled groan and a full-body shiver.

 

Bakugo leaned in closer, smirking as he tightened his hold on Todoroki's cock—just rough enough to make Todoroki arch off the floor. “You always this easy?” he whispered against Todoroki’s ear. “Or is it just me?”

 

Todoroki yanked his mouth free with a gasp. “It’s not you,” he lied, clearly wrecked and clinging to pride like a lifeline.

 

Bakugo laughed, fingers still working, movements unrelenting. “Sure it’s not. That why you’re already shaking, princess?”

 

Todoroki growled, flush blooming red from his cheeks to his collarbones. “Fuck you.”

 

“You wish,” Bakugo snapped. “This is just a preview. You want the whole show, you’re gonna have to beg.”

 

“Keep dreaming,” Todoroki grit out—voice breathless, shaky, beautifully wrecked.

 

Bakugo leaned down and kissed him hard, swallowing the next sound out of his mouth before yanking Todoroki’s shirt up with his free hand, dragging blunt nails down his chest just to watch him twitch.

 

“Say it,” Bakugo whispered against his lips. “Say you need me.”

 

Todoroki’s voice broke on the first word. “I—”

 

But Bakugo covered his mouth again.

 

“Too slow,” Bakugo teased. “Guess I’ll just keep guessing where you want me.”

 

That earned him a muffled groan and a full-body jerk, legs twitching like the idea had short-circuited something in Todoroki’s brain.

 

And then Bakugo’s gaze dropped.

 

Todoroki’s shirt had ridden up in the mess of it all—exposing pale skin, hard-cut abs, and the soft curve just above his waistband.

 

Bakugo’s breath caught for half a second. “Fuck,” he muttered, leaning down. “You really don’t know how good you look right now, do you?”

 

Todoroki blinked up at him, lips parted beneath Bakugo’s palm.

 

Bakugo didn’t wait for an answer—he dragged his mouth to Todoroki’s ear and dropped his voice to a dark whisper.

 

“All flushed and twitchy like that—makes me wanna ruin you slow. Wanna make you beg so sweet for it, you forget your own name.”

 

Todoroki’s entire body arched like it had a mind of its own.

 

The hand Bakugo had wrapped around Todoroki's cock sped up.

 

Todoroki gasped again, trying and failing to stay composed, muscles clenching like he was fighting off a tremor.

 

“Ohhh,” Bakugo breathed, grinning wide. “That’s the button. You like it when I talk like that, don’t you?”

 

Todoroki shook his head. A blatant lie.

 

“You love it,” Bakugo went on, voice a filthy murmur. “You love hearing what I’m gonna do to you. What I could do to you. All the ways I could make you come apart.”

 

Todoroki’s hips bucked helplessly, breath stuttering under Bakugo’s hand, and his eyes fluttered—gorgeous, ruined.

 

Bakugo leaned closer, voice honeyed sin. “Bet if I told you to come for me right now,” he whispered, “you’d fucking do it.”

 

Todoroki tore his mouth free, desperate. “Baku—”

 

Bakugo shoved his hand back down. “Not done.”

 

Todoroki groaned deep in his throat, a sound that rattled up from somewhere primal.

 

Bakugo was relentless now—hand moving fast and filthy, the rhythm steady and precise, dragging Todoroki toward the edge like he owned him.

 

“You wanna come?” Bakugo hissed. “You want me to let you?”

 

Todoroki nodded fast, breath gone, eyes wild.

 

Bakugo leaned down, licked along his jaw. “Then beg.”

 

Todoroki’s voice was cracked glass. “Please.”

 

Bakugo smiled. “Good boy.”

 

*

 

Todoroki was so close.

 

His thighs were trembling. Back arching. Breath shallow and stuttering like a machine about to blow.

 

Bakugo had him teetering on the edge, every motion of his hand precise, practiced, devastating.

 

The kind of rhythm that screamed I know exactly what you like now, and I’m gonna use it against you.

 

Todoroki’s lips were parted, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

 

And then—

 

Bakugo stopped.

 

Just stopped.

 

Hand pulling back like it hadn’t just brought Todoroki to the brink of obliteration.

 

Todoroki let out a broken, disbelieving noise. “Wha—?”

 

“Too easy,” Bakugo muttered, grinning like a devil in heat. “I said beg.”

 

“I did beg,” Todoroki gasped, hips twitching helplessly, like his body was chasing something his mind hadn’t processed yet. “You said—”

 

Bakugo leaned over him again, dragging his fingers slowly—tauntingly—along the waistband of his briefs. “I did,” he murmured darkly, lips brushing Todoroki’s ear. “You call that begging? That was the weakest ‘please’ I’ve ever heard. C’mon. You wanna come? Show me.”

 

Todoroki whimpered—an actual, involuntary whimper—and let his head fall back onto the floor, one hand gripping the edge of Bakugo’s shirt like it was the only thing anchoring him to the goddamn planet.

 

“Please,” Todoroki rasped, “please, Bakugo—please, I need it—”

 

“Keep going,” Bakugo said, tone maddeningly patient. “Tell me how bad.”

 

Todoroki squeezed his eyes shut, every muscle in his body coiled and desperate. “I—I can’t take it, it’s too much—please just—fuck, please touch me again, I’ll do anything—just don’t stop—”

 

Bakugo moaned low in his throat like the sound alone was enough to get him off. “That’s more like it,” he whispered, and this time when his hand slid back down to Todoroki's cock, it didn’t stop.

 

It picked up fast. Rough. Merciless.

 

Todoroki practically sobbed, the sound breaking out of him like a dam had burst.

 

“Just like that,” Bakugo breathed, eyes locked on every twitch, every shake. “You’re so fucking hot like this. Falling apart for me. Can’t even talk. Can’t even think.”

 

“I c-can,” Todoroki whimpered, “I—ah, I’m—”

 

“Not yet,” Bakugo growled, his hand speeding up, dragging him closer and closer. “Not until I say.”

 

Todoroki was a wreck now. Entire body trembling, back curling off the floor, teeth sunk into his lip hard enough to sting.

 

“Please,” Todoroki gasped again, “please, please, please—”

 

And then Bakugo let him. “Come for me,” he rasped into Todoroki’s ear, “right fucking now.”

 

Todoroki shattered.

 

It ripped through him like wildfire—hips jerking, body convulsing, vision gone.

 

He cried out, clinging to Bakugo’s arm like he was drowning, and Bakugo didn’t stop—not right away.

 

He kept going, kept stroking, pushing him through it, past it, into the aftershocks until Todoroki was sobbing his name, twisting under him, grabbing Bakugo’s wrist with shaking fingers like it was too much.

 

“Okay—Bakugo, okay—stop—too much—”

 

Bakugo stopped.

 

Gently.

 

Letting go with a smug, victorious sound in the back of his throat, wiping his hand absently on his own shirt like a menace.

 

Todoroki just laid there.

 

He was panting, flushed, eyes barely focused.

 

Bakugo leaned over him, one hand braced on the floor, mouth hovering above Todoroki’s ear. “See?” he whispered. “You’re fuckin' gorgeous when you beg.”

 

Todoroki tried to glare at him.

 

It didn’t quite land.

 

But Bakugo’s grin only widened. “Round two’s gonna be worse,” he said, already unzipping his own jeans. “So you better hydrate.”

 

***

Chapter 11

The new video had gone live late last night.

 

By dawn, it was everywhere.

 

Notifications exploded across fandoms. Editors, critics, thirst-trap fiends—it didn’t matter.

 

Everyone was watching Bakugo and Todoroki.

 

Bakugo sent Todoroki a text around 11 AM:

 

Coffee at Blue Oak? Let’s talk scene 3

 

He didn’t mention the buzz of the video. Maybe he was too proud—or too nervous.

 

About an hour later, Todoroki sat in his car, engine soft, phone to his ear.

 

“Yeah, I’m just heading in now,” he said, voice steady but quiet fascination in his tone. “Bakugo wants to talk over scene details.”

 

Midoriya’s soft concern came through the speaker. “You okay with that? He’s… Friendly like he’s got more on his mind than just the script.”

 

Todoroki paused, clutching the wheel. “I am,” he said. “And… well—I don’t normally do hearts and feelings. But he’s respectful. Attentive. Different.”

 

A beat as Midoriya’s quiet relief and worry bounced between them. “Just—promise me you’ll keep your guard up, okay? I just don't want you to get hurt.”

 

Todoroki smiled in the empty car. “I always do. I promise.”

 

He hung up, took a deep breath, then stepped out and locked the door.

 

Blue Oak Coffee was mellow, indie-chill, warm light spilling through front windows.

 

Bakugo was already scrolling on his phone—expression unreadable, posture casual but taut.

 

Todoroki slid into the seat in front of him. Bakugo pushed his chair closer, closing the gap.

 

“Look at this,” Bakugo murmured, phone in hand. Notifications flared hotter than molten lava.

 

Tons of steamy, or impressed comments.

 

And hundreds more not worth reading out loud.

 

Bakugo pressed the phone into Todoroki’s hands. “That’s all from last night. And it’s not slowing.”

 

Todoroki scrolled, bit his lip, then looked up—hesitation mixing with something firmer in his eyes. “We looked pretty good, I guess.”

 

Bakugo smirked—but it faded into something nearly shy. “It’s good footage.”

 

“Not just footage,” Todoroki said quietly. “People are… feeling it. Seeing us.”

 

Bakugo’s jaw tightened for a second before he tilted his head. “Yeah.”

 

The word hung between them. Heavy.

 

Todoroki set the phone down, fingers brushing the edge of the table. “So. Scene three.”

 

Bakugo took a long sip of coffee, set the cup down, then glanced around the café—at the barista steaming milk, at the guy with AirPods typing like his life depended on it.

 

Bakugo leaned in slightly, voice low. “This place is too public.”

 

Todoroki lifted an eyebrow. “You planning to act it out here?”

 

Bakugo gave a dry snort. “No, dumbass. I just… wanna talk without an audience.”

 

Todoroki waited, curious.

 

Bakugo hesitated for a beat, then looked up at him with a flicker of something almost vulnerable. “Can we talk at your place?”

 

Todoroki blinked. “My apartment?”

 

“Yeah. If that’s okay.” He paused, voice a little rougher. “Just wanna do this right.”

 

Todoroki stared at him for a second. Then, slowly, nodded. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”

 

Bakugo stood, grabbed his keys, and waited near the door. Todoroki followed, heart beating a little faster than he’d like to admit.

 

Outside, the world was loud.

 

But between them?

 

Something quiet. Intentional. Building.

 

Scene three was coming.

 

And neither of them was pretending it was just work anymore.

 

*

 

Todoroki’s apartment was clean, quiet, and just a little too warm—like the heater had been left on a few degrees too high, or maybe that was just the way Bakugo’s skin felt under the weight of anticipation.

 

They stood in the bedroom, backs to the soft light from the window.

 

The full-length mirror on the closet door reflected them both—Bakugo with his arms crossed, Todoroki leaning against the dresser.

 

Bakugo gestured at the mirror with his chin. “So, for the third scene, I was thinking maybe we use something like that.”

 

Todoroki followed his gaze, eyes tracing the mirror, then returning to Bakugo’s face. “A mirror?”

 

“Yeah.” Bakugo moved closer. “I’m behind you. You’re watching me in the reflection. It's… it’s subtle. More about tension than touch.”

 

Todoroki nodded slowly. “Could be good. What kind of tension?”

 

Bakugo smirked, but it was softer than usual. “The kind we’re already pretty damn good at.”

 

Todoroki didn’t argue.

 

Instead, he pushed off the dresser and walked toward the mirror. Stopped just in front of it.

 

Bakugo stepped behind him instinctively, lining up the way he imagined for the scene.

 

They didn’t touch. Not yet.

 

“You’d be here,” Bakugo said, voice lower now. “Right about here. I’d come in slow. Hands at your hips. Maybe kiss the back of your neck. Not too much, though. Let the reflection do the work.”

 

Todoroki met his gaze in the mirror, their eyes locking through layers of glass and implication.

 

“And then what?” Todoroki asked, quieter now.

 

Bakugo stepped just a little closer, enough that his breath ghosted against Todoroki’s ear. “Then I say something. Something low. Something just for you.”

 

Todoroki swallowed. “Like what?”

 

Bakugo’s gaze flicked to his mouth in the mirror, then back up. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “Haven’t written that part.”

 

The silence stretched—thick, magnetic, pulsing.

 

They stood like that, staring at each other’s reflections. Neither moved. Neither dared to break it.

 

Until Todoroki turned his head—barely. Just enough to tilt their lips closer.

 

And Bakugo didn’t stop him.

 

Didn’t think. Didn’t breathe.

 

He just leaned in and met him halfway.

 

The kiss was quiet. Intentional. No fire, no fight—just warmth and stillness and a single shared heartbeat that knocked the air right out of both of them.

 

Their eyes stayed half-lidded. Their hands stayed at their sides.

 

It was everything and nothing.

 

A pause in the script neither of them had planned.

 

When they pulled back, it wasn’t dramatic.

 

Just a breath between them.

 

A moment too sacred to fill with sound.

 

Todoroki blinked first. “Sorry... That wasn’t in the plan.”

 

Bakugo huffed, dazed. “Fuck the plan.”

 

They stood there, facing the mirror.

 

Two people in sync.

 

Two reflections caught mid-fall.

 

*

 

Todoroki’s pulse was louder now.

 

Or maybe that was Bakugo stepping even closer—until the space between them disappeared completely.

 

“Okay,” Bakugo murmured behind him, voice rough velvet. “So I’d come in like this—”

 

He ghosted his hands to Todoroki’s hips, not quite touching. Just there—close enough to feel, not enough to claim.

 

“You’re standing here. Already flustered and sweating, hopefully.” His fingers hovered just above fabric. “And I’m watching your face while I do it. Every fucking second of it.”

 

Todoroki’s breath caught.

 

Bakugo’s smirk deepened—reflected in the mirror, cocky as sin. “And then I’ll drag my fingers up like this—” he moved them slowly, deliberately, up Todoroki’s sides, “—across your stomach. You like that, right?”

 

Todoroki said nothing.

 

Didn’t have to.

 

The mirror told the story for him.

 

“And then,” Bakugo continued, low and almost gleeful, “I’ll grab your wrists. Pull your hands behind your back. Just enough pressure. Nothing mean. Just to keep you still.”

 

Bakugo didn’t press—just kissed his shoulder softly, lips barely brushing skin.

 

“And you’ll watch the whole thing,” Bakugo murmured. “You’ll see the way I look at you. The way I touch you. Every second of it, right here in the glass.”

 

Todoroki swallowed hard, staring at their reflections like he’d forgotten how to blink.

 

Bakugo’s voice dropped even lower. “You remember what you said? First time we filmed together? About how your body wasn’t up to standard?”

 

Todoroki blinked, but didn't respond. He remembered. 

 

Bakugo kissed his shoulder again. Firmer, this time.

 

“You’re out of your goddamn mind,” Bakugo said, gentle in a way that didn’t match the words at all. “You’re beautiful. And when we film this—when you watch me wreck you in that mirror—I hope you get to see what I see.”

 

Todoroki’s eyes fluttered shut. His hands twitched at his sides—caught between wanting to reach for Bakugo and not wanting to break the moment.

 

“I…” Todoroki started, then trailed off.

 

Bakugo waited.

 

Todoroki opened his eyes again. Met Bakugo’s in the mirror. “You’re actually kinda good at this,” he said softly.

 

Bakugo snorted. “Yeah. Don’t tell anyone.”

 

Todoroki turned toward him—barely—and this time, when their mouths brushed together again, it wasn’t by accident.

 

It was inevitable.

 

*

 

Their mouths crashed together again—this time more urgent, more open, like kissing was the only language either of them trusted.

 

Bakugo's hands slid back to Todoroki’s hips.

 

Todoroki's fingers curled into Bakugo’s shirt, tugging him closer with a quiet, aching need.

 

And the mirror in front of them reflected every second of it—hungry, reverent, alive.

 

Then—

 

Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

 

A vibration against Todoroki’s thigh.

 

Neither of them broke the kiss at first.

 

Just a shared sigh, lips dragging against lips, reluctant to let the world intrude.

 

But the buzzing didn’t stop.

 

Todoroki slipped a hand into his pocket without looking—lips still brushing Bakugo’s—until he glanced down at the screen.

 

The hospital.

 

He froze.

 

“…Shit,” he whispered, pulling back just a fraction. “Sorry—I need to take this.”

 

Bakugo nodded immediately, even though his breath was still shallow. “Yeah. Yeah, go ahead.”

 

Todoroki stepped back, swiping to answer. He turned slightly away, posture stiffening as he brought the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

 

Bakugo watched him in the mirror—watched the shift in his shoulders, the way his back pulled tight like he was bracing for impact.

 

A pause.

 

“…No change?”

 

Another pause.

 

Todoroki's eyes lowered. “I understand. Thank you for letting me know.”

 

He swallowed.

 

“Yes, I’ll call her tonight. I promise.”

 

A few soft words from the doctor, muffled through the phone, then—

 

Click.

 

Silence.

 

Todoroki stood still for a second longer, the phone still clutched in his hand like it might vibrate again.

 

His chest rose with a quiet, tired breath.

 

Then he turned back toward Bakugo.

 

His expression was careful. Controlled.

 

But something behind his eyes had softened—like a dam barely holding.

 

“…Can I have a hug?” Todoroki asked, so quietly it almost didn’t register as speech.

 

Bakugo didn’t hesitate.

 

He crossed the room in two steps and wrapped both arms around him—tight, warm, anchoring.

 

Todoroki leaned in like gravity had given up.

 

Pressed his face into Bakugo’s shoulder, breathing in deep. He didn’t cry. Didn’t shake. He just held on.

 

Bakugo closed his eyes.

 

His hand slid up Todoroki’s back, slow and steady, fingers threading through his hair.

 

“I’ve got you,” Bakugo whispered. “It's okay.”

 

And in that moment, he meant it more than anything he’d ever said on camera.

 

If he could’ve fought off the whole damn world to keep Todoroki safe, he would’ve done it with his bare hands.

 

But for now, this was enough.

 

Holding him. Being the place Todoroki leaned when the weight got too heavy.

 

No scripts. No cameras.

 

Just this.

 

***

Chapter 12

Notes:

Got anther chapter for y'all today. Happy Friday my friends <3

Kirishima’s apartment smelled like microwave popcorn and bad decisions.

 

Bakugo lounged sideways across the couch, socked feet propped on the coffee table, a controller in his lap and a half-empty soda can beside him.

 

Kirishima sat cross-legged on the floor, locked into a boss fight, while Kaminari had gone full gremlin mode—sprawled upside down over the arm of the loveseat, phone in one hand, eyes darting between their game and his endless scroll.

 

They’d been at it for hours—switching between co-op missions and teasing each other about their kill counts—but for the past fifteen minutes, Bakugo had gotten quiet.

 

Not angry-quiet.

 

Not sulking.

 

Just… thoughtful? Maybe?

 

Kirishima noticed first, of course.

 

Glanced back during a loading screen and nudged his shin gently. “You good, man?”

 

Bakugo didn't look over. “Yeah.”

 

Kaminari squinted at him from his upside-down perch. “That was the least convincing ‘yeah’ I’ve ever heard. And I watched you lie to a customs agent once.”

 

Bakugo sighed. Set the controller down on his stomach. “It’s nothin’. Just…”

 

Kirishima paused the game.

 

Kaminari rotated upright like a cat who heard the kibble bag rustle.

 

“…I know it’s just a job,” Bakugo muttered, eyes still on the screen. “This whole thing with Todoroki. I know that. It’s acting. But—” He huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I care about him. More than I’ve cared about someone in a long ass time.”

 

The room went quiet, minus the hum of the fan and the occasional squeak of Kaminari's socks on the couch leather.

 

Kirishima smiled a little, soft and sincere. “Yeah, man. I figured.”

 

“I mean, he’s a pain in my ass,” Bakugo grumbled. “And weird. And too hot for his own good. But he’s kind. And gentle. And he actually sees me.”

 

“That’s hot,” Kaminari said helpfully.

 

Bakugo flicked a chip crumb at him.

 

“I’m just sayin’,” Kaminari shrugged, going back to his phone. “I knew the moment you told us he asked you for a hug, and you actually hugged him. Plus you let him top the other day. That’s a special privilege, my dude.”

 

Bakugo rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

 

But the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

 

Kirishima clicked the game off entirely, settling into the moment. “You planning to tell him?”

 

Bakugo snorted. “Fuck no. Not ‘til after scene three at least. He’s got enough on his plate.”

 

At that, Kaminari made a small, strangled noise.

 

Both of them turned.

 

“What?” Bakugo asked.

 

“Nothing,” Kaminari said too fast, trying to angle his phone away.

 

Bakugo stood immediately. “What.”

 

“Dude, it’s really not—”

 

Bakugo lunged and Kaminari yelped, but he was no match for Bakugo’s grabby hands and long reach.

 

A brief, undignified wrestling match later, and Bakugo had the phone in his grip.

 

“What the hell are you—” Bakugo stopped cold.

 

The sound was unmistakable.

 

A soft moan. Familiar. Too familiar.

 

His eyes locked on the screen.

 

Todoroki.

 

Back arched. Hair damp. Pinned beneath Yoarashi, gasping like the world was ending.

 

“Fuck me,” Bakugo whispered, voice hollow.

 

Kirishima rose to his feet fast. “Shit—dude, it’s probably old. Like, an archived—”

 

“No,” Kaminari cut in, furious now on Bakugo's behalf. “It dropped ten minutes ago. You can see the upload date.”

 

Bakugo didn’t move.

 

The phone played on.

 

Another moan—Todoroki’s voice—ripped through the room like a gut punch.

 

“It’s just work,” Kirishima tried again, gentle now. “He needs the money. You know that.”

 

“Yeah,” Bakugo said.

 

But his hand tightened around the phone.

 

Kaminari sat up, face twisted. “He told you he wasn’t gonna film with anyone else until your contract was done, right? I’m not imagining that?”

 

Bakugo’s jaw clenched.

 

“Right?” Kaminari repeated, louder.

 

“Not exactly.” Bakugo snapped, finally. “But based on the agreement we made before the second one, I figured we were gonna finish the three scenes. Just us. No interruptions.”

 

The silence that followed was worse than the moans.

 

Because it was filled with the weight of betrayal.

 

Kirishima exhaled. “Maybe there’s an explanation.”

 

“Maybe,” Bakugo muttered.

 

But his shoulders were rigid, his stare locked on the frozen image of Todoroki—flushed and breathless—beneath someone else.

 

He handed the phone back without another word.

 

And when he sat down again, he didn’t reach for his controller.

 

He just sat there.

 

Quiet.

 

Watching his reflection in the blank TV screen.

 

*

 

Bakugo had been pacing outside Todoroki’s apartment for almost ten minutes.

 

Back and forth. Fists clenched so hard his knuckles popped.

 

Jaw tight, teeth grinding, mind playing that damn video on a cruel, endless loop.

 

Todoroki, naked under Yoarashi.

 

Todoroki, arching into his touch.

 

Todoroki, moaning like he meant it.

 

Bakugo had told him. No one else. Not until they were finished. Not until they were done filming what was supposed to be the finale to something that—against all odds—had started to feel real.

 

He’d left five texts.

 

Then stopped texting altogether, and just showed up here. 

 

When he'd finally calmed down enough to knock on the door, he had to force himself to take a deep breath.

 

By the time he heard the soft shuffle of footsteps behind the door, he wasn’t just angry anymore.

 

He was fucking seething.

 

The knob turned. The door cracked open.

 

Todoroki stepped back inside, hoodie slipping off one shoulder.

 

He looked tired. Worn out. Paler than usual.

 

“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” Bakugo spat, already pushing inside after him.

 

Todoroki turned back around to face him. Slowly. Like he knew what was coming.

 

Bakugo stalked after him. “You think I wouldn’t see it? That shit’s everywhere. I thought we had a deal not to fuck anybody else until this was over.”

 

“I know.”

 

The words were quiet. Barely audible.

 

Bakugo froze. Just for a second. Then steamrolled ahead, voice sharp and dangerous.

 

“You said you wouldn’t. You said you’d wait. And now I’ve got to find out from fucking social media that you—”

 

“I know,” Todoroki repeated, firmer this time.

 

He dropped his phone on the table. Didn’t look at Bakugo. Didn’t raise his voice.

 

Just stood there, his back tense.

 

Bakugo laughed. Dry. Disbelieving. “You know? That’s it? You fucking know?” He stepped in close, fists clenching at his sides. “Say something else. Anything else. Because right now it sounds like you don’t give a shit.”

 

Silence.

 

And then Todoroki turned around.

 

No defense in his posture. No snap-back insult.

 

Just this strange, disarming stillness.

 

Then—without a word—he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Bakugo’s chest.

 

Bakugo stiffened like he’d been shot. “What the hell do you think you're—?”

 

And then he felt it.

 

A warm, wet patch spreading across his shirt.

 

Not sweat. Not blood.

 

Tears.

 

“Hey,” Bakugo said sharply, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him back a step. “Are you—? Did I—? Fuck, are you crying?”

 

Todoroki’s face was blotchy, eyes rimmed in red, lashes damp. He didn’t wipe them away. Didn’t pretend he wasn’t falling apart.

 

“I’m sorry,” Todoroki whispered.

 

Bakugo’s stomach dropped. He wasn’t ready for this.

 

He’d come in braced for a fight, fists full of betrayal. Not…

 

Not this. Not Todoroki crying in his arms.

 

Todoroki swallowed hard. “About the video. About not telling you. I care about you, and I didn't mean to upset you. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”

 

Bakugo searched his face, mind racing. “Then what did happen?”

 

There was a pause.

 

Then Todoroki looked away. “My mom’s doctors called. She needs another surgery.”

 

Bakugo’s breath caught.

 

“They don’t know if she’ll recover without it,” Todoroki said, voice flat now, like if he didn’t put feeling into the words, they’d hurt less. “It’s experimental. Expensive.”

 

Bakugo could only stare at him.

 

Todoroki took a breath like it hurt to do it. “I asked Enji for help. Like an idiot.”

 

Bakugo felt something sharp rise in his chest. “You what?”

 

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Todoroki said. “He said he’d cover it. That it was ‘taken care of.’”

 

He paused.

 

Bakugo could already hear the punchline.

 

Sure enough—

 

“The old shoot with Inasa went live two hours later,” Todoroki said. “He didn’t tell me. Inasa and I had agreed not to use that footage months ago when we filmed it, because... I don't know if you saw all of it, but Inasa ends up sort of hurting me, on accident.”

 

There was no fire in his voice. No tears left, either.

 

Just resignation.

 

Todoroki added. “At the end of the video, I'm like... Bleeding a little, and clearly upset. I didn't want anyone else to see that, and neither did Inasa. But Enji said I signed the release. That money was money.”

 

Bakugo stared at him.

 

He was honestly glad that he didn't watch the entire video now. Todoroki wouldn't have wanted him to.

 

And suddenly all that fury—the burning, righteous storm he’d been carrying all night—tilted sideways.

 

“You didn’t even choose it,” Bakugo muttered.

 

Todoroki looked up. “No. I didn’t. And it wasn't even... Enough money.”

 

A long silence followed.

 

Then Bakugo’s hand lifted—slow, almost clumsy—and brushed a thumb across Todoroki’s cheek.

 

He wiped a lingering tear away. Let his hand linger just long enough to make it clear it wasn’t pity.

 

“You should’ve told me,” Bakugo said.

 

“I know.”

 

This time it wasn’t sharp. Just tired.

 

Bakugo stared at him a moment longer.

 

Then pulled him in. Hard.

 

Arms wrapping tight around Todoroki’s back, one hand in his hair, the other fisting in the hoodie like he needed something solid to hold on to.

 

And Todoroki just folded into him. Quiet. Exhausted.

 

Relieved.

 

They didn’t say anything after that.

 

They didn’t need to.

 

Because even if nothing else made sense right now—this did.

 

Bakugo held him like it was the only part of the world worth saving.

 

And Todoroki let him.

 

*

 

“I’m making you dinner,” Bakugo suddenly said.

 

Todoroki blinked at him. “You don’t have to.”

 

“Yeah, I do.”

 

Todoroki sighed, still leaning into Bakugo’s shoulder where they stood in the middle of his little apartment. “We’re just coworkers.”

 

Bakugo didn’t flinch. “You and I both know that's not true.”

 

“You don’t have to go out of your way like this.”

 

Bakugo pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “I’m going to anyway.”

 

He didn’t wait for approval—just grabbed Todoroki’s wrist and led him toward the door.

 

Todoroki followed without resisting.

 

By the time they hit the parking lot, Bakugo’s car was already chirping unlocked.

 

It wasn’t flashy—just clean, matte-black, humming low.

 

The drive was quiet, save for the sound of city traffic and Todoroki’s slow, steady breathing beside him.

 

When they turned into the neighborhood, Todoroki sat up straighter.

 

It was… nice.

 

Tree-lined streets. Houses with real yards.

 

Driveways and porches and warm front lights glowing against the night.

 

Bakugo parked in front of a modern two-story with a dark fence and sleek trim.

 

He barely acknowledged it, just got out and waited for Todoroki to follow.

 

Inside was even more of a surprise.

 

Clean lines. Tall ceilings. Framed art.

 

A couch that looked obscenely comfortable.

 

Todoroki’s eyes caught on a few photos on the wall—Kirishima and Bakugo at a beach, a dog that wasn’t here anymore, a younger Bakugo with what might’ve been a real, genuine smile.

 

“You live here alone?” Todoroki asked, eyes trailing over a shelf of old Blu-rays and custom-fit speakers.

 

“Yeah,” Bakugo muttered, heading for the kitchen. “Why?”

 

“It’s… Nice. Impressive.”

 

Bakugo snorted. “It’s just a house.”

 

Todoroki stayed quiet, suddenly aware of the sharp contrast between them.

 

He didn’t resent it. It just… hit.

 

Bakugo made dinner like he did everything—focused, fast, precise.

 

Chopped vegetables, seared meat, simmered something on the stove that smelled absurdly good.

 

Todoroki wandered the hall, eyes trailing over the understated touches: workout gear, polished knives, a record player in the corner.

 

When Bakugo finally called him to eat, Todoroki sat slowly at the table, still absorbing it all.

 

Bakugo set the plates down and sat across from him.

 

And said what he'd been thinking about.

 

“I want to help pay for the procedure.” Bakugo said.

 

Todoroki stiffened. “No.”

 

Bakugo didn’t react. “Just let me—”

 

“I said no.” Todoroki put down his fork. “I don’t need charity. I can figure it out.”

 

Bakugo met his eyes, voice calm but firm. “It’s not charity. It’s me. Offering to help someone I care about. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

 

Todoroki’s jaw tightened. “I work for my money. I always have.”

 

“I know that. That’s why you deserve help. You shouldn’t be carrying all of this alone.”

 

Todoroki looked down. “That’s just how it is.”

 

“Maybe it shouldn't be.”

 

The room was quiet except for the faint ticking of the wall clock.

 

Todoroki picked at the food.

 

Finally, he looked up and tried to change the subject. “This is good.”

 

Bakugo raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

 

Todoroki nodded once. “You cook a lot?”

 

“When I can.” Bakugo leaned back slightly. “Helps me think.”

 

Another pause.

 

Then Bakugo leaned forward again, this time slower. “What if you didn’t have to figure it out on your own?” he said. “What if we changed the contract again?”

 

Todoroki tilted his head.

 

“I leave Enji’s agency. Come work with Aizawa. Just us. No more scripts from outside. No more scenes you don’t want. Just—us. As much as we want. Every single day, if you want. Just to raise enough money for your Ma.”

 

Todoroki blinked, stunned. “You’d really do that?”

 

Bakugo shrugged. “I’ve got enough money. I’ve got enough fans. I don’t need Enji breathing down my neck or feeding off your work. We could build something better." He smirked, “Plus the added bonus of fucking you five days a week.”

 

Todoroki held his gaze, silent.

 

Then he asked, “Five days a week? You sure you won't fall in love with me?”

 

Bakugo’s lips lifted at the corner. “Would it bother you if I did?”

 

Todoroki looked away, flushed—but not saying no.

 

Bakugo didn’t push.

 

He just ate his dinner, quietly.

 

And let Todoroki sit with the idea.

 

***

Chapter 13

A few days later, the set was ready and it was finally time for the third and final scene in the contract.

 

The lights were already on—warm and low, diffused through mesh screens to cast everything in a soft, golden haze.

 

Cameras were set and humming, red dots blinking patiently.

 

The bed was made in that particular kind of careless-looking way that definitely wasn’t careless. A throw blanket hung just right. One pillow artfully askew.

 

And the giant ass mirror that Bakugo had requested for some reason, had been set up on one side of the room.

 

Todoroki decided not to question it.

 

Todoroki stood alone in the middle of it all, barefoot on the plush rug, robe half-slipping off one shoulder.

 

His arms were crossed. His jaw tight.

 

He wasn’t cold.

 

Just tired.

 

He stared at the photo on the wall—some minimalist thing, black and white, a city skyline blurred by fog.

 

The kind of image meant to feel deep, but mostly just made him feel empty. Or maybe that was just the mood.

 

Behind him, Aizawa grabbed his clipboard, gave one final glance around the room, and headed for the door.

 

“Bakugo’ll be in soon,” he said. “Don’t burn the place down.”

 

Todoroki didn’t respond.

 

The door clicked shut.

 

Silence returned.

 

He let out a slow breath and let his shoulders drop just a little.

 

His mother needed this. She needed the money, the care, the surgery.

 

There wasn’t room for hesitation. Or doubt. Or softness.

 

And hospital bills didn't care about dignity.

 

The door creaked open again—quiet, like someone trying not to startle him.

 

Arms slid around his waist from behind. Confident. Gentle.

 

Warm.

 

Bakugo’s chest pressed to his back—bare skin against cotton, heat against heat.

 

He smelled like cedar and soap, the faintest trace of something spicy and warm. Not the cologne he usually wore. Something simpler.

 

“You’re breathing too fast,” Bakugo murmured against his neck. “Something buggin' you?”

 

His voice was softer than usual. Unsteady in a way he rarely let anyone hear.

 

Todoroki blinked once, then let out a shaky breath and leaned back into him.

 

Like instinct.

 

Like muscle memory.

 

“I didn’t sleep well,” he admitted, quiet.

 

“I figured,” Bakugo said, one hand sliding up to cover Todoroki’s chest. “Thought about texting. But I figured you’d ignore me.”

 

Todoroki made a small sound, half-laugh, half-exhale. “I would’ve.”

 

“Mm.” Bakugo dipped his head, pressed a kiss to the hinge of Todoroki’s jaw. “But you’d have thought about me all night.”

 

Another kiss, lower this time.

 

One to the slope of his shoulder.

 

Another where the robe fell open.

 

Not coaxing. Not claiming.

 

Just... present.

 

Todoroki’s body softened beneath the touch—shoulders lowering, arms uncrossing. “Sorry if I ruin the mood,” he whispered, head tilting.

 

“You won't,” Bakugo said again, quieter. “But we don’t have to do this today. If you don't want.”

 

Todoroki’s hand slid up to touch Bakugo’s, fingers threading together. “No, I... I want to. But I don’t want to perform,” he admitted. “Can you just, take care of everything this time?”

 

“Sure. I got it.” Bakugo leaned in, resting their joined hands against Todoroki’s sternum. “Just be here with me. I'll take good care of you.”

 

The robe slid lower, baring the rest of Todoroki’s shoulder.

 

Bakugo kissed it, slow and deliberate, like he meant it.

 

No script.

 

No choreography.

 

Just affection in motion.

 

“You look good,” Bakugo said, voice rough around the edges. “I’m glad I get to do this with you. One more time.”

 

Todoroki hummed softly.

 

It didn’t sound sad.

 

It sounded like something blooming.

 

They hadn’t moved toward the bed yet.

 

They hadn’t done anything the cameras wanted.

 

But already—it felt different.

 

Warmer. Quieter.

 

Bakugo’s lips ghosted the curve of Todoroki’s ear. “You ready, pretty boy?”

 

Todoroki turned his face slightly, enough to catch Bakugo’s eye over his shoulder. “Only if you are.”

 

And Bakugo smiled.

 

Not cocky. Not smug.

 

Just soft.

 

And then he kissed him—slow and unhurried, a whisper of a kiss on the edge of his jaw, grounding them both in something bigger than the scene.

 

Something closer to truth.

 

*

 

Todoroki turned in Bakugo’s arms.

 

Slowly.

 

Like the air had thickened between them.

 

His robe fell just a little farther off his shoulder in the motion, exposing the soft slope of skin where muscle met bone.

 

He didn’t rush to fix it. Didn’t try to hide.

 

Bakugo didn’t speak.

 

Just looked.

 

Looked at him like he was the only person in the world.

 

One of his hands skimmed up from Todoroki’s waist—knuckles brushing the hem of the robe—until it rested lightly at his collar. He didn’t tug. Didn’t yank.

 

He waited for permission.

 

Todoroki gave the faintest nod.

 

And Bakugo pulled the robe open, slow and careful, like unwrapping something fragile.

 

It slipped off Todoroki’s shoulders and caught at his elbows, a whisper of fabric pooling in the crooks of his arms before sliding down his body and hitting the rug with a soft hush.

 

Bakugo exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he said, not quite a whisper but close.

 

Todoroki’s gaze darted away.

 

Not embarrassed. Just… overwhelmed.

 

He didn’t always know how to take a compliment, especially not from someone whose eyes burned with that much want and reverence at the same time.

 

“I’ve seen you naked a dozen times, including videos and in real life,” Bakugo muttered, hand brushing Todoroki’s ribs. “But you still fuckin’ take my breath away.”

 

Todoroki’s breath hitched. “Don’t say shit like that,” he murmured. “I’m trying not to fall in love with you, remember?”

 

Bakugo blinked—stunned for a second—before a crooked smirk curled across his mouth. “Try harder.”

 

His hands didn’t move with greed or urgency. Just exploration. Slow and soft.

 

Fingertips grazed Todoroki’s chest, his sides, the dip of his waist. Mapping territory he already knew but wanted to rediscover like it was new.

 

Todoroki didn’t flinch.

 

Didn’t tense.

 

He just let it happen—leaning into the touch, eyes fluttering shut for a beat too long.

 

Bakugo’s hands skimmed down his back, pulling him close by the hips, their bodies lining up like puzzle pieces. Skin to skin.

 

“You sure about this?” Bakugo asked, voice low, lips brushing Todoroki’s cheek as he spoke. “We can go slow. We can stop. We can burn the fucking contract if you want.”

 

Todoroki opened his eyes.

 

Looked right at him.

 

And for once, didn’t hedge or hesitate.

 

“I want you,” Todoroki said.

 

Bakugo’s throat bobbed with a swallow.

 

He kissed Todoroki’s shoulder again—soft and reverent—and didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

 

Because every movement after that said it for him.

 

He took Todoroki’s hand, kissed his knuckles, and backed them up toward the bed without letting go.

 

*

 

Bakugo guided him with a firm hand on the hip, moving him without ceremony toward the bed.

 

“Sit,” Bakugo muttered, jerking his chin toward the mattress edge—right in front of the mirror.

 

Todoroki obeyed, hair slipping into his eyes as he did.

 

He sat with slow grace, thighs spread just slightly, his gaze flicking up to meet Bakugo’s like it was instinct.

 

Bakugo dropped to one knee without fanfare, palms steady on Todoroki’s hips, thumbs brushing bone—less reverent, more claiming.

 

He didn’t say anything at first.

 

Just stared.

 

Then leaned in and pressed a kiss just below Todoroki’s navel—slow, warm, and precise.

 

Todoroki’s stomach tensed.

 

Bakugo didn’t smirk, but the heat in his eyes sharpened. “Look at yourself,” he said, jerking his head toward the mirror. “Look at what I get, all to myself.”

 

Todoroki glanced over—then down, pink already rising on his cheeks.

 

Bakugo kissed higher, just above his ribs. “Can't wait to get my hands on this gorgeous body.” Another kiss. 

 

Todoroki’s fingers slid into Bakugo’s hair, tightening gently as if he needed to hold onto something real. Something grounding.

 

“You remember that dumb shit you said during the first shoot?” Bakugo murmured, voice low against his skin. “That you weren’t good enough?”

 

Todoroki looked down again. Embarrassed.

 

Bakugo kissed his sternum. “That was such bullshit.” Another kiss, in the same place. “You’re fucking stunning.”

 

Todoroki's hand in his hair tightened a little more.

 

Then, louder—rougher, straight into the space between them Bakugo said, “and you’re gonna watch yourself fall apart.”

 

Bakugo rose slowly, pushing into Todoroki’s space, one hand bracing beside his thigh, the other trailing up his side as he leaned in.

 

This time, the kiss was slow—but not delicate.

 

It pressed. Dragged. Told Todoroki to stay where he was and feel every second of it.

 

Bakugo broke the kiss with a shallow breath, their noses brushing. “Tell me what you want.”

 

Todoroki blinked. “You.”

 

Bakugo snorted. “No shit. But how? Tell me how you want me, baby.”

 

Todoroki hesitated, clearly weighing the words. “Gentle,” he said. “Stay close, and... Soft. Please.”

 

“Love it when you use your manners, sweetheart.” Bakugo cupped his jaw with one rough hand, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “I’m right here,” he muttered. “You want soft? I’ll show you soft.”

 

He kissed him again—deeper, messier—and then let his hands wander, down Todoroki’s thighs, squeezing lightly before pushing them open just a bit more.

 

The mirror caught all of it.

 

Todoroki’s pink cheeks.

 

The way his back arched slightly.

 

The quiet flex of his grip on Bakugo’s forearm.

 

Bakugo pulled back just enough to speak again. “Lie back, baby.”

 

Todoroki did, slow and unhurried, stretching out across the bed like he was trusting the space to hold him.

 

Bakugo followed—weight shifting onto the mattress, one hand at Todoroki’s chest, guiding him flat.

 

He crawled over him with practiced ease, legs bracketing Todoroki’s hips, his body warm and heavy above him.

 

Their skin touched everywhere.

 

No gaps. No distance.

 

Bakugo gripped Todoroki’s wrists and laced their fingers together, pressing them into the mattress just above his head. “Look at me, T.”

 

Todoroki obeyed.

 

And Bakugo’s gaze stayed steady. “You want me here?” he asked, voice a little rough.

 

Todoroki nodded. “Yeah. Please.”

 

Bakugo kissed him again, hard and slow, then whispered against his mouth. “Be a good boy for me.”

 

*

 

Bakugo broke the kiss only long enough to grip the back of Todoroki’s thighs and manhandle him up—no hesitation, no ceremony, just raw strength and precision.

 

Todoroki let out a soft sound, half gasp, as he was lifted, then set firmly on his feet again.

 

His knees wobbled slightly.

 

Bakugo didn’t give him time to falter.

 

A hand landed on the small of Todoroki’s back, guiding him across the room—right to the edge of the tall mirror.

 

Floor-to-ceiling. Polished to perfection.

 

It caught everything: the pink flush across Todoroki’s chest, the shimmer of sweat on his collarbone, the startled curve of his mouth.

 

Bakugo stepped in behind him.

 

Pressed them flush together.

 

Chest to back. Heat to heat.

 

Bakugo's half hard cock pressing to the swell of Todoroki's ass.

 

His hands slid low over Todoroki’s hips, anchoring them in place. “Watch,” he murmured—low, just above a growl. “Don’t look away.”

 

Todoroki’s breath hitched.

 

Bakugo watched his reaction in the glass—how his lashes fluttered, how his lips parted like he wanted to protest but didn’t have the air for it.

 

Bakugo’s hands moved again. Up.

 

Across his ribs. Down his abdomen.

 

One splayed low against Todoroki’s stomach, the other sliding between his thighs just enough to tease.

 

“Look how fucking gorgeous you are,” Bakugo rasped, voice gruff and close to his ear. “Every time you tell yourself you’re not enough—I want you to remember this.”

 

Todoroki’s head dropped.

 

Bakugo caught his chin with his hand, and lifted Todoroki's head back up.

 

“Nope. Eyes up,” Bakugo said, not unkind. “You don’t get to hide.”

 

Their gazes met in the mirror.

 

Todoroki’s cheeks were flushed, lips kiss-swollen, his breath uneven—but he held the eye contact.

 

Barely. He looked like he might shatter.

 

But he was trying to be good.

 

Bakugo kissed the nape of his neck.

 

Then his shoulder.

 

Then the space just below his ear, where Todoroki always shivered.

 

Bakugo's hand moved again—confident now. Controlled.

 

Not to rush.

 

To savor.

 

“Look at that,” Bakugo muttered, watching Todoroki’s reflection writhe under his touch. “So fuckin' hot. You’re practically melting. For me. Only me.”

 

Todoroki’s hands braced against the mirror, fingers flexing against the glass like he needed something to hold onto. “Bakugo, please…”

 

“I know,” Bakugo said. “I got you.”

 

Bakugo started grinding his hips against him, Bakugo's hand sliding back down Todoroki's stomach to grab his hardening cock and get to work on it. 

 

He wanted Todoroki to be leaking and begging before Bakugo was even inside of him.

 

Their bodies moved together in a rhythm built on instinct, friction, need.

 

The mirror fogged. The lights hummed. The cameras caught everything—but neither of them gave a single damn.

 

Bakugo leaned forward, lips at Todoroki’s jaw, voice low and rough, “Don’t close your eyes. Not yet. Want you to see what I see.”

 

Todoroki obeyed.

 

Couldn’t not.

 

Not when every touch felt like a promise.

 

Not when every second that burned made him feel like this was real.

 

Not when this—whatever it was—felt more honest than anything either of them had known in years.

 

***

Chapter 14

Notes:

Guys I LOVE this chapter. It's so good. Get ready for some smutty AND fluffy times - best of both worlds

Todoroki’s palms slid up the mirror, searching for something to grip.

 

The glass was too smooth, too cool. His fingers curled anyway, leaving smudged prints behind.

 

Bakugo stood close behind him, one hand firm across Todoroki’s lower stomach, the other trailing slowly down over his hipbone.

 

His chest pressed flush to Todoroki’s back, heat radiating through the thin sweat-slick layer between them.

 

He'd finally slid his cock into Todoroki, and he was practically vibrating with the effort of trying to stay still for a few seconds to let Todoroki adjust.

 

“Don’t run from it,” Bakugo murmured. His voice vibrated against Todoroki’s spine. “You feel that? Feel how fucking good you feel wrapped around me?”

 

Todoroki’s head tipped back slightly, resting against Bakugo’s shoulder.

 

His eyes fluttered—but didn’t close. Not with Bakugo watching.

 

Not with both of them watching.

 

“Eyes up, pretty boy,” Bakugo growled, dragging his knuckles up the inside of Todoroki’s thigh, slow and taunting. “You blink and miss this, that's on you.”

 

Todoroki’s breath caught.

 

His reflection told the story: knees buckling, lips parted in disbelief, cheeks flushed and damp.

 

His entire body was wound so tight it looked like a single wrong breath would undo him.

 

Bakugo gripped him tighter.

 

Adjusted his stance behind him—feet spread slightly wider, one foot planted between Todoroki’s.

 

His hips pressed inward, pinning Todoroki to the mirror. Their chests aligned; their bodies locked.

 

He only lingered there for a second, before dragging his hips backward and then shoving his cock even deeper inside.

 

Todoroki’s fingers clawed the glass.

 

“Fuck, look at you,” Bakugo said. His voice had roughened—raspy, reverent. “Falling apart on my cock.”

 

Bakugo kissed the shell of his ear, then licked a slow, damp line up the side of his throat. At the last second, he bit down, just to leave a small mark on Todoroki's skin.

 

One hand slid up, across Todoroki’s chest—palm flat, thumb grazing over his nipple—drawing out a choked sound that echoed off the mirror.

 

“I want you to remember this every damn time you doubt yourself,” Bakugo said. “Every inch of you—mine tonight. Mine to touch. Mine to fuck.”

 

Todoroki was trembling now.

 

Shaking through the thighs, his breath hitching too fast, body tightening with every second of contact.

 

He looked at their reflection—his body pressed so tight to the glass, Bakugo molded behind him like a second skin. Like a shadow built from heat and fire and want.

 

The mirror reverberated with each of Bakugo's thrusts, practically bouncing Todoroki off of the clean surface of it.

 

“I can’t,” Todoroki whispered.

 

Bakugo didn’t back off. Didn’t soften.

 

Bakugo didn’t let him fall either.

 

He reached up, cupping Todoroki’s jaw from behind, fingers gentle but unyielding.

 

Tilted it slightly.

 

“Yeah, you can,” he said. “You are. Look at yourself, baby. Look what I do to you.”

 

Todoroki stared—eyes glassy, lips trembling.

 

And for once, he didn’t try to hide it.

 

Didn’t retreat.

 

Didn’t even blink.

 

He let Bakugo hold him up, chest heaving, knees shaking, breath falling apart in warm, desperate stutters.

 

His palms slipped down the glass again, bracing as his knees gave another shake.

 

Bakugo adjusted behind him without hesitation—one hand bracing Todoroki's chest now, the other gripping his hip like a tether.

 

Bakugo glanced down for a few seconds, to watch his cock disappear in Todoroki's ass a few times, listening to the sound of skin slapping against skin.

 

It was such an incredible sight, and in that moment he felt so lucky to be the one experiencing it.

 

Bakugo pressed a kiss to his temple. “Let go when you’re ready,” he said, quiet now. “Whenever you want.”

 

And Todoroki—struggling, sweating, too far gone to pretend anymore—nodded.

 

Todoroki’s hands slipped lower on the mirror as his legs began to give.

 

His reflection wavered, blurred by heat and breath and the raw, unfiltered need radiating off his skin.

 

His chest rose and fell too fast. His jaw trembled.

 

The muscles in his thighs were visibly shaking, struggling to hold him upright.

 

Bakugo saw it all.

 

Watched Todoroki's legs falter again. Shifted his stance to stay behind him, knees bent just slightly, thighs supporting Todoroki’s weight where his own started to fail.

 

One arm locked around Todoroki’s waist now, the other braced against the mirror beside his head.

 

Their bodies were flush—chests, hips, thighs.

 

Bakugo decided to slow down, focusing on grinding his cock deeper inside rather than faster.

 

No space left. No distance.

 

Watched it unfold in the mirror with sharp eyes and a grip like a vice, his hands a map of pressure and permission.

 

“Don’t look away now.” Bakugo's voice came rough, hungry. “Want you to see that gorgeous face when I make you come.”

 

Todoroki moaned—high and helpless.

 

His eyes fluttered, but didn’t close.

 

Couldn’t.

 

Not with the image in front of him: Bakugo behind him, lips parted, jaw clenched, muscles flexed with restraint he barely seemed to have.

 

And him—Todoroki—body bowed under the weight of it, teetering on the edge of everything.

 

Bakugo firmly pressed his hand flat against Todoroki's lower stomach, pulling him back against the force of each of Bakugo's thrusts.

 

“Kugo—” Todoroki choked, voice splintering, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the mirror that wouldn’t hold him. “Too deep. I—I can’t—”

 

“Yes, you can,” Bakugo growled. “I’ve got you.”

 

Bakugo's hand slid lower again, slowly but surely wrapping around Todoroki's cock, coaxing more out of him—touches practiced, perfected, devastating.

 

He knew exactly where to go. Exactly what to press. Exactly how to make Todoroki fall apart.

 

Todoroki cried out—louder this time, almost shocked by the force of it.

 

His knees buckled for real, and only Bakugo’s arms kept him from dropping.

 

“I got you,” Bakugo said again, more urgent now. “You’re okay. You can take it, baby. Keep takin' it.”

 

Todoroki shook in his hold—eyes wide, mouth open, falling to pieces in full view of both of them. His reflection shattered across the glass, skin flushed, chest heaving, sweat trailing down the line of his spine.

 

Todoroki barely managed to warn him. “Gonna come.” 

 

Todoroki came with a sound that wasn’t a moan or a cry—just breath torn from his lungs, raw and helpless.

 

His knees gave out completely, body sagging forward like he was trying to collapse through the mirror.

 

Bakugo caught him instantly.

 

One arm wrapped tight around his waist, the other braced beneath his chest, holding him up like scaffolding.

 

Todoroki’s head lolled back onto his shoulder, mouth parted, breath ragged and uneven.

 

Bakugo's hips slowed even more, clenching his teeth as he felt Todoroki tighten up around his cock.

 

“Good boy,” Bakugo muttered, lips brushing his temple. “You did so good for me, T.”

 

Todoroki didn’t answer. He didn't even think he could. 

 

He just trembled in Bakugo's arms, the aftershocks still rolling through him in waves—legs shaking, lashes fluttering, fingers twitching like they didn’t know what to grab for.

 

Bakugo huffed softly, smug and satisfied. “Look at you. Fucking beautiful, and completely ruined.”

 

Todoroki tried to straighten. Failed.

 

Bakugo didn’t let him fall. Just adjusted his hold, arms steady, firm. Supportive, but unrelenting.

 

“Feel good?” Bakugo asked, already knowing the answer.

 

Todoroki made a broken sound in his throat—somewhere between a yes and a sob.

 

Bakugo grinned. “Yeah. Thought so.”

 

Bakugo leaned back, slowly pulling his hips away without pulling his cock out too fast.

 

And still—Bakugo didn’t look away.

 

He held Todoroki steady, palm pressed to his chest like he owned every breath.

 

He pressed one last kiss to the curve of Todoroki’s shoulder, slow and grounding. Let the moment settle.

 

Todoroki slumped forward slightly, the tension gone from his muscles—replaced by warmth, by aftermath, by something heavy and honest.

 

Todoroki didn’t speak—not for a long, slow stretch.

 

Just breathed. Shivered. Melted further against Bakugo like his bones had dissolved.

 

Bakugo held him through it all.

 

One hand dragged slowly up and down his side, fingertips tracing sweat-slick muscle.

 

The other stayed pressed to Todoroki’s chest, grounding him with every echoing heartbeat.

 

“Still with me, pretty boy?” he murmured against Todoroki’s temple.

 

Todoroki gave a faint, uncoordinated nod.

 

His hand reached for Bakugo blindly, like his body knew the shape of him better than his mind did.

 

“Thought so,” Bakugo said, smiling against his skin.

 

He didn’t rush him.

 

Didn’t pull away.

 

He just stood there, holding Todoroki upright, their reflections still visible in the fogging mirror. 

 

Gently, he turned Todoroki to face him, and Todoroki leaned forward again to rest his forehead on Bakugo's shoulder.

 

His breath ghosted across the shell of Todoroki’s ear as he leaned in again.

 

“Fuck, you’re pretty like this,” Bakugo murmured. “All loose and quiet. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this soft.”

 

Todoroki made a noise in his throat—small, low, almost embarrassed.

 

Bakugo grinned. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get shy now.”

 

He guided them backward carefully—step by step—until the edge of the bed hit the backs of his legs.

 

With Todoroki still held close, he sat down first, dragging Todoroki down with him.

 

Todoroki straddled his lap instinctively, thighs draped over Bakugo’s hips like gravity had made the decision for him.

 

He curled in without thinking.

 

Head tucked under Bakugo’s jaw. Arms loose around his shoulders.

 

Entire body humming with the kind of trust that had to be earned one breath at a time.

 

Bakugo wrapped his arms around him. Kept him there.

 

Let his palms roam slowly, rubbing circles into the small of his back, smoothing down his sides.

 

“I’m not done with you,” Bakugo muttered. “Gotta check you.”

 

Todoroki only nodded, pliant and wrecked and utterly compliant.

 

Bakugo shifted him gently, tilting Todoroki’s chin up so he could see his face.

 

He brushed damp hair away from his forehead. Pressed a kiss there. Then another to the bruised edge of his jaw.

 

His lips followed the curve of Todoroki’s neck, trailing slow, reverent kisses over every flushed patch of skin he’d left marked.

 

“Didn’t mean to bite that hard,” Bakugo murmured, kissing over the shadow of a forming bruise. “But you fucking begged for it.”

 

He shifted Todoroki again, tilting his face toward his own.

 

His thumb brushed over Todoroki’s bottom lip, swollen and parted.

 

“You good?” Bakugo asked, voice quieter now.

 

Todoroki blinked at him, dazed. “Yeah.”

 

Bakugo studied his face for another beat.

 

Then leaned in—and kissed him.

 

Not hungry.

 

Not demanding.

 

Todoroki melted into it like he didn’t know how not to.

 

His hands clung weakly to Bakugo’s arms, chest pressed close, lips soft and open against his.

 

The kiss lingered—unhurried, grounding, nothing like the firestorm they'd just survived.

 

Just a slow anchor dropped into the space between them.

 

When they finally pulled apart, Todoroki stayed close.

 

Resting forehead to forehead. Eyes closed.

 

“Still with me?” Bakugo asked again, softer now.

 

Todoroki’s answer was a breath, barely a sound. “I don’t wanna be anywhere else.”

 

*

 

Bakugo cleaned him up, and then they stayed like that for a while.

 

Todoroki still curled in Bakugo’s lap, breath gone soft and slow.

 

His skin was damp, flushed, sticky with sweat and heat and the kind of satisfaction that rewrote your whole damn nervous system.

 

Bakugo's hands moved in slow, absent strokes along Todoroki's back.

 

Not groping. Not coaxing. Just...touching. Like if he kept moving, Todoroki wouldn’t drift too far.

 

But eventually, Bakugo frowned.

 

He could feel it—the sweat on Todoroki’s skin starting to cool. The chill trying to creep in around the edges.

 

“You're gonna get cold,” he muttered.

 

Todoroki hummed into his neck, completely unbothered. “Mm. No I won’t.”

 

Bakugo snorted. “Liar. You’re already shivering.”

 

“No I’m not.”

 

“You are.”

 

“No.”

 

“You're literally arguing into my collarbone.”

 

Todoroki gave the smallest, most petulant whine imaginable and burrowed in deeper.

 

Bakugo sighed dramatically. “I gotta turn the cameras off. And grab your robe. Unless you want Aizawa reviewing this footage with your balls out.”

 

Todoroki didn’t move. “Let them see. Let the world see. This is where I live now.”

 

Bakugo rolled his eyes. “You’re such a damn brat.”

 

And then, before Todoroki could get another word out, Bakugo slid his arms under his thighs and back, shifted his grip, and stood up like he weighed nothing.

 

“Hey—!” Todoroki gasped, arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders. “You can’t—”

 

“I literally just did.”

 

“You’re manhandling me.”

 

Bakugo raised an eyebrow, one hand already reaching to flick off the first camera. “You weren't complaining about that a few minutes ago.”

 

Todoroki pouted. “You didn’t give me a choice.”

 

“You had plenty of choices,” Bakugo muttered, shutting down the next camera. “You just didn’t take any of them.”

 

They passed the mirror on the way to the third one.

 

Todoroki caught a glimpse of himself in Bakugo’s arms—rumpled, marked—and looked away, cheeks pink.

 

Bakugo noticed. Of course he noticed. “What,” he teased, smirking. “Finally realizing you like being tossed around?”

 

Todoroki glared weakly. “I didn’t say that.”

 

“You didn’t have to.”

 

He bumped his hip against the last camera stand, reaching out to flick the final switch.

 

Todoroki mumbled something unintelligible into his shoulder.

 

“What was that, princess?”

 

“I said maybe it was...surprisingly okay.”

 

Bakugo grinned. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw you over my shoulder.”

 

“You’re lucky, because I definitely wouldn't like that,” Todoroki mumbled—and then paused. “…Actually, I might.”

 

Bakugo froze for half a second. Just one.

 

Then said, “We’re putting a pin in that.”

 

“I’m not scared.”

 

“I know you’re not scared. That’s the problem, you cocky little brat.”

 

He finally made it to the bed again and knelt on the edge to set Todoroki down carefully—like a prince dropping off some freshly ruined royal treasure.

 

Todoroki sighed dramatically the second his back hit the sheets. “Okay. That was… unnecessarily hot.”

 

Bakugo grabbed the robe from the dresser and tossed it over him like a blanket. “Shut up.”

 

Bakugo took the time to put his own robe on, his eyes not leaving Todoroki the entire time.

 

“You shut up,” Todoroki murmured, curling up in it, already smiling. “You're hot. And I won't apologize for saying it.”

 

Bakugo smirked and dropped beside him, arm draping casually over Todoroki’s stomach. “If you don't stop, I'm gonna kiss you.”

 

“Bet.”

 

*

 

Todoroki’s hands didn’t fall away after the kiss.

 

They stayed at the edges of Bakugo’s robe, thumbs brushing the collar, palms flat against his chest like he was still trying to map the heat there. Like if he let go, the moment would dissolve.

 

Bakugo didn’t move either.

 

He just let it happen—let Todoroki touch him like he was something worth remembering. Something worth keeping.

 

Their bodies barely brushed, but the closeness hummed.

 

Todoroki’s fingers slipped under the lapel of Bakugo’s robe, skimming along his collarbone. Slow. Thoughtful.

 

Like he was taking inventory of every mark he’d left—every ridge of muscle, every faint scrape from where fingernails had dug in too hard.

 

Bakugo’s hand lifted in return, trailing down Todoroki’s arm with the backs of his fingers, stopping at his wrist. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

 

Todoroki nodded. “Better than okay.”

 

Bakugo let out a breath. His thumb traced lazy circles against Todoroki’s pulse. “You were unbelievable. Absolutely fuckin' amazing.”

 

Todoroki smiled, a little crooked. “You were somehow rough and soft at the same time.”

 

“You loved it.”

 

“I didn’t say I didn’t.”

 

They both stood from the bed, and lingered there a moment longer.

 

Just existing in the same soft breath of time, before Bakugo’s voice came again—quieter now. “But, uh... that was it.”

 

Todoroki blinked up at him.

 

Bakugo’s jaw flexed. “Three scenes. That was the deal.”

 

His eyes dropped to where Todoroki’s robe gaped slightly, exposing the deep purple bloom of a fresh bruise at his collarbone.

 

He reached up without thinking and brushed his thumb over it—gentle, reverent.

 

“I don’t know if you’ve got other projects lined up,” Bakugo muttered. “Or... if you’re planning to go back to shooting solo or whatever. I just—”

 

Todoroki waited patiently for him to continue.

 

Bakugo paused. Took a breath like it hurt. “I don’t really wanna stop seeing you. Even if the contract’s done.”

 

Todoroki stared at him.

 

Soft. Struck. Like he hadn’t let himself believe that might be an option.

 

“I don’t either,” he said quietly.

 

Bakugo met his eyes, and something flickered between them—uncertain but alive. Hopeful.

 

Todoroki reached for his hand again and laced their fingers together.

 

His voice was low, teasing, but there was a tremor of truth behind it. “I mean, I think the footage will speak for itself. It’d be bad business not to film a sequel.”

 

Bakugo scoffed. “You tryna pitch a fourth scene already?”

 

Todoroki shrugged, eyes gleaming. “Maybe I’m just pitching dinner.”

 

Bakugo stared at him for half a second, like the floor might drop out from under him.

 

And then he grinned—sharp and fond and stupidly endeared. “Yeah. Alright. Dinner.”

 

***

Notes:

btw someone wanted to send me some of their art on Twitter ( X? Hate that) so I made one.

If anyone else ever does that or just wants to show me something, hit me uppp

https://x.com/amwriting97?t=SCvvDHl6hxwIuoh-w-1JhQ&s=09

Chapter 15

Notes:

You guys ready for the fluffiest fluff you've ever seen fluffed?

The next day when he got to work, Bakugo barely made it five steps into the dressing room before he heard it.

 

A moan.

 

Breathy. Low.

 

His.

 

On video.

 

Kaminari and Kirishima were hunched over a phone, whispering and grinning like a pair of gremlins—until the door clicked behind Bakugo and the mood snapped taut.

 

Kaminari didn’t even flinch. “Damn,” he murmured, tapping the screen. “He really said ‘you can take it,’ huh?”

 

Bakugo stopped in the doorway, arms crossed. “Are you seriously watching my naked ass on studio Wi-Fi?”

 

Kirishima winced. “Sorry, man—it came up on the thread. We were just curious—”

 

Kaminari held up the phone like a damn award. “Full disclosure? I’m not even watching you. I’m watching Todoroki. And bro? He looks unreal.”

 

Kirishima leaned closer again, unapologetic. “It’s true. The lighting, the framing—he looks like he walked off the set of a perfume ad. And then got railed. Like, absolutely destroyed.”

 

Bakugo stormed over and snatched the phone out of his hand. “Dude, come on. Be respectful,” he snapped. “At least while I’m standing here.”

 

Kaminari smirked. “So we can go back to it when you leave?”

 

Bakugo locked the screen. “Shut up.”

 

A beat passed.

 

Bakugo flipped the phone over in his palm. Then looked up—serious now. “Kinda unrelated, but... I need a favor.”

 

That got their attention. They straightened instantly.

 

“I know you guys don’t know Todoroki that well,” Bakugo said. “Even Shima, I know you two boned, but still. And I know he’s from another studio. But I’ve been talking to Aizawa.”

 

He dropped the phone on the counter and folded his arms.

 

Bakugo continued. “We’re organizing a shoot. Big one. Still photos only—high-production, maybe themed. Something fans can eat up. No video.”

 

Kaminari tilted his head. “Like a calendar?”

 

“Sort of. More of an online thing, but yeah. And the money doesn’t go to us. Or to the studios.” He hesitated for half a second. “It goes to Todoroki’s mom. For her surgery.”

 

Kirishima blinked. “You’re serious?”

 

Bakugo nodded. “Dead serious.”

 

Kaminari blinked at him. “You’re asking us to shoot this… basically for free? For a man you just met a few weeks ago?”

 

“Yeah. Just this once.”

 

There was no hesitation from Kirishima. “I’m in.”

 

Bakugo stared at him. Like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 

Kirishima smiled, warm and sure. “First of all, you never ask for favors, so. Of course I'm gonna do it. And it doesn’t matter that I don’t know him that well. You do, and you care about him a lot. That’s enough for me.”

 

Bakugo looked down, jaw tight. He didn’t say thank you.

 

But it was there—in the silence, in the nod, in the breath he didn’t take.

 

Kaminari dragged a hand through his hair. “You’re a pain in my ass sometimes, dude. You know I hate working harder than I have to.”

 

Bakugo raised an eyebrow.

 

“But yeah,” Kaminari said, grinning. “I’m in. Let’s make you look like the generous bastard you pretend not to be.”

 

Bakugo snorted.

 

And for the first time that day, he smiled.

 

*

 

The next week blurred.

 

Todoroki barely left Bakugo’s house.

 

Not because he had to—Bakugo made that clear, over and over again.

 

He could leave anytime. He wasn’t trapped.

 

But he stayed. Because he liked it there.

 

Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the warmth.

 

Maybe it was the way Bakugo didn’t try to fix things—he just stuck around.

 

Most mornings started the same.

 

Todoroki on the phone, half-wrapped in a blanket, voice low and steady as he spoke to doctors or his mother’s care team.

 

Bakugo brought him coffee without asking.

 

Sat beside him on the couch. Didn’t speak. Just... stayed close.

 

When the calls ended, Todoroki would sag into the cushions, drained and silent.

 

Sometimes he cried. Sometimes he didn’t.

 

Bakugo never made it a thing.

 

He just pulled him close, let Todoroki hide in his chest, fingers threading gently into his hair.

 

“You hungry?” Bakugo’d ask, once the silence had softened.

 

“No.”

 

“Too bad.”

 

By the third night, Bakugo started plating two dinners without asking.

 

He’d set one down in front of Todoroki like it was a matter of fact.

 

Todoroki ate without complaint.

 

*

 

They didn’t talk about what they were, but it lived in the rhythm between them.

 

Shared mornings. Shoulder rubs. Movies at low volume. Long silences that didn’t feel empty.

 

Sometimes separate beds. More often, not.

 

Bakugo never pushed.

 

But he never left.

 

In the soft cracks between those moments—when Todoroki stepped outside to take a call or lingered too long in the shower—Bakugo moved somewhere else.

 

Bakugo paced the patio in socked feet, phone pressed to his ear.

 

“Yeah, Denki and Eijiro are in. We’ll shoot at that white-on-white loft. Clean lines, soft light. Theme it around connection. No overt labels. No big pitch. All proceeds go to a private fund. He doesn’t need to know it’s for him.”

 

That same night, he texted Midoriya:

 

You in?

Aizawa cleared it. its all set up.

Dont tell T its for his Ma.

 

Midoriya replied instantly:

 

Absolutely. Anything he needs. Just say when.

 

The next morning, Sero chimed in too:

 

Just want to help. I'll be there.

 

Bakugo stared at the screen.

 

Then typed:

 

Thanks. This means a lot.

 

He wouldn’t say those words out loud.

 

But the people closest to him heard them anyway.

 

*

 

Todoroki had gotten accustomed to these baths he could take at Bakugo's house. 

 

Especially after work, or after hospital visits on particularly difficult days.

 

Usually Bakugo disappeared when Todoroki was in there. Todoroki just assumed he was giving him some space, or didn't want to bother him.

 

But this time, Todoroki didn’t hear Bakugo come in.

 

He was sunk low in the bathtub, water lapping at his collarbones, hair damp and sticking to his cheeks.

 

The whole room smelled like eucalyptus and cedar—Bakugo’s bath salts, apparently.

 

He didn’t move when the door creaked open.

 

Didn’t flinch when Bakugo muttered, “Scoot.”

 

“Wha—?”

 

And then Bakugo was there, bare skin meeting warm water, shoving a knee between Todoroki’s back and the tub wall, somehow making space in a space that absolutely did not have room for two grown men and a million quiet feelings.

 

Todoroki gave a breathy laugh. “You’re gonna flood your own bathroom.”

 

“Shut up. You want my help or not? You’re super tense.”

 

“Your solution to that is sitting on top of me?”

 

“Behind you,” Bakugo corrected, adjusting until his chest was pressed snug to Todoroki’s back, arms bracketing his sides. “Just... Shut up and tilt your head.”

 

Todoroki blinked. “Why?”

 

But Bakugo was already pouring shampoo into his hands, working up a lather. “Because I said so.”

 

There was no fighting him—not really.

 

So Todoroki sighed and leaned back, eyes fluttering closed as Bakugo’s fingers threaded into his hair.

 

It was… gentle. Uncharacteristically so.

 

His hands moved slow and sure, massaging shampoo into his scalp, thumbs dragging lazy circles behind his ears.

 

Every stroke was steady. Soothing.

 

Like Bakugo had done this before. Like he’d thought about doing this to Todoroki before.

 

Todoroki hummed low in his throat. “That feels really nice.”

 

“Duh.”

 

Bakugo was careful not to get shampoo in Todoroki's eyes when he washed his hair out.

 

He didn't say a word, and Todoroki didn't resist him. Just bowed his head and let Bakugo run water through the long strands of hair.

 

Water sloshed lazily around them as Bakugo shifted his weight, thumbs now dragging across Todoroki’s shoulders.

 

Todoroki tilted his head again, letting it rest against Bakugo’s collarbone. “You didn’t have to do any of this.”

 

Bakugo didn’t reply right away. Just kept rubbing small circles into the back of his neck.

 

“I mean it,” Todoroki said, quieter now. “After everything with my dad… I’ve always kind of dealt with my mom’s stuff alone. She’s my responsibility. Not yours. And even though we’re not—”

 

He paused.

 

“We’re not technically anything,” Todoroki corrected. “Not really. You’ve still been here. For all of it. Helping. Staying.”

 

Bakugo’s hands stilled for half a second.

 

Then resumed.

 

“Don’t make it weird,” Bakugo muttered, voice low.

 

Todoroki chuckled. “Just saying thank you.”

 

Bakugo snorted. “Yeah, well. Don’t get all sentimental. You’ll make me regret it.”

 

Todoroki didn’t answer. He just smiled and let the silence fill in the rest.

 

After a moment, Bakugo spoke again—casual, like he was throwing it away. “By the way… We’ve got another scene tomorrow.”

 

Todoroki blinked. “What?”

 

“New scene. Short one. Pays decent. Just in time to cover some of the surgery costs. Sorry I didn't tell you sooner.”

 

Todoroki twisted slightly, trying to look over his shoulder. “You scheduled that?”

 

Bakugo shrugged, fingers gliding up his spine. “Yeah.”

 

A pause.

 

Then—genuine, soft, Todoroki said, “Thank you.”

 

Bakugo cleared his throat. “You already said that.”

 

“No,” Todoroki said, eyes serious now. “I mean... That’s exactly what I meant. You always do this. Help without asking. Step in when you don’t have to. I'm not used to having help and I... I really appreciate it. Thank you.”

 

Another beat of silence.

 

Bakugo spoke, quieter than before. “Yeah, well... You’re not just anyone, okay?”

 

Todoroki turned fully this time, awkward in the narrow tub but determined, water sloshing over the side.

 

Their faces were close now—too close.

 

“Say that again?”

 

Bakugo scowled. “Don’t make me.”

 

Todoroki smirked, leaning closer. “But you mean it?”

 

A pause. A blush.

 

Bakugo rolled his eyes, ears going red. “...Yeah. I fucking mean it. You're important to me, jackass.”

 

Todoroki couldn't help but smile at his attitude. “Words every man longs to hear.” He teased.

 

Todoroki’s hand found his under the water.

 

And for a moment, neither of them moved.

 

Bakugo’s thumb traced the back of Todoroki’s hand. “Not gonna let you deal with this shit alone. Not anymore.”

 

Todoroki’s voice was barely a whisper. “I know.”

 

And finally—finally—Bakugo leaned in, and kissed him.

 

Warm water. Quiet room. Wet hair. Soft hands.

 

No camera. No contract.

 

Just them.

 

*

 

You know what happened after that.

 

The tub was too small for it.

 

Water sloshed up the sides with every shift, every sigh, every tremble of fingers over skin.

 

Todoroki straddled Bakugo now, knees bracketing his hips, steam curling around them like the air itself didn’t dare interrupt.

 

Their chests pressed close, wet skin slick and sticky, lips brushing—again and again—but never separating for long.

 

It started slow.

 

Bakugo used his wet hand to drag back the fringe clinging to Todoroki’s face, fingers pushing through until the strands stayed, plastered on top of Todoroki's head and out of the way.

 

“You shouldn't be hiding behind all this hair,” he muttered—low, almost annoyed, like the truth of it pissed him off. “Not with a face like that.”

 

Then he leaned in and kissed Todoroki’s forehead, slow and firm, right where the skin was warmest.

 

Todoroki blinked, eyes flicking up to meet his. “You think so?”

 

Soft. Barely there. But he didn’t pull away.

 

Bakugo’s hand slid up Todoroki’s side, cupping the back of his neck, grounding him.

 

Todoroki’s hand moved just as slow, trailing lower over Bakugo’s abdomen, down past the patch of hair under his navel.

 

His fingers gently brushed against Bakugo's cock, like he wasn't sure if he could touch him yet.

 

Water lapped between them, warm and weightless.

 

Then—together—they touched.

 

Two sharp inhales.

 

Two matching gasps, swallowed by each other’s mouths.

 

Todoroki whimpered softly, and Bakugo drank it in like oxygen, deep and greedy.

 

His other hand dipped below the water, curling around Todoroki's cock with practiced ease—confident and coaxing, no hesitation.

 

“You make those sounds and I—” Bakugo broke off, exhaling against Todoroki’s neck, lips dragging along Todoroki’s jaw. “—I lose my goddamn mind.”

 

Todoroki’s answer was a moan against his mouth.

 

But his hand didn’t stop moving.

 

If anything, he got bolder—stroking Bakugo's cock with slow, reverent care, like he wanted to learn every sound he could pull from him.

 

Like he wanted this to be something only he got to feel.

 

Bakugo groaned—deep and guttural. “Shit… yeah, that’s it. Just like that.”

 

They rocked against each other, messy and wet and perfectly in sync.

 

Hands tangled under the surface, gripping, stroking, exploring.

 

Lips found skin—cheek, neck, shoulder, collarbone—biting and kissing and gasping between.

 

“You like touching me, huh?” Bakugo rasped. His mouth trailed lower, teeth grazing Todoroki’s throat. “Like makin’ me lose it?”

 

“You do that all on your own,” Todoroki breathed.

 

Bakugo laughed—low, wrecked, breathless.

 

“Fuck, you're hot.” he whispered, voice smooth like honey against Todoroki’s ear. “Touchin’ me like that, riding my thigh like it owes you something—what a greedy little thing you are.”

 

Todoroki moaned, jerking in his lap, hand tightening.

 

Bakugo’s grip didn’t falter. His rhythm stayed steady, perfectly controlled. “That’s right,” he purred. “Let me feel you.”

 

But then Todoroki’s hand wrapped around Bakugo’s wrist—gentle, firm.

 

He was flushed to the tips of his ears, breath shallow, but his voice was steady.

 

“Wait,” he said, meeting Bakugo’s eyes. “Not like this.”

 

Bakugo froze. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he groaned, dragging his mouth across Todoroki’s neck in protest. “You’re killing me here.”

 

Todoroki laughed—actually laughed—his fingers tightening just enough to make Bakugo stop moving.

 

“You’ll live,” Todoroki said, amused and resolute. “I’m not finishing like this, half-folded in a bathtub with your thigh in my ribs.”

 

Bakugo whined again, dramatic and sulking, nipping at his shoulder. “This is cruel. You’re cruel.”

 

“I’m uncomfortable,” Todoroki replied, deadpan. “It was hot at first, but now my knees are going numb.”

 

Bakugo groaned, letting his head fall back against the tile with a thunk. “Unbelievable.”

 

“Help me dry off,” Todoroki said, voice low, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. He leaned in, lips brushing Bakugo’s ear, breath warm. “Then take me to bed. I wanna feel you everywhere.”

 

Bakugo froze—actually froze—his grip tightening like instinct. “Fuck,” he breathed. His laugh came out strangled, dazed. “You’re a menace.”

 

Todoroki just kissed the corner of his mouth and climbed out of the tub, slow and unbothered. “Better hurry,” he said over his shoulder. “Or I’ll start without you.”

 

***

Chapter 16

Todoroki lay sprawled on his stomach in Bakugo’s bed, legs tangled loosely in the sheets, phone aglow in the dark.

 

His brows were furrowed, thumb flicking through another string of medical emails from the hospital.

 

The latest one was from a specialist.

 

Words like “post-op pain” and “estimated recovery window” flashed by in sterile, clinical language.

 

Todoroki’s expression didn’t change, but his jaw clenched subtly tighter with every paragraph.

 

In the background, the apartment settled around them.

 

The soft thunk of a locked window.

 

The click of the front door deadbolt.

 

The distant hum of a light switch flipping off, followed by the low, steady shuffle of Bakugo moving through the place with his usual bedtime ritual—systematic, silent, all business.

 

But when the mattress dipped behind him, Todoroki barely registered it.

 

He didn’t look up until a hand brushed his phone.

 

Bakugo tugged it gently from his grip, thumb swiping the screen off without a word.

 

“You need to chill,” he muttered, voice low and quiet in the dark. “There'll still be medical nerds to talk to in the morning.”

 

Todoroki blinked at him, eyes adjusting slowly. “I was just—”

 

“Yeah, I know.” Bakugo tossed the phone onto the nightstand and leaned down, lips brushing Todoroki’s temple. “Take a break. Stop trying to do all this shit by yourself.”

 

Todoroki rolled onto his side to face him, eyes soft. “I’m just used to it.”

 

“Well, quit it.”

 

Todoroki didn’t push back.

 

Instead, he scooted a little further over on the mattress—out of habit more than anything—giving Bakugo his space like always.

 

Bakugo climbed into bed, and stared at the gap between them.

 

And then he did something uncharacteristic.

 

He slid right into that space like it’d always been his, chest pressed to Todoroki’s back, one arm slipping around his waist with a low hum.

 

Todoroki tensed, startled. “…What are you doing?”

 

Bakugo grunted. “Gettin’ comfortable.”

 

“You don’t like cuddling.”

 

“I like you.”

 

That shut Todoroki up real quick. His ears turned pink. “Oh.”

 

“Yeah. Oh.” Bakugo’s voice dropped as he nuzzled the back of Todoroki’s neck, breathing him in. “You’ve been running on fumes all week. Just let me hold you for a bit.”

 

Todoroki blinked at the wall, completely thrown off-kilter. “You... Don't usually...”

 

“I’m full of surprises.”

 

The warmth of his hand splayed wide across Todoroki’s stomach, thumb tracing a soft arc back and forth.

 

“Is this one of your ways of trying to make me smile?” Todoroki asked quietly.

 

Bakugo didn’t answer right away.

 

Then, grudgingly, “Maybe.”

 

Todoroki turned slightly, reaching for Bakugo’s hand and lacing their fingers together. His voice was a whisper against the dark. “It’s working.”

 

Bakugo buried his face in Todoroki’s hair to hide his stupid, smug smile.

 

They fell asleep like that.

 

Tucked close, breathing steady, hearts slower now.

 

The weight of everything still existed—surgery, stress, uncertainty—but for tonight, it was a little easier to carry.

 

*

 

The next morning, Bakugo almost got into a fight with his own reflection.

 

The bathroom mirror wasn’t doing Bakugo any favors, and he was pissed about it.

 

He glared at his reflection, yanking a brush through his warzone of morning hair.

 

One side stuck up like he’d slept in a wind tunnel. The other? Flat against his skull. Traitorous.

 

“Get in line,” he muttered, giving up halfway through. “One crisis at a time.”

 

He padded barefoot into the hallway, rubbing sleep from one eye.

 

The rest of the apartment was quiet—still blue with early light. Muffled city sounds filtered in through the windows, but inside, everything felt slow. Safe.

 

Then he hit the doorway to the kitchen.

 

And stopped cold.

 

Todoroki stood at the counter, back turned, one hand curled around the handle of the coffee pot as he poured with practiced ease.

 

His legs were bare.

 

The only thing covering him was one of Bakugo’s old black t-shirts—oversized, wrinkled, hanging low enough to graze the tops of his thighs but still leaving way too much to the imagination.

 

Bakugo wanted to see so much more.

 

It was domestic. It was intimate.

 

And it was criminally hot.

 

Bakugo opened his mouth to say something—anything, probably something dumb—but nothing came out.

 

Because Todoroki, blissfully unaware of the emotional crisis he was causing, was now humming softly under his breath as he poured the second cup.

 

Bakugo crossed the kitchen in three quick steps.

 

Todoroki barely had time to turn before strong arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him back against a warm chest.

 

“Christ,” Bakugo breathed against his neck, “you can’t just walk around like that.”

 

Todoroki blinked, startled. “Like what?”

 

Bakugo’s hands splayed wider across his stomach, thumbs brushing the hem of the shirt. “Like this. Shirt halfway down your thighs. Lookin’ all warm and soft and fuckin’… mine.”

 

Todoroki’s ears went red. “You like it?”

 

Bakugo scoffed. “I like it so much I might have a stroke.”

 

Todoroki set the coffee pot down and leaned into him, all sleepy weight and quiet warmth. “I didn’t realize it was yours until I put it on. Sorry.”

 

“You’re keepin' it.”

 

Todoroki tilted his head back a little. “I figured.”

 

Bakugo pressed a kiss to his temple. “Still too early to be this turned on,” he muttered, voice gravel-soft.

 

Todoroki grinned, slow and smug. “Then maybe you should make us breakfast.”

 

Bakugo groaned dramatically and dropped his forehead to Todoroki’s shoulder. “You’re lucky I like you.”

 

“You’re lucky I—” Todoroki paused, and smiled. “No, you're right. I am lucky.”

 

They stood there like that for another minute, swaying just slightly—bare feet on cool tile, old shirt and warmer hands, two mugs waiting patiently on the counter while the world took a little longer to wake up.

 

Bakugo didn’t let go.

 

And Todoroki didn’t ask him to.

 

*

 

On the way to work, Todoroki was still tired.

 

The kind that settled deep—beneath skin, behind his ribs.

 

The kind no amount of sleep ever really touched.

 

But today… it felt lighter.

 

Maybe it was the way the sun streaked through Bakugo’s windshield. Or the quiet hum of the engine, the way Bakugo’s playlist leaned more mellow than usual.

 

Or maybe it was just the simple fact that he’d woken up in a place that didn’t feel temporary.

 

Bakugo’s place felt almost like home.

 

Todoroki leaned his head against the passenger-side window, watching buildings blur by.

 

“You look half-dead,” Bakugo said, not unkindly.

 

“I feel three-quarters dead,” Todoroki replied, lips twitching into a faint smile. “But I’ll rally.”

 

Bakugo reached over and rested a hand on his thigh.

 

Just placed it there, casual. Thumb tapping softly through the fabric like it was muscle memory.

 

It made something tender ache in Todoroki’s chest.

 

They rode in silence for another minute before Bakugo spoke again.

 

“Hey. Mind a quick detour? I swear I can still get you to work on time.”

 

Todoroki glanced over. “What kind of detour?”

 

“Coffee,” Bakugo said.

 

Todoroki nodded. “Oh. Sure.”

 

They peeled off the main road a few minutes later, rolling into a quieter part of downtown—where the buildings looked more like art than businesses.

 

Glass and steel, all clean lines and designer landscaping. No signage. No traffic.

 

Bakugo slowed in front of a tall, white building. Minimalist. Sleek.

 

And oddly familiar.

 

Todoroki sat up straighter. “How funny. That looks just like Midoriya's car.”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer.

 

He just parked, killed the engine, and turned to face him.

 

Then he smiled—just a little. “I lied.”

 

Todoroki blinked. “About what?”

 

“We’re not shooting a video today,” Bakugo said. “It’s a photo shoot.”

 

“…Okay,” Todoroki said slowly. “You didn't have to lie about that. A photo shoot for what?”

 

Bakugo got out without answering. Walked around the car.

 

Opened Todoroki’s door like a proper menace, and held out his hand.

 

Todoroki took it, reluctantly.

 

Bakugo held his hand all the way up the steps.

 

“It’s a surprise,” Bakugo said. “Not just from me. From all of us.”

 

Todoroki’s brow furrowed deeper. “I don’t understand.”

 

“I know,” Bakugo said quietly as they reached the door. “But you will.”

 

He pushed it open.

 

Inside was a tall, open loft. All white brick and studio lights and soft floor coverings.

 

Minimalist set pieces: a low bed frame, a wide white couch, a marble table all set up on a platform near the front of the room.

 

And people.

 

Kaminari was rubbing oil onto his chest, laughing because he was probably tickling himself. Sero was stretching his arms out near a rack of robes.

 

Midoriya stood by the window, talking to Aizawa, who glanced up the second the door opened.

 

Everyone turned.

 

And smiled.

 

Todoroki froze.

 

Bakugo leaned close, hand still in his, voice low in his ear. “We wanted to do something for you,” he said. “Just to make you some more money.”

 

Todoroki looked around—at friends, at rivals, at people who didn’t owe him a damn thing.

 

His eyes landed on Midoriya, who waved, grinning like he hadn’t just helped set up something this big.

 

Bakugo’s hand squeezed his. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he added. “You can say no. We’ll leave right now.”

 

Todoroki’s throat tightened. “Why are you all doing this?”

 

Bakugo looked at him—steady, quiet, unwavering. “Because you deserve it.”

 

*

 

The lights weren’t harsh—not this time.

 

The loft glowed under soft gels and muted bulbs, casting everything in a haze of honeyed gold.

 

Warm shadows clung to the curves of shoulders and collarbones, the dips of spines and the lines of thighs.

 

The room felt less like a studio and more like a painting. Something private.

 

Kirishima stepped in first, barefoot in soft charcoal joggers and nothing else.

 

His hair was tied half-up, loose strands curling near his temples, the red of it catching light like fire.

 

He moved without hesitation, already rolling his shoulders loose.

 

Kaminari followed, a contrast in black boxer briefs and a wrinkled button-up that clung to his chest like he’d slept in it.

 

He hadn’t buttoned it properly. Or maybe he had—and then someone on set undid half of it, just to look effortless.

 

He looked like the morning after.

 

“Positions, please,” the photographer called gently from behind the lens, not pushy, not loud—just present.

 

Kirishima gave a small, confident nod, then glanced sideways at Kaminari.

 

Kaminari smirked and tilted his head. “You wanna lead, or you wanna follow?”

 

Kirishima chuckled and didn’t answer. Just stepped in close and set his hands lightly at Kaminari’s hips.

 

Kaminari’s breath caught. “Okay,” he murmured, grinning now.

 

The camera clicked.

 

They moved naturally—Kirishima guiding without a word, Kaminari following like he’d been doing it for years.

 

They posed with a kind of practiced ease, Kaminari’s head tilted against Kirishima’s shoulder, one hand hooked into the waistband of Kirishima’s joggers like he belonged there.

 

Kirishima bent slightly, nose brushing Kaminari’s temple, fingers teasing under the hem of Kaminari’s shirt.

 

“Pause there,” the photographer murmured. “Perfect. Eyes on him, Kaminari.”

 

Kaminari obeyed instantly, gaze lifting to meet Kirishima’s.

 

His expression was open, soft. Trusting in a way that made the room feel warmer.

 

Another click.

 

“Let him move you,” the photographer said. “You two look great.”

 

Kirishima shifted, one hand sliding up Kaminari’s spine as he leaned closer.

 

Their legs tangled naturally—Kaminari half-seated on the edge of a low platform, Kirishima standing between his knees.

 

The hem of Kaminari’s shirt rode up, baring his thighs, his navel.

 

He didn’t flinch.

 

Kirishima’s fingers brushed his jaw. Kaminari tilted his head instinctively, baring his neck like an invitation.

 

“Good,” came the soft voice from behind the camera. “Beautiful.”

 

They didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to.

 

Kaminari’s hands roamed freely—over Kirishima’s ribs, his hips, his shoulders—never greedy, always guided.

 

And Kirishima just kept touching back. Kept leading. Like a current beneath the surface, steady and strong.

 

When Kirishima leaned in to kiss him, sliding a hand into the back of Kaminari's underwear at the same time, Kaminari gasped.

 

The photographer changed angles, and just let them work together naturally without him having to ask for anything.

 

It was almost too much—Kaminari’s mouth parted, his chest rising in shallow, pretty breaths.

 

He looked almost overwhelmed. Gorgeous and undone.

 

But Kirishima never let him drift too far. Always kept one hand at the back of his neck. Always kept him present.

 

By the time the final shots were taken, Kaminari was grinning again, flushed and happy, the laughter back in his eyes.

 

He glanced at Kirishima, lips twitching. “You always this good at bossing people around?”

 

Kirishima winked. “Only when they listen.”

 

The camera clicked one last time.

 

And then they stepped apart, still smiling.

 

*

 

The dressing room door at the side of the loft cracked open again.

 

Kaminari was now shirtless and laughing, brushing sweat from his brow as he helped Kirishima down from the platform—when he froze.

 

They both did.

 

Bakugo stepped inside.

 

His walk was slow.

 

Barefoot. No shirt. Just a loose pair of low-slung black briefs, clinging to him like a dare.

 

His skin gleamed under the studio lights, sharp planes and clean lines—shoulders cut from stone, abs flexed with every step.

 

He didn’t say a word. But he commanded the room with his presence alone.

 

Kaminari swallowed audibly.

 

Kirishima straightened automatically. “Here comes the king.”

 

And the photographer? He didn’t even blink—just adjusted the camera and murmured, “I'm ready whenever you guys are.”

 

Bakugo stepped up onto the platform between them. He looked at Kaminari, then Kirishima, and finally tilted his chin just slightly. “Obsess over me a little. Sell it.”

 

Kaminari grinned, already sidling in close. “Oh, with pleasure.”

 

Bakugo didn’t even react to the comment—just placed a hand on Kaminari’s hip, dragging him in, until their bodies were flush.

 

His other hand gripped the back of Kirishima’s neck and pulled him into the heat of his other side.

 

Click.

 

The first shots came fast.

 

Kaminari melted into Bakugo’s side, arms wrapped around his waist, lips pressed to his shoulder, eyes closed in something like bliss.

 

Kirishima moved behind, chest to Bakugo’s back, fingers spread across his ribs, mouth at his throat.

 

Bakugo stood tall in the center of them. Head tipped slightly back. Eyes half-lidded. Smirk carved deep into his mouth.

 

He didn’t chase them.

 

He let them orbit him.

 

One of Kaminari’s hands slipped to Bakugo’s chest, teasing his nipple until he got a low grunt in response.

 

Kirishima caught it and chuckled, kissing along Bakugo’s jaw, whispering something that made Bakugo’s lips twitch.

 

The photographer murmured, “Looks great. Keep going.”

 

Kirishima moved in front of Bakugo now—pressing their foreheads together, hands flat on Bakugo’s hips.

 

Bakugo met his gaze with something dark and electric.

 

Behind him, Kaminari kissed down Bakugo's spine, nipping at him lightly with his teeth.

 

Bakugo exhaled through his nose, gritted his teeth.

 

They clung to him.

 

Mouths everywhere. Hands roaming, greedy and reverent, touching him like they meant it.

 

Click.

 

The photographer’s voice cut in again. “Let’s flip it.”

 

Kaminari blinked. “Flip it?”

 

The photographer nodded. “Power dynamic. Let’s see the king brought to his knees.”

 

Bakugo turned, one eyebrow twitching—already loaded for argument.

 

But Kirishima stepped forward with a calm confidence. “Think about how much it'll sell for, Kugo. Lots of money we can make for your boy.”

 

Kaminari nodded in agreement, but he still wasn't sure Bakugo would go for it.

 

Kirishima tried again. “You trust me?” he asked quietly, voice pitched only for Bakugo to hear.

 

Bakugo stared at him for a long moment.

 

With a sigh like it pained him—like it carved down the center of his ego—Bakugo dropped to his knees.

 

The room stilled.

 

Bakugo settled back, knees spread wide, thighs tense, hands resting open on his legs. His head tilted back ever so slightly—exposing his throat.

 

Not vulnerable. Never.

 

But bare.

 

His expression was thunderous.

 

Chin raised. Eyes daring anyone to fucking laugh.

 

He wasn’t anyone’s toy. (Maybe Todoroki's).

 

But right now, he was choosing this.

 

Kirishima stepped forward, strong and steady, and cupped Bakugo’s jaw. Not forceful—just there. Confident in a way that didn’t need to be loud.

 

Kaminari circled behind, one hand sliding into Bakugo’s hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head a fraction more.

 

“Perfect,” the photographer whispered. “Like that.”

 

Bakugo’s mouth parted slightly.

 

Kirishima stared down at him like he worshipped him.

 

And Kaminari, grinning, leaned in just far enough to whisper something behind Bakugo’s ear that made him suck in a slow, steady breath.

 

Click.

 

Click.

 

Click.

 

This was the one.

 

The image that would go viral before it even hit the site.

 

A perfect, devastating moment: Bakugo on his knees, still fully himself—still fire and fury—but surrendering, just for a second.

 

Kirishima touched Bakugo’s jaw one more time, thumb brushing the edge of his lower lip.

 

“Perfect,” the photographer murmured.

 

And Bakugo—bit his lip.

 

Not to hide it.

 

But to own it.

 

His pride didn’t matter. Not if it got Todoroki what he needed.

 

He was gonna make that money for him—whatever it took.

 

***

Chapter 17

Notes:

Get comfy y'all - got a LONG chappy here

The lights dimmed slightly as the photographer adjusted his camera, shifting lenses and muttering notes to the assistant behind him.

 

In the center of the room, Sero stepped onto the platform barefoot, loose black pants hanging low on his hips, nothing else on him but confidence and sweat-slicked skin.

 

He rolled his shoulders once, easy and fluid, like he was stretching before a match.

 

And then he smiled—slow and lopsided, just shy of dangerous.

 

“Whenever you're ready,” the photographer murmured, already raising the camera.

 

Sero didn’t pose. He prowled.

 

Twisting slightly, bracing one arm against the whitewashed wall while the other dragged through his hair.

 

His eyes followed the camera like he had it on a leash, mouth just barely parted, tongue tucked into the corner in concentration.

 

Behind the camera, Bakugo watched.

 

He hadn’t moved far since stepping off the platform—still half-drenched in oil and the afterglow of pride and adrenaline, breathing deep as he stood behind the photographer with one hand on his own jaw, eyes tracking every slow motion of Sero’s limbs.

 

“You’re staring,” a quiet voice said behind him.

 

Bakugo didn’t jump.

 

He just smirked.

 

A soft brush of fabric hit his shoulders—his own robe, warm from someone else’s hands.

 

Todoroki. In nothing but his underwear, and an oversized shirt.

 

He slipped the robe carefully around Bakugo’s frame, tugging it forward like he was protecting something precious.

 

“You’re practically naked,” Todoroki added. “This is a workplace, y'know.”

 

Bakugo snorted. “Worried about me?”

 

Todoroki blinked. “You’re welcome.”

 

Bakugo turned slowly to face him—robe hanging loose around his shoulders now, the front still open, but warmer with Todoroki’s touch.

 

Todoroki’s eyes dragged down the line of Bakugo’s chest, then back up, unhurried.

 

“You were beautiful up there,” Todoroki said simply. “Confident. Strong.” He tilted his head slightly. “Even when you were on your knees.”

 

Bakugo raised an eyebrow, but his smirk softened at the edges. “Thought that might make you jealous.”

 

Todoroki’s mouth twitched. “A little. But it was… hot.”

 

Behind them, the camera clicked again—Sero arching against the wall, one leg bent, head tilted back like he was mid-laugh or mid-sigh.

 

Bakugo glanced over his shoulder. “He’s killing it.”

 

“Mm,” Todoroki agreed. “But I liked your pictures better.”

 

Bakugo looked back at him.

 

There was a beat.

 

A pause that hovered between them like held breath.

 

He reached out, one knuckle brushing the edge of Todoroki’s hip beneath the oversized shirt.

 

“You’re really soft when no one’s looking,” Bakugo murmured.

 

Todoroki hummed. “And you’re softer than you pretend to be.”

 

Bakugo scoffed. “Bite me.”

 

“Maybe later.”

 

A loud laugh from across the room interrupted them—Kaminari had just said something absurd near the water cooler, and Kirishima was wheezing from laughter, doubling over.

 

Todoroki smiled faintly at the sound.

 

Bakugo just looked at him again, robe slipping further down his shoulder. “You’re up soon,” he said. “Better hydrate. Or stretch. Or whatever princes do to get camera-ready.”

 

“I’m already ready,” Todoroki replied, stepping closer. “I just wanted to see you first.”

 

And before Bakugo could shoot back a clever reply, Todoroki leaned in and pressed a kiss—just one—soft and slow against the corner of Bakugo’s mouth.

 

It didn’t linger.

 

But the heat of it stayed.

 

*

 

The lights shifted again.

 

Sero stepped forward from the shadows, newly dressed in low-slung white jeans and nothing else—his chest long and lean, hair tousled to artful imperfection.

 

The photographer waved him onto the platform, adjusting the reflector to catch the warm bounce of light off his skin.

 

Todoroki followed, slower.

 

He wore a robe loose over his frame, slightly open at the front, revealing smooth skin and the slope of one shoulder.

 

Bakugo watched from his place just behind the camera, arms crossed, robe loosely knotted now.

 

His eyes didn’t stray—not once—as Todoroki stepped up beside Sero and waited for direction.

 

He didn’t wait long.

 

Sero shifted behind him, close but not touching, and dipped his head to murmur something low—so low only Todoroki could hear it.

 

Whatever it was made Todoroki’s lashes flicker.

 

“Hands here,” Sero said aloud a moment later, guiding Todoroki’s wrists with slow care, one at a time.

 

He placed Todoroki’s palms gently on his own chest—steady, confident, exposed.

 

Then his hands skimmed up Todoroki’s arms, barely brushing skin, until they settled around the back of his neck.

 

His thumbs stroked lightly there, a rhythmic back-and-forth, anchoring them both.

 

“Fine?” Sero asked, still quiet.

 

Todoroki nodded. “Yeah.”

 

Sero leaned in, voice barely audible. “Hold still for a second. You look beautiful like this.”

 

The shutter clicked.

 

Bakugo’s jaw flexed.

 

Kirishima and Kaminari stepped up beside him, each holding a water bottle, watching the shoot unfold.

 

Kaminari whispered, “Damn. That’s hot.”

 

Kirishima hummed. “Sero’s good. He always is.”

 

And he was.

 

He didn’t pose Todoroki—he moved him.

 

A shift of weight. A soft touch to the waist. A whispered suggestion and the ghost of a nudge to the inside of Todoroki’s thigh.

 

Sero walked Todoroki through every adjustment like he was teaching him to dance in real time.

 

No harshness. No barking orders.

 

Just soft praise. Quiet power.

 

“Chin down just a little,” Sero said. “Hold that for me.”

 

Click.

 

“Turn your head toward me. Perfect.”

 

Click.

 

His hands returned to Todoroki’s neck—thumbs skimming his jaw, fingers curling lightly behind his ears.

 

“Breathe,” Sero murmured. “You look incredible.”

 

Todoroki did.

 

The robe slipped further down his back, and then slid off Todoroki's body completely. The camera caught the contrast of warm skin and cooler light, the flush rising beneath his collarbone.

 

Bakugo’s eyes narrowed slightly. Not from anger. Just… hunger.

 

Sero slid one arm around Todoroki’s waist—broad palm splayed across his abdomen—and drew him closer until Todoroki’s back was flush to his chest.

 

Todoroki startled slightly, then relaxed into it.

 

His head tipped back, and their eyes locked.

 

Sero tilted his chin with two fingers and whispered, “Stay right there. Don’t move.”

 

Click.

 

“Goddamn,” the photographer said softly. “You two look great.”

 

Kirishima muttered under his breath, “I don’t know how the internet’s gonna survive this.”

 

Bakugo didn’t reply.

 

Sero nuzzled just behind Todoroki’s ear, not kissing him—not quite—but the tension snapped taut all the same.

 

His fingertips returned to Todoroki’s throat, brushing upward along the pulse point.

 

Todoroki blinked slowly, but didn’t move.

 

Didn’t look at the camera.

 

Bakugo watched every second.

 

When the camera finally clicked again, the room exhaled. The photographer lowered his gear.

 

“Jesus,” Kaminari muttered. “It’s like foreplay in 4K.”

 

Kirishima chuckled. “Dude. That's what we should call the calendar.”

 

Bakugo shook his head once, slow and sharp. “We're not making a calendar, you idiot.”

 

Kaminari leaned toward Kirishima and lowered his voice even more. “Wish we were. I'd buy the fuck out of it.”

 

“Same. And I don't even use a calendar.” Kirishima responded.

 

Bakugo rolled his eyes. “You two are disgusting.”

 

But even he couldn’t deny it.

 

They looked gorgeous.

 

And Bakugo would be lying if he said he didn’t feel that twinge—of jealousy, of awe, of something darker and sweeter than either.

 

He just crossed his arms tighter.

 

And waited for his turn to step back into the light.

 

*

 

Sero stepped down from the platform, body still buzzing with the afterglow of the shoot.

 

He reached out and briefly touched Todoroki’s arm, voice low and warm. “You did amazing,” he said, sincere. “Thanks for trusting me.”

 

Todoroki nodded once, sliding his robe back onto his shoulders. “Thanks for leading.”

 

They shared a quiet look—respectful, grounded—before Sero slipped off toward the dressing area, where Kaminari and Kirishima were still rehydrating and tossing compliments like confetti.

 

Then—

 

“Hey, Shoto,” Midoriya called, stepping onto the platform.

 

He was already barefoot, wearing low-slung black lounge pants and a loosely open shirt that hung just enough to tease definition underneath.

 

His eyes were soft, his smile real.

 

And when Todoroki turned to him, something in his posture relaxed.

 

Completely.

 

Todoroki shrugged out of his robe in one fluid motion, tossing it aside, and Midoriya followed suit, discarding his shirt and flashing a brief glimpse of muscle and skin kissed by warm light.

 

They laughed at something—some quiet comment between them, too low for the others to hear—and the photographer gave them a moment before calling out gently, “Let’s get into place when you’re ready.”

 

And just like that, they shifted.

 

Todoroki stood in the center first, arms loose at his sides.

 

Midoriya approached slowly, circling him once, like they were sizing each other up—not aggressively, but with heat and history threaded in every glance.

 

Then Midoriya moved behind him.

 

Hands gentle at first. Skimming Todoroki’s waist. Palms flattening against his sides.

 

He leaned in and murmured something that made Todoroki’s lips twitch into a smile, just as the shutter clicked.

 

Then Midoriya’s hand tangled into Todoroki’s hair.

 

He tugged.

 

Todoroki’s head tipped back, throat bare, pulse fluttering beneath skin.

 

Midoriya leaned forward and kissed his neck.

 

Click.

 

Bakugo, standing a few paces back behind the photographer, visibly tensed.

 

He didn’t say anything.

 

But his arms crossed. His jaw ticked.

 

On the platform, Todoroki shifted.

 

One hand slid back across Midoriya’s hip—gripping, not guiding. A quiet retaliation. A balance.

 

Midoriya responded immediately, dragging his palm across Todoroki’s chest.

 

His fingers grazed a bruise blooming near his collarbone.

 

One that Bakugo had put there.

 

Midoriya's mouth brushed over it—soft, reverent, grinning against Todoroki’s skin.

 

Bakugo muttered something sharp under his breath.

 

Kaminari turned, eyebrows raised, but didn’t say a word.

 

The photographer adjusted the angle. “That’s perfect. Little more shoulder, Midoriya. Todoroki, pull him in tighter. Yeah—just like that.”

 

Todoroki obeyed. Arms around Midoriya’s waist now, fingers splaying.

 

Their bodies pressed together, skin flush to skin, breathing syncopated.

 

Then Midoriya leaned in again.

 

His lips hovered by Todoroki’s mouth.

 

One more heartbeat, and they kissed.

 

Not long. Not desperate.

 

Just long enough for Bakugo’s vision to go white at the edges. “That’s enough,” he snapped, voice cutting sharp across the studio like a whip crack.

 

Everyone froze.

 

Todoroki blinked.

 

Midoriya pulled back, startled.

 

The photographer lowered the camera slowly. “Uh…”

 

Bakugo took one long, grounding breath through his nose and stepped forward. “I’m—” He faltered. “I’m trying to date him. Or whatever. So just—watch it, okay? Don't kiss his mouth.”

 

Kaminari let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a giggle.

 

Kirishima fully choked on his water.

 

Todoroki blinked again. This time slower. “You’re what?”

 

Bakugo rubbed a hand down his face. “Fuck off, you heard me.”

 

Midoriya, eyes wide and cautious, raised both hands in mock surrender. “Sorry, sorry! I didn't know. Just got caught up in the moment—he’s very kissable.”

 

“I know,” Bakugo snapped, ears pink, eyes furious. “That’s the whole fucking problem.”

 

Todoroki looked down at the floor.

 

Then up at Bakugo again. And smiled.

 

Soft. Warm. Amused.

 

“You’re mine?” Todoroki repeated, voice a little quieter. “That what you said?”

 

Bakugo coughed. “Shut up.”

 

*

 

Midoriya stepped back from the platform, chest heaving, curls damp with sweat.

 

He pressed a lingering kiss to Todoroki’s cheek—nothing romantic, just soft and familiar—and murmured, “I think it’s time I get out of the way.”

 

Todoroki blinked at him. “You sure?”

 

Midoriya grinned, glancing behind him. “Someone’s about to combust.”

 

Bakugo was already striding toward the set, half-dressed, his robe discarded and nothing on but black boxer briefs that clung low and tight.

 

His jaw was clenched. His shoulders rolled with tension.

 

And when his eyes met Todoroki’s, the air all but cracked.

 

Midoriya raised his hands in surrender as he passed him. “He’s all yours, tough guy.”

 

The photographer, without missing a beat, adjusted the lights.

 

Bakugo climbed onto the platform like it was built for him.

 

He didn’t wait for direction. Didn’t ask for marks.

 

He just stopped in front of Todoroki and looked at him—really looked at him.

 

“You good?” he asked, voice low, nearly guttural.

 

Todoroki nodded, lips parting slightly. “Yeah. You?”

 

Bakugo smirked. “I’m perfect.”

 

Then he stepped into Todoroki’s space like he’d been waiting to do it all day.

 

His hands didn’t fumble.

 

They mapped over Todoroki’s ribs, curled around his waist, dragged slow across the waistband of Todoroki’s briefs like he had every right to touch him this way—and maybe he did.

 

Todoroki’s breath caught.

 

Bakugo leaned in, nose brushing his temple, lips grazing his jaw. “Let them watch,” he murmured. “They don’t know you like I do.”

 

The camera clicked.

 

Todoroki tilted his head back instinctively, exposing his neck, and Bakugo took the invitation like a gift.

 

He dragged his mouth along the fading bruises already scattered there—ones he had put there—and pressed his tongue to one.

 

A gasp slipped from Todoroki’s mouth.

 

“Beautiful,” someone said. Maybe Sero.

 

Bakugo shifted behind him, chest to Todoroki’s back, and hooked one arm across Todoroki’s chest to pull him flush. His other hand slipped around Todoroki’s thigh, just to push his legs further apart.

 

Todoroki moved with him, not fighting it—just matching him, breath for breath.

 

“Stay right there,” Bakugo growled, glancing toward the photographer. “You getting this?”

 

“Sure am,” the man muttered, camera shutter going wild.

 

Todoroki twisted slightly, hand finding Bakugo’s jaw, thumb brushing his lip—and Bakugo nipped at it.

 

“You’re gonna kill me, in front of everyone,” Todoroki breathed.

 

Bakugo’s grin was slow, wicked. “Good.”

 

He spun Todoroki back around, walking him backward until Todoroki’s spine hit the column at the edge of the platform.

 

He didn’t slam him. He placed him there, like a centerpiece.

 

One hand braced beside Todoroki’s head, the other splayed low across his stomach and slowly sliding into the front of his briefs.

 

Todoroki gasped on instinct when Bakugo's hand slid past his waistband, and Todoroki's hand shot out to grab his wrist.

 

Todoroki was flushed now, breath coming faster, chest rising and falling under Bakugo’s stare.

 

The photographer was saying something—pacing, adjusting, snapping frames by the second—but it all blurred into the background.

 

Bakugo leaned in. “Last shot,” he said. “Give ‘em something they won’t forget.”

 

And then he kissed him.

 

Hard. Hot. Messy.

 

It wasn’t a stage kiss. It wasn’t framed or planned.

 

It was Bakugo, mouth hungry, hand in Todoroki’s hair, teeth nipping his lower lip like he couldn’t stand to stop.

 

Todoroki clung to him, pulling him closer, kissing back like he meant it—because he did.

 

*

 

Bakugo felt Todoroki melt against him, the tension gone from his muscles, replaced with something loose and heated.

 

The arm Bakugo had braced beside his head dropped to Todoroki’s waist, and then lower—to the curve of his ass, squeezing hard enough to draw a startled gasp right into his mouth.

 

The photographer moved quick. “Don’t move,” he breathed, stepping in closer, adjusting the lens.

 

Bakugo, smirking against Todoroki’s mouth, shifted his grip again—hiking one of Todoroki’s legs up with a firm hand under the thigh and pinning it high against his own hip. The stretch of it was gorgeous.

 

Todoroki’s flushed skin, his parted lips, the way his fingers clutched Bakugo’s shoulders for balance—

 

Click. Click. Click.

 

Bakugo didn’t stop kissing him.

 

Didn’t even slow down.

 

He leaned into it, lips wet and open, tongue chasing after every soft sound Todoroki let slip.

 

His other hand skimmed up Todoroki’s side, dragging against skin like he was reacquainting himself with every inch.

 

The camera snapped again. And again.

 

Todoroki finally turned his head to the side, breaking the kiss with a shaky laugh.

 

“I think I need a water break,” he panted, eyes dazed.

 

Bakugo chuckled, chest still rising and falling like he’d just run a sprint. “You okay?”

 

Todoroki nodded weakly, wiping sweat from his brow. “Just… overheated.”

 

“Water run!” Kaminari called from the sidelines like a stagehand on fire. He zoomed onto the platform, tossed a cold water bottle into Todoroki’s hands, and bolted back offstage like a gremlin in a hoodie.

 

“Thanks,” Todoroki said, amused, fingers working to twist the cap.

 

But Bakugo had other ideas.

 

He snatched the bottle mid-turn, ignoring Todoroki’s scandalized little noise.

 

“Hey—”

 

Bakugo tilted it up, taking a deep swig.

 

Todoroki blinked at him. “This is so mean, Katsu—”

 

And then Bakugo grabbed him.

 

One hand with the water bottle at his back, the other sliding onto Todoroki's abdomen, he shoved him gently but firmly back against the column, caging him in with heat and muscle and confidence.

 

And kissed him.

 

Open-mouthed. Wet.

 

The water transferred between them—cool and shocking and intimate, making Todoroki jolt a little in his grip.

 

He swallowed instinctively, lips moving against Bakugo’s with a soft, instinctive sound.

 

Water trailed down Todoroki’s chin, along his throat, across his chest.

 

The photographer gasped, and leaned his camera in a little closer.

 

Bakugo tilted Todoroki’s head back just a bit with his thumb, let a little more water trickle down the line of his collarbone, kissed him again just below the jaw, and let the droplets frame his mouth.

 

Click.

 

Todoroki clung to him—breathless, skin flushed.

 

Click.

 

The water traced down his sternum, catching the light.

 

Click.

 

“You’re gonna kill me,” Todoroki whispered.

 

Bakugo leaned in again, dragging his tongue along the water’s path down Todoroki’s neck. “Then die pretty, baby.”

 

Click.

 

***

Chapter 18

Notes:

You guys are gonna DIE. This is adorable, I'm totally tooting my own horn.

The table at the ramen place was too small for the group—but that just made everything feel better.

 

Shoulders bumped. Bowls steamed. Someone’s thigh was always brushing someone else’s.

 

Laughter spilled over clinking glasses and the low hum of slurped noodles. The energy buzzed, still high from the shoot.

 

Kaminari was in rare form, narrating his poses from earlier like a dramatic actor. “I looked dead into the lens and said, ‘Get my good side—oh wait. I only have good sides.’”

 

Sero fake-gagged into his soda. “Bro, you tripped over a light cable and almost face-planted into the backdrop.”

 

“A pose is what it was,” Kaminari insisted, pointing with his chopsticks. “I was just bringing the drama.”

 

Midoriya laughed so hard he snorted. Kirishima just rolled his eyes.

 

Todoroki, seated quietly beside Bakugo, had the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

 

Then his phone buzzed. His expression shifted instantly—eyes down, brows pulling slightly together.

 

He stood, already moving. “I have to take this.”

 

Everyone sobered just a touch as he stepped outside, pushing through the door and out into the street.

 

Bakugo watched him until the glass swung shut behind him.

 

Then Midoriya turned to Bakugo. “Have you heard anything new about his mom?”

 

Bakugo’s gaze lingered on the door before he answered.

 

“The surgery’s coming up fast, and their medical insurance is shitty,” he said, voice lower now. “He’s stressed. He doesn’t show it all the time, but he hasn’t been sleeping.”

 

Kirishima leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Can someone remind me? Why exactly isn’t Enji helping out? He’s got money, he’s got reach… Doesn't he give a shit about his wife?”

 

Bakugo shook his head. “I’ve been wondering the same thing.” He turned to Midoriya. “You’ve known them both a long time. Any clue?”

 

Midoriya frowned, stirring his noodles slowly, the air around him going a little quieter. “Not really,” he said after a pause. “I know Enji’s always been… focused on himself. His image. His agency.”

 

“Selfish,” Sero added.

 

Midoriya nodded. “Yeah. Even when Todoroki was just starting out, Enji was more interested in how he could use him than how he could support him.”

 

There was another quiet moment.

 

Then Midoriya looked up, expression tinged with something old. Something disappointed.

 

“He kicked Todoroki out of his studio a few years ago,” Midoriya said. “Said he wasn’t bringing in enough profit. Wasn’t marketable enough because of the scar on his face. Some bullshit like that.”

 

Bakugo’s eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”

 

“Dead serious,” Midoriya said. “Todoroki never talked about it, but Aizawa told me later. Said Enji barely gave him any warning. Just dropped him.”

 

Kirishima looked stunned. “That’s why he ended up at Aizawa’s?”

 

Midoriya nodded. “Yeah. And the irony is, he exploded over there. Aizawa gave him control. He made it work. Built everything himself. And now? Enji’s been dying to pull him back. That's why he started pitching those studio crossover collabs.”

 

Sero leaned back in his chair. “Let me guess. That’s how the contract with Bakugo started.”

 

Bakugo’s jaw clenched. “Must be. But I didn't know all that.”

 

He sat with that for a moment, letting the pieces click together.

 

“He’s not just stressed about the money,” Bakugo muttered. “He’s trying to prove he that he can do it on his own.”

 

Midoriya nodded slowly. “Yeah. And he’s doing it. But... He still needs help.”

 

Bakugo glanced toward the window again—where Todoroki still stood, phone to his ear, eyes distant, brow tight.

 

Doing it. Alone.

 

But maybe not for much longer.

 

Not if Bakugo had anything to say about it.

 

*

 

The drive back was quiet.

 

Not uncomfortable. Just… quieter than before.

 

Todoroki sat curled slightly toward the window, one leg tucked up on the seat, his free hand linked with Bakugo’s across the console.

 

He was trying to smile—Bakugo could tell. But the edges weren’t holding.

 

Still, the fingers in his palm stayed warm, steady.

 

Bakugo gave them a small squeeze. “You okay?”

 

Todoroki nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

 

“You sure?”

 

Another pause.

 

Todoroki said, “I’m tired. But I’m okay.”

 

Bakugo kept his eyes on the road for a few more beats. Then, “Is there anything I can do to make it better?”

 

Todoroki glanced over at him, expression soft. “You already did.”

 

Bakugo raised an eyebrow.

 

“Hanging out with everyone,” Todoroki said. “Laughing. Not thinking about… everything. That was so nice. Not to mention the photoshoot, and... I'm sure our paychecks are gonna be really generous. So, no. You've done more than enough.”

 

Bakugo didn’t argue.

 

But he did ignore it.

 

Because a few minutes later, he turned sharply into a small strip mall parking lot and pulled into a space right in front of a brightly colored boba shop.

 

Todoroki looked up, confused. “What are we doing?”

 

Bakugo reached for the gearshift and parked. “Getting you something sweet.”

 

“You don’t have to—”

 

“Tell me your order.”

 

Todoroki hesitated.

 

“C'mon, T. Don't make me guess.”

 

Todoroki gave in quietly, “Taro milk tea. Half sweet. Please.”

 

Bakugo nodded, popped the door, and was gone before Todoroki could protest again.

 

When he came back out five minutes later, two drinks in hand, Todoroki had the car door open, one foot on the pavement, like he’d been halfway to following him.

 

Bakugo handed over the drink.

 

Todoroki took it like it might shatter in his hands. “Thank you.”

 

Bakugo climbed into the car, shut the door, and sipped his own. “Try it. Make sure they didn’t screw it up.”

 

Todoroki took a sip. “This is so good,” he murmured, like it was a revelation. “Seriously. Thank you.”

 

“You said that already.”

 

“I meant it.”

 

Bakugo smiled to himself, low and satisfied, as he pulled back onto the road.

 

They didn’t say much for the rest of the drive, just occasional sips, the sound of Todoroki’s straw catching ice.

 

A comfort, not a silence.

 

But as soon as they turned into Bakugo’s driveway, Todoroki’s phone lit up.

 

Bakugo noticed the way his fingers hesitated, but he didn't say a word about it.

 

Still, Todoroki answered. “Hello?”

 

There was a pause.

 

Then Todoroki’s face darkened. “I didn’t know about the shoot in advance,” he said slowly. “And even if I had, it was for Aizawa’s studio. Not yours.”

 

Another pause.

 

Bakugo frowned. “Is that your old man?”

 

Todoroki nodded stiffly.

 

“He’s upset about the shoot?”

 

Todoroki started to respond, but Bakugo had already reached over and snatched the phone from his hand.

 

“Hey,” Bakugo snapped into the speaker. “You got a problem, take it up with me. I organized it.”

 

A beat.

 

Then Bakugo’s voice dropped half an octave. “And while we’re at it—maybe focus on your son’s life, not his fucking career. He doesn't even work for you, so why does it matter?”

 

Todoroki opened his mouth to stop him— But then didn’t.

 

He just watched.

 

Bakugo’s knuckles whitened on the phone. “No, I’m not kidding. You can yell at me in person. I’ll be in your office tomorrow morning. Wear something comfortable.”

 

Enji said something else, but Bakugo didn’t give him the chance to finish.

 

He hung up. Hard.

 

Todoroki stared at him.

 

Bakugo handed the phone back like it was nothing. “He’s not gonna bother you again tonight,” he said simply. “C’mon. Let’s go inside.”

 

And just like that—Bakugo got out, calmly sipping his drink, like he hadn’t just challenged one of the most powerful men in the industry to a fight.

 

Todoroki followed, still holding his cup.

 

*

 

They barely made it through the front door before Todoroki wrapped his arms around Bakugo from behind.

 

No words. Just a long, full-bodied exhale against Bakugo’s shoulder blades. Like something inside him had finally relaxed.

 

Bakugo didn’t say anything at first. Just reached up to rest a hand on Todoroki’s forearm and stood there, letting the silence settle between them.

 

Then Bakugo said, “You good?”

 

Todoroki pressed his face against the back of Bakugo’s neck. “I am now.”

 

That pulled a small smile from Bakugo.

 

Bakugo gently took the cup out of Todoroki's hand, just to set both of their cups onto the kitchen counter.

 

He turned in the circle of Todoroki’s arms and slid his own around his waist, pulling him close. “You’re needy tonight.”

 

Todoroki didn’t argue. He just nodded, honest. “Yeah.”

 

That word—soft, low—was a confession.

 

Bakugo leaned in and kissed his cheek. Then the corner of his mouth. Then lower.

 

The kiss that followed was slow. Not teasing. Not urgent.

 

Just warm. Connected.

 

Bakugo’s hands stayed on Todoroki’s back, fingers sliding under his hoodie, dragging up across bare skin with steady pressure.

 

Todoroki sighed into his mouth, leaning in, finding comfort in the heat.

 

He didn’t want space. Not tonight.

 

“I could stay here forever,” Todoroki whispered.

 

Bakugo pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “Then stay.”

 

And he did.

 

They made dinner together—simple, half-hearted. Something warm with rice and vegetables.

 

Todoroki chopped while Bakugo stirred, shoulder to shoulder, hips bumping now and then.

 

They didn’t talk about Enji. Or contracts. Or money.

 

Just the food. The movie they threw on after. The sound of rain tapping gently on the windows outside.

 

By the time the dishes were cleared and the couch called to them, Todoroki looked softer around the edges—still tired, still worn, but glowing in a way Bakugo couldn’t take his eyes off of.

 

He pulled him down onto the cushions.

 

Todoroki ended up half in his lap, hoodie discarded, one leg tucked between Bakugo’s.

 

Their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, warm and familiar.

 

“Thanks for letting me stay here. It's been a while since I've felt like this,” Todoroki murmured, his fingers tracing light circles on Bakugo’s chest.

 

“Like what?”

 

“Safe.”

 

Bakugo didn’t know what to say to that. Not right away.

 

So he didn’t speak.

 

He just kissed him again—deeper now. More open. Like he heard him.

 

Todoroki let himself melt into it.

 

Let the tension leave his body. Let his hands roam.

 

Let himself be wanted, without question or condition.

 

And when Bakugo tugged him closer, letting their bodies press together, there was no rush.

 

No act.

 

Just affection, and desire.

 

*

 

Everything about the way they touched each other was slow—almost hesitant.

 

Like they both wanted to make sure the other had every chance to pull away, even if neither of them ever would.

 

Todoroki’s hand slid beneath the hem of Bakugo’s shirt, fingertips trailing lightly over his ribs.

 

Bakugo sucked in a breath through his nose, then leaned in to kiss the spot just below Todoroki’s ear, drawing a quiet sigh from him.

 

Todoroki straddled Bakugo’s lap, one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other curled around the back of Bakugo’s neck.

 

They kissed like they had time.

 

Like there was no camera. No outside world. No contract waiting to expire.

 

Bakugo’s hands were firm but careful—one splayed across Todoroki’s back, the other settling on his hip. He guided him forward, just enough to press them together.

 

Heat bloomed low in Todoroki’s gut.

 

Still, even now, Bakugo paused just to look at him, and wait for an answer.

 

Todoroki pressed their foreheads together. “I want this.”

 

That was all it took.

 

Clothes eased off between kisses.

 

No rush, no showmanship. Just skin. Just friction.

 

Just gasps drawn out between slow rolls of hips and soft curses muttered against lips, neck, shoulders.

 

They moved like they were learning each other by touch—every scar, every tremble, every sigh pulled from skin memorized by fingertips.

 

Bakugo murmured praise without thinking—words he might’ve held back in any other moment, but not now.

 

Not with Todoroki looking at him like that, whispering his name like it was the only word left in the world.

 

When it was over, the world felt quiet.

 

Todoroki lay half on top of him, cheek pressed to Bakugo’s chest, their legs tangled beneath a blanket someone had thrown over the couch days ago.

 

The rain was still tapping at the windows.

 

Bakugo had one hand resting lightly at the small of Todoroki’s back. The other played lazily with the ends of his hair.

 

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

 

Until Todoroki shifted just slightly, looking up at him with the ghost of a smirk. “So,” he said quietly, “are you ever gonna ask me to be your boyfriend?”

 

Bakugo didn’t flinch.

 

He didn’t deflect.

 

He just looked at him—dead-on, soft-eyed—and said, “Yeah.”

 

Todoroki’s smile widened. “Now would be a good time.”

 

Bakugo reached up, cupped his jaw, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. “Be my boyfriend, you brat.”

 

Todoroki leaned down, kissed him once—slow and deep and full. Against his lips, he said, “Okay.”

 

*

 

The morning was quiet. Soft rain against the windows again.

 

Warm light slipping through the curtains. A hoodie tossed over the back of the couch. Two mugs in the sink.

 

Todoroki sat on the edge of the bed, lazily pulling his socks on.

 

Bakugo was already halfway dressed—shirt hanging loose, protein shake in one hand, keys in the other.

 

He tossed the shake at Todoroki, who caught it with one hand.

 

“You eat anything yet?” Bakugo asked.

 

“This counts,” Todoroki said, taking a sip.

 

Bakugo rolled his eyes and bent down to slip on his shoes.

 

That’s when Todoroki’s phone buzzed.

 

He picked it up, thumbed across the screen—and blinked.

 

Then squinted.

 

Then giggled, soft and quiet.

 

“What?” Bakugo muttered, not looking up.

 

“I think my bank glitched,” Todoroki said, still staring. “It says I made like six times the amount you and Aizawa quoted for the photo shoot.”

 

Bakugo froze, crouched mid-shoelace.

 

Didn’t speak.

 

Didn’t move.

 

Todoroki’s smile faded as he tapped around the banking app, cross-referencing the invoice.

 

Bakugo finished tying his shoes in silence.

 

Todoroki’s voice dropped. “This is a mistake, right?”

 

Bakugo stood slowly.

 

Then stepped forward.

 

Todoroki was still staring at the screen, expression twisting between confusion and disbelief.

 

Bakugo didn’t say a word.

 

He just leaned in and kissed him—one hand cupping Todoroki’s jaw, the other sliding the phone gently out of his hands.

 

When he pulled back, he met Todoroki’s eyes. And told the truth.

 

“We gave you our checks.”

 

Todoroki blinked.

 

“Shima. Kaminari. Midoriya. Sero. Me,” Bakugo said, steady and sure. “We talked to Aizawa too. Once the photo revenue starts coming in, he’s donating part of the studio’s share. To help with your mom’s procedure.”

 

Todoroki’s mouth opened, and then closed.

 

His brows knit, voice sharp. “You’re serious?”

 

Bakugo nodded.

 

Todoroki took a step back. His pulse was racing now. “I told you,” he said, jaw tightening, “I didn’t want—”

 

“I know,” Bakugo cut in. Calm. Unshaken. “You told me you didn’t want charity.”

 

Todoroki’s shoulders rose. “So why—”

 

“Because it wasn’t charity.” Bakugo stepped closer again. “It was basically a fundraiser. You just didn’t know.”

 

Todoroki looked like he didn’t know whether to scream or cry.

 

Bakugo kept going. “You didn’t ask. You didn’t beg. You didn’t guilt anyone into it. We wanted to. All of us. Because you matter to us. Because watching you suffer in silence sucks. And because your new boyfriend is amazing.”

 

“Fuck, Katsu... I don’t know how to thank you for this. I don't even know where to start.”

 

Bakugo’s hands slid under Todoroki's hoodie, palms greedy on his hips. “You could,” he murmured, dragging Todoroki in by the waistband, “drop to your knees. Let me fuck that pretty mouth of yours.”

 

Todoroki snorted, half-exasperated, half-flushed. “You really never stop.”

 

Bakugo grinned against his neck. “Can't help it.” He kissed just under Todoroki’s jaw, open-mouthed and smug. “But if you really wanna thank me…”

 

Another kiss—this one to the corner of his mouth, a slow, deliberate drag.

 

Bakugo spoke softer. “Let me stick around. Let me take care of you. Let me be yours.”

 

Todoroki blinked at him, red in the ears, brain halfway melted. “…That was a wild emotional turn.”

 

Bakugo smirked. “Yeah, well. I’m full of surprises.” He brushed a thumb across Todoroki’s lower lip. “Now be a good boy and say thank you.”

 

***

Chapter 19

Notes:

This is an entire chapter of smut. (And so is the next chapter lol).

I'm not ashamed.

Bakugo’s hands found Todoroki’s hips like they belonged there. Like they always would.

 

Bakugo leaned in, voice husky. “There's still time for you to kneel.”

 

Todoroki didn’t flinch.

 

Didn’t blush. Didn’t even blink.

 

Instead, he dragged a hand down Bakugo’s chest—slow, deliberate—and smirked. “You first.”

 

Bakugo’s breath caught. “What?”

 

Todoroki stepped closer, crowding him now, the power shift so clean it made Bakugo dizzy.

 

“You wanna help?” Todoroki murmured, voice like silk over flame. “Get on your knees.”

 

Bakugo’s hands clenched at his sides, eyes blown wide. “You’re not serious.”

 

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” Todoroki said, cupping Bakugo’s jaw. “You think I forgot what you said yesterday? When you said you'd do anything to help?”

 

Bakugo swallowed. Hard.

 

Todoroki leaned down, lips brushing his ear. “Prove it.”

 

A long beat.

 

Then Bakugo barked out a soft laugh. “You’re such a fucking menace.”

 

Todoroki shrugged, lazy and smug. “Takes one to date one.”

 

Bakugo stared for half a second—then grabbed Todoroki by the waist, spun him toward the bed, and growled, “Fine. But when I’m done, you’re not walking straight for the rest of the day. Might be embarrassing for you.”

 

“Promises, promises,” Todoroki breathed, already pulling his hoodie off.

 

*

 

And then despite all that earlier bravado, all that teasing dominance, Todoroki dropped to his knees.

 

Slow. Smooth. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

 

Not out of submission.

 

No, this was something else. Controlled. Intentional.

 

He looked up at Bakugo, mouth curved in that same wicked smirk. Like he was letting Bakugo take control now—on his terms.

 

“You just gonna stare,” Todoroki said softly, “or are you gonna give me something to work with?”

 

Bakugo’s breath caught in his throat. “You don’t actually have to—”

 

“I know,” Todoroki said, already tugging Bakugo’s sweatpants down just enough. “But you earned it.”

 

His mouth brushed the skin just above Bakugo’s waistband. A kiss.

 

Then another, trailing lower. Deliberate. Torturous.

 

Bakugo’s hands flexed at his sides, unsure if he wanted to stop him or pull him closer by the hair.

 

“I was trying to be sweet,” Bakugo muttered, voice strained.

 

Todoroki hummed. “You were. I’m being sweet too.”

 

And then he proved it.

 

With tongue and teeth, and a slow-building rhythm that had Bakugo’s legs threatening betrayal. “Shoto—shit—fuck—”

 

But Todoroki didn’t stop.

 

If anything, the encouragement fed him.

 

He used his hands like he'd been studying Bakugo’s body all month—and maybe he had.

 

One sliding up under his shirt to press flat over his chest. The other curled tight around his thigh, steadying.

 

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic.

 

It was thorough.

 

Worshipful.

 

Bakugo bit down on a curse that was half a groan, half a plea. “Fucking—how the hell are you so good at—”

 

Todoroki pulled back just long enough to murmur, “I pay attention.”

 

Then he went back down.

 

Slower. Deeper.

 

Like punishment and devotion in the same breath.

 

Bakugo’s hands flew to his hair—meant to stop him, or warn him, or maybe just beg, but instead they just held.

 

His knees almost buckled. His back hit the wall.

 

Todoroki sat back on his heels when it was done, eyes blown wide, lips red and spit-slick, and still looking dangerously composed.

 

Bakugo, panting, barely upright, stared at him like he’d just seen God and lost the ability to speak.

 

Todoroki tilted his head. “That count as a thank-you?”

 

Bakugo blinked. “Are you trying to kill me?”

 

“No. I'm just showing my appreciation.”

 

Bakugo dragged him up by the shoulders and kissed him like he meant to never breathe again.

 

And somehow, an hour later, they actually made it to work.

 

*

 

The next morning, Bakugo woke up confused.

 

Not alarmed—his body didn’t scream danger—but there was definitely something happening.

 

Something warm. Something wet. Something definitely happening under the blanket.

 

His brow furrowed, still tangled in sleep, and he shifted slightly on the mattress—only to suck in a sharp breath as the sensation deepened.

 

"Mornin'," Todoroki murmured, somewhere near the vicinity of his thighs, voice low and maddeningly calm.

 

Bakugo flinched. "What the—Sho?"

 

His voice cracked halfway through, and that alone might’ve been more humiliating than the fact that his hips jerked helplessly an instant later.

 

Todoroki didn’t let up. Didn’t even pause.

 

Just dragged his mouth up the length of him like he’d been practicing in his dreams.

 

His hair brushed Bakugo’s stomach, soft and ticklish, and his hands stayed firm on Bakugo’s hips like he knew the man had a tendency to squirm when caught off guard.

 

Bakugo tried to lift his head but only managed to groan. “You’re seriously—fuck—doing this now?”

 

Todoroki hummed, and the vibration nearly made Bakugo bite his tongue.

 

“Trying to thank you properly,” Todoroki said, pulling back just enough to speak, lips swollen and smug. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

 

Bakugo blinked down at him, breath stuttering. “You—I —damn it, Shoto.”

 

“I’m sorry, did you want me to stop?” Then Todoroki licked the head of his cock like it was a damn dessert.

 

Bakugo gritted his teeth and grabbed a fistful of the sheets, the only thing keeping him from yanking Todoroki up by the hair. “You think this is funny?”

 

Todoroki glanced up, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide. “I think you’re hot when you’re trying not to beg.”

 

Bakugo made a choked sound he refused to call a whimper. Hell no. He wasn’t giving in that easy.

 

But then Todoroki smiled—that soft, dangerous smile like he knew he’d already won—and licked a slow stripe from base to tip before wrapping his lips around him again.

 

Bakugo’s whole body shuddered.

 

Keep it together, he told himself. You’re not gonna fall apart just because he knows how to use his fucking mouth. Breathe. Focus.

 

But Todoroki took his time, sinking lower, swallowing inch by inch until Bakugo’s head slammed back into the pillow with a sharp gasp.

 

“Fuck.”

 

Todoroki pulled back slowly, dragging his lips in a way that made Bakugo’s vision white out for a second.

 

He gave a breathless little huff, like this was more fun than it had any right to be.

 

“You sound so pretty when you’re falling apart,” Todoroki murmured, voice gone low and dark.

 

Bakugo glared down at him, face flushed to the ears, eyes wild. “Keep running your mouth,” he rasped. “See what happens.”

 

Todoroki looked almost delighted.

 

Bakugo lasted a grand total of zero minutes after that.

 

The second Todoroki sank back down, slow and greedy, Bakugo whined—and yeah, it was a whine, shut up—and clutched at the sheets like they were the only thing tethering him to Earth.

 

“God, Shoto—fuck, you’re such a little shit,” he choked, voice practically an octave higher than usual. “You've been waiting to pull this shit, huh?”

 

Todoroki blinked innocently—while trailing his nails up the inside of Bakugo’s thigh. “I don’t know what you mean.”

 

Bakugo arched. “I swear to god—if you keep acting like you’re not the filthiest person in this room—”

 

Todoroki swallowed around him again like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just broken the sound barrier in Bakugo’s brain.

 

Bakugo sobbed into the pillow. “Oh my god.”

 

“Hmm?” Todoroki hummed again, pulling back with spit-glossed lips and a wicked gleam in his eye. “Still want me to shut up and let you do everything?”

 

Bakugo looked like he’d been hit by a truck. “I want you,” he growled hoarsely, “to shut up and finish what you started.”

 

And he did.

 

Oh, he did—with filthy efficiency and zero shame, until Bakugo was a wreck under him, fists clenched, abs shaking, moaning through gritted teeth and practically begging in every language his body knew.

 

His voice broke every time Todoroki sank deeper, a raw, stuttering mess of curses and moans he couldn’t hold back if he tried.

 

When it was over, Bakugo collapsed backward like a puppet whose strings had been incinerated.

 

Todoroki climbed up beside him with obscene composure, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking criminally satisfied.

 

Bakugo was still panting like he’d run a marathon through hellfire. “You’re so annoying,” he muttered, flinging an arm over his eyes.

 

“You’re welcome,” Todoroki said serenely.

 

Bakugo growled. “Don’t act smug.”

 

“I’m not smug,” Todoroki said, turning toward him and nuzzling his shoulder. “I’m grateful. You did something really nice for me. I was just… returning the favor.”

 

Bakugo lifted his arm just enough to glare at him.

 

Todoroki kissed his cheek sweetly. “You make it very easy to worship you, you know.”

 

“…Don’t say shit like that unless you’re really trying to get railed.”

 

“Maybe I am.”

 

*

 

Bakugo didn’t even sit up.

 

He just lay there, one arm over his eyes, chest rising and falling. “Are you proud of yourself?” he rasped.

 

Todoroki stretched beside him—arms up, body long, lazy as sin. “A little.”

 

Bakugo peeled his arm off his face, just enough to give Todoroki a look.

 

That look.

 

The one that made Todoroki’s mouth twitch.

 

“Good,” Bakugo muttered, voice still shredded from waking up to that.

 

Todoroki barely had time to blink before Bakugo rolled over and pinned him flat to the mattress.

 

Their bodies collided—skin on skin, breath on breath—and for a second, Todoroki looked properly caught. Flushed. Eyes wide.

 

Then Todoroki smiled. “Don't know what you're throwing a fit about. You seemed to like it.”

 

Bakugo grinned back, slow and dangerous. “Oh, I did. Which is why you’re gonna lie there and let me return the favor—my way.”

 

Todoroki’s breath hitched. “And what does that mean?”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer right away. He just reached for the side drawer and tugged it open, fishing around until—

 

“Wait,” Todoroki said, lifting his head.

 

Bakugo pulled a necktie free—dark red, silky, still rolled from a recent photoshoot. “You keep running that mouth, and it’s gonna be tied shut instead.”

 

Todoroki blinked. “Kinky.”

 

Bakugo tossed the tie over his shoulder, smirking. “Oh, baby. You haven’t even seen kinky.”

 

He grabbed Todoroki’s wrists, dragged them over his head, and anchored them to the headboard with methodical efficiency.

 

Todoroki let him. Didn’t struggle. Didn’t resist.

 

Just looked up at him with that same maddening, hungry glint in his eye.

 

“You’re seriously tying me up?” he murmured.

 

Bakugo leaned down—kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then his throat. “Since you’ve been such a goddamn brat all morning,” he growled, “yeah. I am.”

 

He kissed down Todoroki’s chest, then lower, until Todoroki was arching, biting his lip and gasping out a shaky, “Katsuki—”

 

Bakugo paused. Glanced up.

 

“Hope you didn’t have any meetings today,” Bakugo said, low and grinning. “Because you’re gonna be busy.”

 

“Busy?”

 

Bakugo licked a stripe up Todoroki’s stomach, fingers digging into his hips.

 

Todoroki sucked in a breath, chest rising fast beneath Bakugo’s mouth. “You’re being very confident,” he managed, voice already fraying at the edges.

 

Bakugo just hummed low against his skin, all wicked amusement and hot breath. “Yeah, well. I’ve had great feedback lately.”

 

He bit Todoroki’s hip—sharp enough to make him flinch, soft enough to make him groan.

 

Todoroki tugged at the tie around his wrists, muscles shifting helplessly. “I thought this was about returning the favor,” he muttered, breath hitching.

 

Bakugo kissed the spot he’d bitten. “It is.”

 

Another kiss, lower. Then a warm palm flattening against Todoroki’s thigh, fingers spreading wide.

 

He slid Todoroki’s leg up, braced it over his shoulder, and smirked up at him.  “Still feeling smug, baby?”

 

Todoroki cracked one eye open. “I’ll be smug after I recover,” he panted.

 

Bakugo chuckled, biting his way back up Todoroki’s body. “Oh, you think you’re recovering. That’s cute.”

 

***

Chapter 20

Bakugo leaned over him again, hands warm against Todoroki’s thighs, eyes burning as they raked over every inch of flushed, bound skin.

 

Todoroki’s wrists were still tied—soft, wide fabric looped around the headboard, knotted just tight enough to keep him there.

 

Not that he was fighting. Not really.

 

Just squirming. Just testing. Just looking ridiculous trying to hold himself together.

 

“You’re quiet,” Bakugo murmured, voice dark with satisfaction. “Playing hard to get?”

 

Todoroki tilted his chin up, breath shaky but still hanging onto that thin thread of pride. “Trying not to boost your ego, actually.”

 

Bakugo grinned, slow and wicked—like a man about to sin and thoroughly enjoy it.

 

“This ego?” he asked, hand dragging down Todoroki’s chest, deliberate and heavy, until it hovered just above the place Todoroki wanted him most.

 

Todoroki’s breath hitched, hips twitching in anticipation.

 

But Bakugo stopped just shy of touching him again. “You remember our word?” he asked, voice dipping serious for half a second.

 

Todoroki blinked, caught off guard. “Are you seriously invoking the porn safeword right now?”

 

Bakugo quirked a brow. “You think I don’t mean it just because there’s a camera sometimes? That shit matters.”

 

Todoroki huffed. “Yes, I remember. Red.”

 

Bakugo gave a firm nod, voice dropping just enough to show he meant business. “Good. You feel anything weird—numb, tingly, bad—you tell me. Don’t tough-guy your way through this shit.”

 

Todoroki held his gaze for a beat, then his mouth curled into a teasing smirk. “You always this responsible?”

 

Bakugo’s eyes narrowed, lips twitching dangerously. “You always this mouthy when you’re tied to my bed, pretty boy?”

 

Todoroki’s smirk faltered, a blush creeping high on his cheeks.

 

Bakugo leaned down, lips brushing the sensitive edge of Todoroki’s ear. “I’m serious T,” he whispered, voice honeyed yet firm. “If you want out, I’ll untie you right now.”

 

Todoroki’s breath shivered out, goosebumps racing down his skin wherever Bakugo’s words touched. He swallowed thickly. “I don’t.”

 

“Then behave,” Bakugo growled softly, lips grazing Todoroki’s jaw.

 

Todoroki exhaled a shaky, breathless laugh, the sound breaking just a bit on the end. “Still cocky as hell.”

 

Bakugo smirked, kissing the corner of Todoroki’s mouth, his palm finally sliding down to wrap firmly around him. “Still right,” he murmured, eyes darkening with satisfaction.

 

Todoroki gasped, his back arching like a drawn bow. “Fuck—Katsuki—”

 

Todoroki stopped pretending. Stopped teasing. Stopped holding onto the last shreds of control.

 

And Bakugo didn’t stop at all.

 

*

 

Todoroki moaned—long and low, like the sound had been punched out of him.

 

His arms tugged instinctively at the restraints, wrists flexing with every twitch of his hips.

 

Bakugo’s tongue dragged a slow path up the inside of his thigh. “Your legs keep shaking,” he said, voice gravel-thick. “Something bothering you, baby?”

 

Todoroki tried to glare down at him.

 

Tried.

 

Didn’t quite succeed. Not with his hair sticking to his forehead. Not with the heat pouring off him like steam.

 

“You’re such a dick,” Todoroki panted, half-laughing, half-breathless.

 

Bakugo chuckled low, teeth grazing lightly at the skin just above Todoroki’s knee.

 

“You woke me up with your mouth,” he murmured, feigning innocence as he kissed a slow, wicked path upward. “And somehow I’m the dick? Remind me again—who’s tied up and begging right now?”

 

Todoroki jerked at the restraints, frustration and need boiling over. “You talk way too mu—”

 

Bakugo’s mouth descended hard and precise, exactly where Todoroki needed it most, and the rest of that sentence splintered into a strangled moan.

 

When Bakugo finally eased back—lips wet, eyes lit like embers—his grin was utterly insufferable. “Sorry, didn’t quite catch that. Thought you said I talked too much?”

 

“You do,” Todoroki gasped, body already arching, hips shuddering beneath him. “But at least now you’re finally putting that mouth to good use.”

 

Bakugo grinned, all teeth and threat and sinful promise. “Oh, you’re gonna regret saying that.”

 

He dove back in, relentless now—mouth, tongue, hands everywhere.

 

Fingers digging into Todoroki’s thighs, holding him open like he owned him. And maybe tonight, he did.

 

Todoroki writhed, cursing and gasping, eyes fluttering shut.

 

He tried to arch up, tried to find leverage, but his arms—his useless, bound arms—weren’t helping.

 

Bakugo came up for air, breathing hard.

 

His mouth was slick. His hands were firm.

 

“I’m gonna ruin you,” he growled. “Gonna make you sob. Gonna make that smug little mouth forget how to say anything but my fucking name.”

 

Todoroki blinked up at him, dazed and still somehow defiant. “You’ve got a lot of confidence for someone who hasn’t finished the job yet.”

 

Bakugo growled.

 

He climbed up Todoroki’s body, hands rough as they grabbed Todoroki’s thighs.

 

He dragged him closer to the edge of the bed like a ragdoll, making his arms stretch a little more.

 

“You want me to finish the job?”

 

Todoroki nodded, fast. “Yes.”

 

“Want me to fuck you like it’s the only thing you’re good for?”

 

“Yes—”

 

Bakugo leaned over him, mouth at his ear now, voice dark and hungry. “Then say please.”

 

Todoroki whimpered. And then, “…fuck you.”

 

Bakugo barked a laugh and shoved his knee between Todoroki’s thighs. “Oh, you wish.”

 

*

 

Bakugo didn’t waste time.

 

He flipped Todoroki onto his stomach with one rough tug and a slap to the thigh.

 

The motion knocked a breath out of him—and the view?

 

Unreal.

 

Todoroki’s arms stayed bound above his head, muscles in his back pulled tight.

 

His ass—perfect, already marked from Bakugo’s earlier attention—arched up instinctively, like his whole body was begging for more.

 

Bakugo groaned, gripping the curve of Todoroki’s ass and giving it a slow, deliberate squeeze—just to feel the twitch, the flinch, the way his body begged without words.

 

“Fuck, you don’t even know what you do to me,” he muttered, more growl than confession. “Every inch of you’s just asking to be used.”

 

Todoroki bit down a moan, fists curling tight like he needed something to hold onto.

 

Bakugo leaned in, mouth dragging across his spine—hot, possessive, punctuated with a bite just sharp enough to sting. “You’re taking it so fucking well,” he rasped. “All tied up, spread out for me like this. Letting me ruin you ‘cause you know I will.”

 

Todoroki shuddered. “Please,” he breathed.

 

Bakugo licked over a bruise blooming just below Todoroki’s shoulder blade. “Yeah?” he smirked. “That’s what gets you going? Dirty mouth and pretty words?”

 

Todoroki nodded, face turned into the pillow.

 

Bakugo lined himself up, his hand firm on Todoroki’s hip.

 

But still, he waited—just a second—just long enough for Todoroki to know it wasn’t about control. Not really.

 

“Say the word,” Bakugo said, a little quieter now. “If you want me to stop.”

 

Todoroki’s voice was muffled, but steady. “Not even close.”

 

And that was it.

 

Bakugo thrust into him slow but deep, and Todoroki moaned—not soft this time, but raw, broken, grateful.

 

His fingers twitched against the restraints.

 

Bakugo gripped his hips tighter. “You feel that? You feel how fucking perfect you are around me?”

 

Todoroki nodded, panting, already moving with him.

 

“Good boy,” Bakugo rasped. “Taking me so well. Like your body knows who it belongs to.”

 

That earned him a quiet, desperate sound.

 

Bakugo set a rhythm—hard and steady, every thrust knocking Todoroki forward an inch on the mattress.

 

And with every snap of hips, he kept talking, feeding Todoroki the kind of praise he knew would melt him from the inside out.

 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous like this.” Bakugo said. Followed by, “Can’t believe you’re all mine.”

 

Todoroki was shaking now, every muscle pulled tight, moaning helplessly into the pillow, chasing friction he could barely get.

 

Bakugo slowed—just for a second—and reached under him, wrapping a hand around Todoroki's cock, stroking him slow. “Say it,” he whispered against the back of his neck. “Say you’re mine.”

 

Todoroki gasped—choked on a sound—then mumbled, “I’m yours.”

 

And Bakugo rewarded him for it. 

 

He picked up the pace, every motion filthy and possessive, body flushed and sweat-slick.

 

The sound of skin, of moaning, of breathless pleas—it filled the room like a storm breaking.

 

And when Todoroki finally shattered beneath him, body spasming, voice cracking on a whimper of Bakugo’s name—Bakugo fucked him through it, sinking deep again and again.

 

*

 

When it was done, the only sounds left were the creak of the bed and the thundering of two hearts trying to slow down.

 

Bakugo collapsed beside him, reaching up to tug the restraints loose, hands gentle again.

 

Todoroki blinked at him, dazed, lips parted, skin glowing.

 

“You okay?” Bakugo asked, voice softer now.

 

Todoroki nodded. And then, hoarse but smug: “See? Told you your mouth was good for something.”

 

Bakugo laughed—wrecked, flushed, and full of adoration. “Shut the fuck up,” he muttered, dragging him in for a kiss, and climbing back on top of him to do it.

 

Not rushed. Just warm—lingering.

 

The kind that said we’re not done yet, even as their bodies already hummed from everything that came before.

 

Todoroki was on his back now, arms loose around Bakugo’s shoulders, hair messy against the pillow.

 

His eyes were still half-lidded with sleep, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks.

 

Bare skin glowed faintly in the early morning light, all flushed pink and love-bitten.

 

Bakugo hovered above him, arms braced on either side, eyes sweeping over every inch like he couldn’t quite believe he got to see him like this.

 

Their mouths met again. Slower this time. A quiet push and pull.

 

Todoroki shifted under him, hips arching gently.

 

Bakugo breathed out against his lips, sliding one hand down to guide them together, just to slip his cock back inside of Todoroki for a little while longer.

 

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t rough.

 

Just pressure. Just rhythm. The soft slide of skin. The whisper of shared breath.

 

Todoroki’s hands roamed lazily across Bakugo’s back, fingertips mapping the muscles like old territory.

 

His thighs wrapped loosely around Bakugo’s waist, anchoring him, holding him close.

 

Neither of them spoke for a while.

 

They didn’t need to.

 

But then—midway through a kiss, lips barely brushing—Bakugo murmured, “You didn’t have to thank me like that, you know.”

 

Todoroki blinked, pupils blown but still focused.

 

Bakugo kissed the corner of his mouth, the curve of his cheek. “Would’ve done all of it anyway. The fundraiser. The shoot. All of it.”

 

Todoroki’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

 

“You didn’t ask for any of it,” Bakugo whispered, rocking into him slow and deep. “You didn’t need to. I’d give you the whole damn world if you wanted it.”

 

Todoroki’s eyes fluttered shut, his hands tightening around Bakugo’s shoulders like the words had wrapped around his ribs and squeezed.

 

“Don’t say stuff like that,” Todoroki whispered.

 

Bakugo kissed him again—forehead to lips to jaw. “Why not?”

 

“Because I’ll start believing you.”

 

Bakugo smiled against his skin. “Good.”

 

They moved together like that—slow, bodies pressed close and nothing between them but breath and heat and the quiet, aching realization that this wasn’t about owing anything.

 

This was about choosing each other. Over and over again.

 

***

Chapter 21

Notes:

Long chapter today - happy Friday haha

Y'all ready for some dad vs. daddy? I know I am lol

They took a quick shower, downed two protein shakes like they were racing a clock, and were halfway out the door when Todoroki paused.

 

“Can you be a little late to work?”

 

Bakugo turned, already scowling. “Are you serious? We're already late as shit.”

 

Todoroki didn’t answer. Just calmly fished the car keys out of Bakugo’s coat pocket like he had every right to them.

 

Bakugo’s frown deepened. “What now?”

 

Todoroki looked up, all calm, all nerve. “Please?”

 

Bakugo groaned. “Don’t do that. Don’t look at me like that when you know I’m gonna say yes. I hate how you do that.”

 

“I already told Aizawa I’ll be in this afternoon. So please?”

 

Bakugo muttered something under his breath about manipulation and war crimes—but five minutes later, he was in the passenger seat of his own car, fists clenched on his thighs while Todoroki drove like he hadn’t just rerouted Bakugo’s whole day with one damn word.

 

“Okay,” Bakugo muttered under his breath. “Just… ease up a little on the turns, yeah?”

 

Todoroki didn’t look over. “I’m going under the speed limit.”

 

“Exactly,” Bakugo snapped. “You’re confusing the other drivers.”

 

Todoroki smiled faintly. “You’re fun to drive with.”

 

“I’m gonna throw up.”

 

They rode in silence for a few more blocks, Todoroki’s eyes calm, Bakugo’s shoulders visibly not calm.

 

Then Todoroki turned into a large medical complex parking lot, winding through to a labeled section.

 

Bakugo looked up from his phone. “Why are we—”

 

The words died on his tongue when he read the sign above the building entrance.

 

Neurosurgery Pavilion – Outpatient Wing.

 

Todoroki parked, killed the engine, and sat still for a moment.

 

Bakugo stared straight ahead. “You brought me to a hospital.”

 

Todoroki unbuckled his seatbelt. “Yeah.”

 

“You’re not hurt. Right? ‘Cause if you are and didn’t tell me, I swear to god—”

 

Todoroki turned, smiling gently. “No. I’m fine.”

 

Bakugo blinked. “Then… why…”

 

Then it hit him.

 

“You’re taking me to meet your mom?”

 

Todoroki nodded, soft. “Yeah.”

 

Bakugo blinked again. “We’ve been dating for like, twelve hours.”

 

“I know.”

 

Bakugo looked like he might bolt.

 

Todoroki put a hand on his thigh—steadying. Warm. “You don’t have to come in. I’ll understand if you’re not ready.”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer right away.

 

Todoroki kept his gaze. “But I want to tell her. About the procedure. About the money. About you.”

 

Bakugo swallowed hard.

 

Bakugo hesitated. “What if she hates me?” he muttered. “I’m not exactly charming in a hospital setting. Or... Any setting.”

 

Todoroki tilted his head, eyes warm. “She won’t.”

 

Bakugo looked at the hospital entrance. Then at Todoroki.

 

Then at his own hand, which was currently gripping the door handle like it owed him money.

 

And finally—finally—he sighed.

 

“Fuck it,” he muttered, and opened the door. “Let’s go meet your mom.”

 

*

 

“…so I told him if he cuts me off one more time mid-sentence, I’m pulling his mic off mid-scene.”

 

Rei Todoroki laughed, bright and genuine, a hand covering her mouth.

 

Bakugo flushed a little but grinned anyway, squeezing Todoroki’s hand in his lap.

 

He hadn’t expected this to feel easy. Or warm. Or like anything other than internal combustion.

 

But Rei was kind. Gentle in the way she looked at him. Soft-voiced.

 

She’d called him sweetheart twice already and somehow hadn’t meant it as a joke.

 

He could see where Todoroki got it—the calm, the grace, the ability to slice to the core of a situation without raising their voice.

 

Then came a knock on the door.

 

A man in a white coat stepped in. “Excuse me—Shoto? Could I borrow you for a moment?”

 

Todoroki stood immediately, setting down his cup. “Of course.” He looked at Bakugo. “You want to come?”

 

Bakugo shook his head. “Nah. I wanna gossip with your mom.”

 

Todoroki smiled. Not surprised in the slightest.

 

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the back of Bakugo’s hand, fingers lingering for a second longer than they had to.

 

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

 

When the door clicked closed, Rei leaned forward on the bed, eyes sparkling. “So. You want dirt or the cute stuff first?”

 

Bakugo blinked. “Hm?”

 

“I’ve got baby pictures, sweetheart.”

 

Bakugo barked a laugh and sat up straighter. “Alright.”

 

Rei reached into the drawer beside her bed and pulled out a small, well-worn photo album.

 

She flipped it open with practiced ease, pointing out a photo of Todoroki in a little blue hoodie, sippy cup in hand, scowling at the camera.

 

“Two years old,” she said fondly. “Refused to wear shoes. Threatened to bury his own socks.”

 

Bakugo snorted. “Checks out.”

 

They flipped pages slowly. More pictures.

 

Todoroki with crooked bangs.

 

With a popsicle stain on his shirt.

 

With a black eye and a trophy from some middle-school sparring event.

 

“He’s always been quiet,” Rei said softly, turning a page. “Even when he was happy. Even when he wasn’t.”

 

Bakugo nodded, lips twitching. “Still is.”

 

Rei didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, gently, “Is he still in the industry?”

 

Bakugo stilled, unsure for a second.

 

Rei noticed. “I’m not judging,” she added quickly. “You don’t have to protect him from me. I’m just curious. He doesn’t talk about it much.”

 

Bakugo hesitated another second. “Yeah. He’s still working.”

 

She nodded. “With Mr. Aizawa, right? Not…”

 

“Not Enji,” Bakugo confirmed. “He left that place years ago.”

 

Rei’s lips curled into a tired smile. “Good.”

 

Another turn of the page. Another quiet beat.

 

Then Rei’s voice shifted—lower, almost fragile.

 

“Right before I got really sick,” she said, “he was talking about quitting. Finding something quieter. Simpler. Maybe behind the scenes. Or not in that industry at all.”

 

Bakugo’s brows pulled together.

 

“But then the bills started coming,” Rei went on, still flipping. “And I noticed he stopped mentioning it. Like he made peace with giving up on leaving. Because... He must be making decent money this way.”

 

Bakugo felt that like a punch.

 

“I hate it,” she whispered. “That he’s putting himself through all that—for me. I'm not trying to insult your careers, I know you're involved in that too, I just... I know it's not what he dreamed of doing. It's not his passion.”

 

Bakugo didn’t know what to say at first. His throat was tight.

 

So he just nodded. “I’ll do my best. To help him out of it.”

 

Rei turned to him then. Clear eyes. Steady voice.

 

“Will you?” she asked. “Can you promise me?”

 

Bakugo looked at her.

 

He swallowed, jaw tense. Then gave the smallest nod. “I promise.”

 

Rei didn’t smile. She just nodded, like she’d known he would.

 

*

 

The ride to Aizawa’s studio was quiet.

 

Not awkward. Just thoughtful.

 

The kind of silence that came after something real.

 

Bakugo kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap.

 

His jaw was set like usual, but there was a tightness in his shoulders Todoroki hadn’t seen all morning.

 

Todoroki turned slightly in his seat, watching the curve of Bakugo’s profile. “Was that too much?” he asked softly.

 

Bakugo blinked. “What?”

 

“With my mom. The hospital. Everything.”

 

Bakugo was quiet for a second.

 

Then he shook his head. “Nah.” He glanced over briefly, then back to the road. “I liked her,” he added, voice softer. “She’s kind. Sharp. Reminds me of you.”

 

Todoroki smiled faintly.

 

“And I feel lucky,” Bakugo continued. “That you let me see that part of your life. That you were brave enough to bring me in.”

 

Todoroki looked down at his hands, folded in his lap. Quietly, he said, “It didn’t feel brave. It felt… right.”

 

Bakugo didn’t say anything to that.

 

By the time they pulled up in front of Aizawa’s studio, the air between them had settled again—comfortable, full.

 

Bakugo parked.

 

Todoroki unbuckled, but didn’t move right away.

 

He turned and leaned across the console, hand on Bakugo’s cheek, lips brushing against his in a kiss that was warm and lingering and his.

 

“Thank you,” Todoroki whispered against his mouth.

 

Bakugo hummed low in his throat. “Sure.” Then, with just the smallest twitch of a smirk, he asked, “Any scenes scheduled today?”

 

Todoroki almost laughed. “You jealous?”

 

Bakugo snorted. “Shut up. Just curious.”

 

Todoroki leaned back, opening the door. “No scenes. Just editing work today. So…” He glanced over his shoulder, lips tugging up. “I’ll be untouched. For lack of a better word. Unless Mina gets handsy in the cutting room.”

 

Bakugo’s smirk deepened. “Good.”

 

Todoroki stepped out of the car, grabbing his bag from the back seat.

 

But just before he closed the door, he paused. “Can you tell my father… The surgery’s next week?”

 

Bakugo blinked. “You don’t want to tell him yourself?”

 

Todoroki shook his head. “No.”

 

Bakugo hated that. Hated how small Todoroki’s voice had gotten when he said it.

 

But he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll tell him. Pick you up at 6?”

 

Todoroki gave him one more smile—grateful, tired, fond—before shutting the door and heading inside.

 

Bakugo sat there for a second longer, watching him disappear through the studio doors.

 

Then he reached for his phone, to call Aizawa.

 

*

 

Enji’s office was sharp-edged and cold, all glass and black wood and the faint smell of overpriced cologne.

 

The kind of room meant to make people feel small.

 

Bakugo didn’t flinch.

 

He stepped in, shut the door behind him, and stood there, arms crossed, jaw set.

 

Enji barely looked up from his desk. “You’re late.”

 

Bakugo raised an eyebrow. “You’re lucky I showed up at all.”

 

Enji exhaled slowly, setting his pen down. “I called you in because I heard about the shoot you organized. Featuring my talent. Without clearing it with me first.”

 

Bakugo didn’t move. “Yeah.”

 

“You scheduled work for Kirishima. For Kaminari. Without going through the proper channels.”

 

“I asked them,” Bakugo said flatly. “They said yes.”

 

“That’s not how this works.”

 

“That’s how this worked,” Bakugo snapped. “It was voluntary. They didn't even get paid. Not sure why that concerns you.”

 

Enji narrowed his eyes.

 

Bakugo took a step forward, voice rising. “You weren’t gonna help your own son. So I did.”

 

Enji’s jaw twitched.

 

“Shoto’s drowning,” Bakugo growled. “And you’re watching him. Sitting here in your glass office while your kid breaks himself in half trying to cover bills you could pay in one fucking check.”

 

“Watch your tone—”

 

“No,” Bakugo cut in, voice like a live wire. “I’m not here to bow. I’m here to remind you what it looks like when someone actually gives a shit.”

 

Enji leaned back slowly in his chair. “And you think that makes you some kind of hero?”

 

“I don’t give a shit what it makes me,” Bakugo said. “Shoto needed help. His mom needed help. You didn’t lift a finger. You don’t even know she's going in for surgery—do you?”

 

That flickered something in Enji’s eyes. Small. But there.

 

Bakugo kept going. “I set up that shoot so he could breathe. For once. And you’re throwing a tantrum about paperwork?”

 

Enji stood.

 

Not fast. Not loud. Just… rising, like the temperature in a room that doesn’t realize it’s on fire.

 

“You think this is how the industry works?” he said, voice low. “Bending rules. Skipping protocol. Taking my models without clearance.”

 

Bakugo didn’t move. “I didn’t take them,” he said. “They came because they wanted to.”

 

Enji’s eyes narrowed. “You think you’re untouchable because you’re on a few magazine covers—”

 

“No,” Bakugo cut in, quiet and sharp. “I think I’m done pretending like working under you meant something.”

 

A pause. Just long enough to register.

 

“You’re doing all this over Shoto?” Enji asked, something cold creeping in. “Throwing away your career for him?”

 

Bakugo laughed once under his breath. No humor in it. “I’m not throwing anything away. I’m walking toward something better.”

 

“Is that what you think he is?”

 

Bakugo’s gaze didn’t waver. “I think he’s the best thing I’ve ever had,” he said. “And I think the way you talk about him proves you never deserved him in the first place. He found success at some little studio, and that bugs the shit out of you, doesn't it?”

 

That landed. Just barely. But Bakugo saw it.

 

“You don't need to argue with me on his behalf. He’s not your responsibility,” Enji muttered.

 

“No,” Bakugo agreed. “He’s yours. And you failed him.”

 

Enji’s hands curled on the desk, knuckles pale.

 

Bakugo didn’t wait. “So anyway,” he said. “I’m putting in my two weeks. You want that in writing?”

 

Enji’s mouth twitched. “You’ll regret that.”

 

“Maybe,” Bakugo said. “But at least I won’t rot in this fucking building while someone I care about drowns.”

 

He turned for the door.

 

But just before he stepped out, he stopped. Glanced back.

 

“The surgery’s next week,” he said. “Figured I’d mention it, since you didn’t ask.”

 

Then he left. No door slam. No dramatic exit.

 

Just footsteps that didn’t falter. Not once.

 

And not a single look back.

 

*

 

Todoroki had texted him earlier, and still hadn't heard anything.

 

To: Kat

Heads-up. Aizawa asked me to shoot something this afternoon. Shouldn’t take long. Hope that’s okay.

 

He stared at the screen. Waiting.

 

No read receipt. No reply.

 

Todoroki sighed, set the phone down on the dressing table, and leaned back as Yaoyorozu started powdering his chest.

 

“You alright?” she asked, her voice soft.

 

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Just running on fumes.”

 

She hummed. No judgment.

 

Her hands were quick, familiar—brushes dusting highlighter, fingers tugging gently at the collar of his shirt to adjust it just right.

 

His wardrobe was minimal today: low-rise briefs and a silk shirt that wasn’t even pretending to stay buttoned.

 

Todoroki slipped into it, rolled his shoulders once, and walked onto the set.

 

Warm lights. Gold props. Velvet chaise.

 

It looked expensive and intimate and vaguely like a perfume ad made by someone very horny.

 

He nodded to the crew—lighting techs, a cam operator. Calm. Collected. Every inch the professional.

 

Aizawa was leaning near the back wall, clipboard tucked under his arm.

 

He glanced at Todoroki, then tilted his head toward the set. “You’ll figure it out,” he said.

 

Cryptic. Typical.

 

Todoroki raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He walked in, slipped off his robe, and let it drop onto the back of the chaise.

 

The silk shirt caught the light, the soft fabric brushing his hips as he stood center stage.

 

Alone.

 

At least, until the door clicked shut.

 

Todoroki didn’t turn—he barely had time to breathe before warm hands slid around his waist, dragging him back into a solid chest.

 

A familiar scent. A familiar heat.

 

A voice, low and cocky, right at his ear, “Miss me?”

 

Todoroki’s lips parted. Not in surprise—recognition.

 

“Katsuki.” Todoroki let himself grin, teeth flashing, pulse quickening. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, voice soft, but sharp at the edges.

 

He turned, still caught in those hands, and Bakugo was standing there—shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips, hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed and into trouble.

 

Todoroki’s breath hitched.

 

“Go easy on me,” Bakugo said, smirking. “It's my first day.”

 

Todoroki blinked. “What?”

 

Bakugo leaned in, lips ghosting his cheek. “Just got hired. Full-time.”

 

Todoroki stared. “You… quit? Enji let you quit?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Just like that?”

 

“I mean, I called him a prick first.”

 

Todoroki let out a breathy laugh, but there was heat behind it now. “God, you’re insufferable.”

 

“Yeah?” Bakugo murmured, hand sliding lower on his back. “You gonna make me regret it?”

 

Todoroki didn’t answer. He dragged him forward by the waistband of his joggers and kissed him—slow and filthy, like he’d been waiting weeks instead of hours.

 

Bakugo groaned against his mouth.

 

When they broke apart, Todoroki rested his forehead against Bakugo’s and whispered, “You realize we're still technically getting paid for this scene? So... We actually have to work now.”

 

Bakugo growled. “Yeah, and I plan to make sure you earn it.”

 

Todoroki laughed, bright and breathless, and shoved him gently toward the chaise. “Take your pants off, new guy. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

 

Bakugo grinned wide, fire behind his eyes. “Yes, Sir.”

 

*

 

They collapsed together on the chaise, limbs tangled and skin flushed, the camera finally cut.

 

The lights dimmed just slightly—enough to ease the pressure, not enough to kill the glow.

 

Todoroki lay flat on his back, chest rising and falling with slow, lazy breaths.

 

His hair was a mess, sticking to his forehead. His cheeks were pink. And his smile?

 

Unbearably smug.

 

Bakugo lay beside him, one arm draped over his stomach like he couldn’t be bothered to move yet.

 

He glanced over with a raised brow. “You good?”

 

“I was,” Todoroki said, voice hoarse but teasing. “Until someone decided to get rough halfway through.”

 

Bakugo scoffed. “You didn’t seem to mind when you were clawing at my back like a damn feral cat.”

 

“Doesn’t mean I don’t deserve aftercare,” Todoroki deadpanned.

 

Bakugo rolled his eyes and sat up with a groan, muttering something about “needy drama queens with demands and no chill” as he grabbed the towel from beside the chaise.

 

Todoroki watched him, still smiling. “You’re sweet when you pretend to be mad.”

 

“Sweet? I’ll show you sweet—” Bakugo tossed the towel at Todoroki’s chest.

 

It landed in a crumpled heap.

 

Todoroki blinked down at it. Then back up at Bakugo.

 

Bakugo sighed like it pained him to be a decent human and grabbed it again, this time sitting down beside him properly.

 

He gently wiped Todoroki’s stomach and thighs, careful, methodical.

 

Todoroki watched him the whole time, the curve of his mouth softening with every stroke.

 

When Bakugo looked up and caught the expression, he narrowed his eyes. “What.”

 

“You’re taking care of me.”

 

Bakugo scowled. “Don’t get used to it.”

 

Todoroki tilted his head. “You literally promised me I could get used to it. That's sort of how the boyfriend thing works.”

 

Bakugo grumbled something under his breath as he tossed the towel to the floor and flopped back down beside him, shoulder bumping Todoroki’s.

 

They stared at the ceiling together for a beat.

 

“I’m serious, though,” Todoroki said after a moment. “I appreciate you yelling at my father. And... Thanks for today. You were incredible.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bakugo mumbled. “You too, princess.”

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

Bakugo smirked. “Can’t hear you over all the satisfied sighing you were doing.”

 

Todoroki kicked him lightly in the shin.

 

Bakugo kicked him back—lighter.

 

And then he reached over, found Todoroki’s hand, and laced their fingers together without saying another word.

 

***

Chapter 22

Notes:

Dramaaaa

The morning was cool and bright, the kind of early weekend air that made the city feel gentler than usual.

 

Bakugo jogged just a step ahead of Todoroki, his hoodie sleeves pushed up, breath steady.

 

He’d been pretending not to look every time Todoroki adjusted his low-cut running shirt—but he was absolutely looking.

 

And he wasn’t the only one.

 

Bakugo shot a death glare at the guy across the street who lingered a second too long.

 

The guy looked away fast. Smart.

 

“Did you have to wear that?” Bakugo asked, voice casual in the least casual way.

 

Todoroki looked over, hair damp with sweat, breath steady. “What?”

 

Bakugo gestured without looking. “That stupid tank top.”

 

“It’s for airflow.”

 

“It’s for attention.”

 

Todoroki blinked, clearly confused. “I thought you said to wear something light.”

 

“I meant breathable. Not borderline indecent.”

 

Todoroki glanced down at himself, then back at Bakugo’s profile. “You and I film sex scenes for a living, and you want to lecture me about being indecent?”

 

“Shut up,” Bakugo muttered. “It’s just... distracting.”

 

“For who?”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer. Just picked up the pace half a step like he could outrun the conversation.

 

Todoroki jogged up beside him again, watching his profile. “Wait. Are you mad because someone looked at me? Literally, barely even glanced at me?”

 

“No,” Bakugo said immediately. Too fast. Too loud.

 

Todoroki blinked again, slower this time. Realizing. “…You are.”

 

Bakugo groaned, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I’m not mad. I just think your nipples could use a little more discretion.”

 

Todoroki huffed a soft laugh. “You’re jealous.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“No, you are. That’s kind of... sweet.”

 

Bakugo shot him a glare. “Don’t say sweet.”

 

“Okay,” Todoroki said mildly. “Protective, then.”

 

Bakugo scowled, but his ears were red.

 

Todoroki bumped their arms together lightly. “You know you don’t have to worry about me.”

 

“I’m not worried.”

 

“You’re just nipple-conscious on my behalf.”

 

Bakugo groaned again. “I hate you.”

 

“You really don’t.”

 

*

 

They got home ten minutes later, both sweaty and smug, Bakugo immediately peeling off his shirt and stomping toward the kitchen.

 

“I want eggs,” he shouted behind him. “And toast. And sausage. And coffee. Black. You’re cooking.”

 

“I jogged too,” Todoroki said, reaching for a towel. “Why do I have to cook?”

 

“Because you look hot in my apron.”

 

Before Todoroki could fire back, his phone buzzed.

 

Aizawa.

 

He blinked, then answered. “Hello?”

 

“Sorry to bother you on a Saturday,” Aizawa said, voice dry as always. “I got a contract request from Enji’s office this morning. Thought I’d run it past you before I toss it.”

 

Todoroki straightened slightly. “What’s it for?”

 

There was a pause. “Yoarashi.”

 

Todoroki’s brows lifted. “He’s with my father’s studio?”

 

“Apparently. And they’re offering a lot of money for a follow-up scene. I know you're sick of his shit, but I still thought you should know. I’ll leave it on your desk. Look at it Monday if you want.”

 

“Thanks,” Todoroki said, eyes narrowing faintly. “I’ll think about it.”

 

Bakugo’s voice rang out from somewhere near the stove. “It’s the weekend. Tell work to fuck off until Monday.”

 

Todoroki smiled faintly, ending the call. “He just wanted to be thorough.”

 

Bakugo shook his head anyway.

 

Todoroki stepped into the kitchen. “You’ll never believe it. Enji offered me a stupid amount of money to do a follow-up scene with Yaorashi.”

 

Bakugo didn’t turn around.

 

He stirred the eggs with unnecessary force. “You should take it.”

 

Todoroki blinked. “What?”

 

“If the money’s good. Your mom’s surgery’s getting closer. It’s a smart move.”

 

Todoroki frowned. “Katsuki—”

 

“It’s just work,” Bakugo cut in, still facing the stove. “You’ve done scenes with him before.”

 

“That was before you.”

 

Bakugo said nothing.

 

Todoroki crossed the room slowly. “You seriously want me to sleep with someone else? You can't even handle when someone glances at me in a tank top, and suddenly you'd be cool with me underneath another man?”

 

Bakugo’s jaw twitched. “I want you to be able to pay for your mom’s recovery without panicking every month. If this helps, then—yeah. I want that.”

 

“And what about us?”

 

Finally, Bakugo turned. His eyes weren’t angry. Just tight. Guarded. “You said it yourself. It’s just acting.”

 

“It’s not just acting,” Todoroki snapped, voice rising.

 

Bakugo held his gaze, unmoving.

 

“I won’t do it,” Todoroki said. “I don’t care if they offer ten times that amount.”

 

“Okay. Then don't.” Bakugo tried to dismiss the argument, but it was too late.

 

Bakugo turned back to the stove, back tense, eggs burning slightly in the pan.

 

The smell of it made the silence between them feel even heavier.

 

Todoroki was still by the counter, phone on the tile, unreadable expression slowly shifting.

 

Bakugo couldn't bear the silence.

 

He set the spatula down with a little too much force. “I’m not saying I want you to do it—”

 

“But you’re okay with it?” Todoroki’s voice had dropped—low, cold, stunned.

 

“I’m saying it’s your choice,” Bakugo snapped, finally facing him. “If it’s for your mom—if it helps, then I can deal with it.”

 

Todoroki stared at him, eyes wide. “Deal with it?”

 

Bakugo’s jaw twitched. “Yeah. I’m not gonna be the reason you say no to something that big.”

 

Todoroki’s chest rose sharply with a breath that didn’t quite make it all the way out.

 

He blinked once. “You really think I could just go and sleep with someone else,” he said quietly, “and we’d be fine after?”

 

Bakugo stepped forward. “It’s work. My first day at Aizawa's studio, you were ten minutes away from sleeping with someone else before you knew it was me waiting for you.”

 

“Well we didn't exactly talk about it,” Todoroki snapped, the edge in his voice slicing clean through the kitchen. “I didn't think I'd feel this way about it. There's a reason people in the industry don't date.”

 

“Then let's talk about it. I’m trying to do the right thing here, alright?” Bakugo bit out. “You’ve got this huge offer on the table—your mom needs the surgery—we both know how expensive it is. If doing one more scene gets you there, I’m not gonna stand in your way.”

 

Todoroki’s voice dropped. “You are standing in my way.”

 

Bakugo blinked. “How?”

 

“I couldn't bear to watch you have sex with someone else. So why are you okay with watching me?”

 

Bakugo’s breath hitched. “Because I’m not—fuck, I’m not, Shoto. But I’m trying to be. I’m trying not to be the selfish one here.”

 

Todoroki shook his head, almost laughing—but it wasn’t amused.

 

It was disbelief. Bitter and hurt.

 

“That’s not selfless,” he said.

 

Bakugo moved toward him, but Todoroki backed up.

 

Bakugo stopped cold. Watching Todoroki retreat from him hurt more than he was prepared for.

 

“You really think this is about money?” Todoroki asked, voice quieter now. “You think I’d choose that over you?”

 

Bakugo’s throat worked. He didn’t answer.

 

Todoroki’s mouth twisted. “Guess we don’t see this the same way.”

 

And then he turned.

 

He walked down the hallway, barefoot and furious, hoodie sleeves bunched at the elbows.

 

Bakugo followed half a step before stopping himself—hands clenched, heart pounding.

 

“Shoto—”

 

Todoroki didn’t look back. “I need some time,” he called. Flat. Final.

 

The door shut a little too hard behind him.

 

And Bakugo stood there in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the burned eggs and the empty hall, wondering how the hell trying to help could hurt this much.

 

After Todoroki gathered up his things, he walked right past him, and straight out the front door.

 

*

 

Todoroki didn't come back.

 

He stayed away for the entire weekend. 

 

But Bakugo figured he'd just give him his space, and see him at work. 

 

So when Monday rolled around, and Todoroki hadn't even come in to work? Bakugo knew something was wrong. 

 

And when he talked to Midoriya, his heart completely sank.

 

Bakugo didn’t stop to grab his coat.

 

Didn’t answer Aizawa’s “Where the hell are you going?” either.

 

Just slammed the studio door behind him and hit the gas hard enough to squeal tires leaving the lot.

 

He felt sick. Physically nauseous.

 

He hadn’t heard from Todoroki all weekend. No texts. No calls. Nothing.

 

And he’d chalked it up to pettiness. To space. To “maybe we’re still cooling off.”

 

He hadn’t even considered something might be wrong.

 

And now Midoriya—wide-eyed and hesitant—had said it like it was no big deal: “Yeah, the surgery got bumped. He’s been at the hospital since last night. Didn’t want to make a thing out of it.”

 

Didn’t want to make a thing out of it.

 

Didn’t want to bother anyone.

 

Bakugo clenched the wheel tighter, jaw locked, heart climbing up his throat like it wanted to scream at him.

 

He hated how it made sense. Hated how easily he could picture Todoroki sitting in that whitewashed lobby, expression unreadable, hands folded, shoulders stiff with exhaustion and quiet dread.

 

He parked like a man possessed, didn’t even bother locking the car.

 

Took the stairs two at a time.

 

Found the neurosurgery wing and turned the corner so fast he nearly bowled over a nurse.

 

She blinked, but didn’t stop him. Maybe it was the look in his eye.

 

And then—

 

There he was.

 

Curled in on himself on one of those uncomfortable vinyl chairs, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands, legs folded tight.

 

His head was slumped to the side, cheek against the back of the chair, breath soft and shallow in sleep.

 

He looked… small.

 

Not weak. Not fragile.

 

Just so fucking tired.

 

Bakugo stood there for a second, unmoving.

 

Just staring at him.

 

His anger dissolved instantly. No edge. No bite.

 

Just a horrible, aching kind of guilt settling into his ribs.

 

He should’ve been here.

 

Bakugo stepped forward, quiet as he could, and lowered himself onto the little couch next to the row of chairs.

 

He hesitated only a moment before reaching out—slow, cautious—and touched Todoroki’s knee.

 

No response.

 

So he reached further, hooked an arm around his waist, and gently pulled.

 

Todoroki shifted instinctively, still mostly unconscious, and let himself be guided.

 

Let himself lean.

 

Bakugo wrapped both arms around him, tugging him in close until Todoroki’s head fell against his chest, the slow rise and fall syncing with Bakugo’s heartbeat.

 

He pressed his mouth to Todoroki’s temple. Said nothing.

 

There was nothing to say.

 

Just holding. Just breathing.

 

Minutes passed. Maybe longer.

 

Eventually, Todoroki stirred—just a twitch at first, then a groggy inhale.

 

His voice was low and thick with sleep. “Kat...?”

 

Bakugo didn’t let go.

 

“Yeah,” he said softly.

 

Todoroki blinked blearily up at him, eyes rimmed red, lashes heavy. “What are you doing here...?”

 

Bakugo exhaled, hand sliding up his back. “Should’ve asked you that.”

 

Todoroki frowned slightly. Then it hit him. “Oh. The surgery,” he muttered. “It got moved. I meant to text—”

 

“I know,” Bakugo said. Not mad. Not sharp.

 

“I’m sorry,” Todoroki mumbled. “I didn’t want to bother you... If you were pissed at me.”

 

Bakugo closed his eyes. “Baby,” he said, quiet and pained. “I don't care if we're fighting. If you need me, I'll be there. Every damn time.”

 

Todoroki didn’t answer. Just tucked his face into Bakugo’s shirt, hiding.

 

Bakugo kissed the top of his head. “Is she okay?”

 

Todoroki nodded, slow. “Still in recovery. There were some issues. They told me I could go, but... I didn’t want to leave.”

 

Bakugo just held him tighter. “So we'll stay,” he whispered. “You and me.”

 

*

 

Bakugo didn’t know how long they sat like that.

 

Ten minutes? Thirty? An hour?

 

Didn’t matter.

 

Time didn’t exist while Todoroki slept in his arms, breathing slow and soft, heartbeat steady against his chest.

 

The world felt muted. Like nothing could touch them here—not the industry, not Enji, not even their last fight.

 

Just this. Just him.

 

And fuck, Bakugo hadn’t planned to care this much.

 

He’d thought—at first—that Todoroki was just a challenge.

 

A pretty face with a sharper tongue.

 

Someone to argue with, maybe fuck, maybe ruin, and walk away from with a half-smile and an ego boost.

 

But then…

 

Then came the shoot. Then came the nights. Then came the way Todoroki looked at him—not like a co-star, not like a threat—but like someone who saw him.

 

And now?

 

Now he was sitting in a freezing hospital waiting room, holding Todoroki like something fragile. Like something precious.

 

And all weekend, he’d been pissed. Hadn’t eaten. Barely slept.

 

Convinced Todoroki was ghosting him out of spite, when really—really—he’d been here. Alone.

 

Waiting for news about the one person he loved most in the world.

 

Bakugo swallowed hard, guilt curdling low in his gut.

 

He shifted slightly, brushing his fingers through Todoroki’s hair.

 

This idiot.

 

This beautiful, maddening, emotionally repressed idiot who’d somehow wormed his way under every layer Bakugo had spent years armoring up.

 

He couldn’t fucking take it.

 

He needed to tell him.

 

Bakugo cleared his throat, gently nudging Todoroki’s shoulder. “Hey. Sho.”

 

Todoroki stirred—slow, groggy. His eyes cracked open, unfocused. “Hm?”

 

Bakugo gave him a soft smile, brushing his thumb along his jaw. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you. I just…”

 

He paused. Heart thundering.

 

“I need to tell you something.”

 

Todoroki blinked up at him, still half-asleep but listening. Always listening.

 

Bakugo took a breath.

 

“I was an asshole,” he said quietly. “I thought you were mad at me, and I let it fester instead of checking in. I let you walk out thinking I didn’t care—when the truth is, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the second you left.”

 

Todoroki blinked again, lips parting slightly.

 

Bakugo’s hand tightened around his. “I didn’t plan this, alright? I didn’t expect you. But you’re in my head all the time now, and it’s not just about sex, or scenes, or work. It’s you. I don’t want to go back to the way things were before you. I can’t.”

 

Todoroki sat up straighter, eyes clearer now.

 

Bakugo leaned in, barely breathing. “I know it's too fast and too messy and maybe I'm insane,” he said, voice low and rough. “But I think I'm in—”

 

“Excuse me? Are you two here for Rei Todoroki?” A voice cut in from across the room.

 

Bakugo blinked.

 

Todoroki froze.

 

Then—

 

He was on his feet in an instant, grabbing Bakugo’s hand without a word and yanking him up. “Yeah,” he said breathlessly. “Yes—we’re here.”

 

The nurse gave a small nod and gestured down the hall. “She’s awake. You can come see her now.”

 

***

Chapter 23

The sky had started to turn that dull lavender-gray—the color of early evening when the sun hasn’t quite committed to setting yet.

 

The hospital parking lot was mostly empty, just a handful of cars and the sound of a distant ambulance siren somewhere far off.

 

Todoroki walked out holding Bakugo’s hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

 

He hadn’t said much to the nurse.

 

Just nodded. Asked when he could come back. Got told, “Tomorrow morning. She needs to sleep now.”

 

He’d said goodbye to Rei quietly, a squeeze of her fingers and a kiss to her temple.

 

She’d smiled at him, soft and tired, and whispered something he didn’t repeat. Just held it in his chest like a secret he wanted to protect.

 

Now, outside, he looked lighter.

 

Still exhausted. Still wrung-out.

 

But lighter.

 

“She looked good,” Todoroki said, voice low. “Pale, yeah. But good. She knew who I was. Held my hand. Asked me if I was eating enough, even though she just got out of surgery.”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer right away.

 

He was still staring at him.

 

Staring at the way Todoroki’s shoulders were slumped, not in defeat—but relief.

 

At the faint smile tugging at his mouth. At the tired pride in his eyes.

 

He’d held it together through everything.

 

Hadn’t flinched once. Hadn’t complained. Hadn’t asked for help.

 

Just carried it all. Alone. Like always.

 

Bakugo’s throat tightened.

 

He stepped forward before he could think.

 

Before he could ruin it with words again.

 

His arms came up, and he pulled Todoroki in.

 

Not rough, but not really gentle either.

 

Wrapped his arms around Todoroki’s back and buried his face in his neck like the world hadn’t felt right until this exact second.

 

Todoroki froze for a moment—then sank into it.

 

Let his head fall to Bakugo’s shoulder. Let his hands grip the back of his shirt. Let himself be held.

 

Bakugo’s voice was barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, Sho.”

 

Todoroki didn’t move.

 

“For all of it,” Bakugo added. “For fighting with you. For making you feel like you had to handle this alone. For being so fuckin' scared of feeling this way about someone that I pushed when I should’ve pulled.”

 

Todoroki let out a breath that sounded more like a sigh of relief than anything else. “I didn’t mean to shut you out,” he said. “I just didn’t want to put that extra weight on you.”

 

Bakugo shook his head, arms tightening. “I want the weight. Anything I can do to help, I'll do it.”

 

They stood like that for a while. In the parking lot. In the fading light.

 

Eventually, Todoroki spoke again, voice muffled against Bakugo’s collar. “I... I really needed this.”

 

Bakugo nodded. “Me too.”

 

And he wasn’t just talking about the hug.

 

He was talking about the forgiveness. The closeness. The feel of Todoroki warm and real in his arms again.

 

And this time, he didn’t let go first.

 

*

 

“I’ll meet you at my place, gotta run an errand first.” Bakugo said as they reached Todoroki's car, tossing Todoroki his spare key. “Go home and pack a bag if you need to. You're staying the night.”

 

Todoroki blinked down at the key in his palm. “Okay. I'll get this back to you.”

 

Bakugo shrugged, already turning for his own car. “Keep it.”

 

Todoroki smiled—small but unmistakable—and didn’t argue.

 

*

 

Bakugo made three stops.

 

First for food—Todoroki’s favorite, which meant two different spots because the rice at one was better, but the protein at the other hit different.

 

Then the store—quick, efficient.

 

He beelined straight to the candy aisle and grabbed the sour watermelon gummies Todoroki pretended not to like but always finished anyway. Then the chocolate-covered almonds.

 

And, on impulse, two bouquets—one red roses, one white lilies, because he couldn’t fucking decide which one Todoroki would like more.

 

When he got home, the place was quiet—dim lighting, a single lamp on in the bedroom.

 

He walked in with bags in both hands, slightly breathless.

 

And stopped cold in the doorway.

 

Todoroki was already in his bed, propped up against the headboard, legs bare and stretched out, wearing nothing but one of Bakugo’s shirts—loose, soft cotton hanging off one shoulder.

 

The TV was on, playing some nature documentary on low volume, but Todoroki wasn’t watching it. He was staring down at his phone.

 

His eyes flicked up the second Bakugo appeared, and his expression went soft in a way that melted Bakugo’s entire spine.

 

Then Todoroki moved to stand up. “Let me help—” he started.

 

“Sit down,” Bakugo barked immediately, marching forward. “Don’t move.”

 

Todoroki blinked. Obeyed.

 

And then watched—bemused, touched—as Bakugo dropped the bags at the foot of the bed and started laying everything out with the care of someone arranging a shrine.

 

Takeout containers. Chopsticks. The candy bags. The flowers—laid carefully on the comforter like peace offerings.

 

Todoroki stared at the display, lips parting.

 

Bakugo avoided his eyes, but he was blushing. Definitely blushing.

 

“You’re ridiculous,” Todoroki said quietly.

 

Bakugo sat down on the edge of the bed, still not looking at him. “Yeah, well. You scared the shit out of me. So shut up and eat.”

 

Todoroki leaned forward, kissed him—no warning, no preamble. Just warmth and pressure and gratitude in a single, heavy breath.

 

When he pulled back, Bakugo was still red, but smirking now.

 

“Eat,” he muttered, shoving the chopsticks into Todoroki’s hand. “I know you didn’t eat at the hospital.”

 

Todoroki laughed softly and obeyed again—cracking open the container and digging into the rice first. He took one bite. Then another.

 

And let out a hum that was maybe too satisfied for something so simple.

 

Bakugo watched him for a moment.

 

The soft expression. The content little smile as he chewed.

 

The fucking legs. The way Bakugo’s shirt draped just long enough to make him insane.

 

And then the way Todoroki glanced back up at the screen.

 

Bakugo swallowed hard.

 

And leaned in.

 

He pressed a kiss just under Todoroki’s ear—gentle, warm—and murmured against his skin, “You drive me crazy, you know that? I think about you all the time. It’s annoying as hell.”

 

Todoroki froze. Just for a beat.

 

Then slowly turned his head, eyes locking with Bakugo’s. And said, without hesitation, “I know. I... I think about you too.”

 

And just like that—

 

Bakugo’s whole world narrowed to one warm room, one half-eaten dinner, and one person who made him feel like every wrong turn he’d ever taken was just part of the map that led here.

 

*

 

Todoroki tossed the takeout containers in the bin, stacking them carefully before tying up the trash.

 

The candy got shelved, half-eaten, and the flowers—he found vases.

 

Two of them. Dusty, but elegant.

 

He knew how much it meant for Bakugo of all people to go out and buy flowers, so he wanted to respect them as much as he could.

 

He filled them with water and trimmed the stems like he actually knew what he was doing. One bouquet went on the windowsill. The other on the kitchen table.

 

He stared at them for a moment.

 

Then turned out the lights and padded barefoot back toward the bedroom.

 

When he stepped inside, Bakugo was mid-change—shirt already on the floor, pants halfway down, sweatpants in one hand.

 

The low lighting brushed his skin gold. The muscles in his back flexed as he shifted, smooth skin catching the glow.

 

Todoroki stared for a second too long. Then jumped into bed like someone who lived there.

 

“Nice view,” Todoroki said.

 

Bakugo snorted. “Shut up.”

 

“I’m serious.”

 

“You always are.”

 

Bakugo tugged on his sweatpants and climbed into bed beside him, arm brushing Todoroki’s as he settled back against the headboard.

 

For a while, neither of them said anything.

 

The TV murmured in the background, and the room felt still in a way that wasn’t empty—just full of quiet, of something earned.

 

Then, “I think we should talk about work,” Todoroki said, not looking away from the screen.

 

Bakugo tensed slightly. “Yeah?”

 

Todoroki nodded, shifting a little so their arms pressed together. “If we’re only filming with each other from now on, that’s fine. I’d actually… like that. I just don't want feelings to get hurt, and... I don't really want anyone else to touch you.”

 

Bakugo glanced at him.

 

“But,” Todoroki continued, “I’ve also been thinking about taking a more permanent position behind the scenes. Aizawa mentioned needing more directors he could trust. I’d have to stare at naked people all day, though. Just—full disclosure.”

 

Bakugo stared at the ceiling for a beat. Then asked, soft and steady, “Would you ever leave the industry completely?”

 

Todoroki was quiet for a moment. Not because he was unsure—just… surprised.

 

“I don’t really have any other skills,” Todoroki said finally, with a wry smile. “I’ve been doing this since I was barely old enough to sign a contract. It’s the only job I’ve ever had.”

 

Bakugo didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Just looked at him. “What if I found something else for you?” he asked, voice low. “Would you do it then? Would you leave?”

 

Todoroki turned toward him, brows lifting. “You mean like a, ‘quit porn and open a coffee shop together’ sorta thing?”

 

“I mean,” Bakugo said, clearing his throat, “if I said I wanted to do something real with you. Build something. Would you walk away from the industry?”

 

Todoroki’s answer came without hesitation. “I’d follow you anywhere, Katsuki.”

 

Bakugo blinked.

 

Then looked away—just briefly—like he couldn’t quite hold Todoroki’s gaze without unraveling.

 

Todoroki leaned in, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder. “You don’t have to say anything yet,” he murmured. “I just want you to know. I’m not here for the job. I’m here for you.”

 

Bakugo turned back to him, eyes soft.

 

And then—

 

He pulled Todoroki into him, one arm wrapping around his waist as they sank down into the mattress together.

 

Todoroki went easily, curling into Bakugo’s chest like he belonged there. Legs tangled. Breath syncing. Warm skin against warm skin.

 

Bakugo’s hand drifted up and down Todoroki’s back slowly.

 

And in the quiet of Bakugo’s room, lit only by the soft flicker of the TV, it felt like something more than peace.

 

It felt like a beginning.

 

*

 

The next morning, Bakugo’s run was shorter than usual.

 

Partly because his calves were still sore from yesterday.

 

Mostly because he knew who was in his apartment, and the longer he stayed away, the more unbearable the idea of not touching him became.

 

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt as he unlocked the door—quiet, in case Todoroki was still asleep.

 

But the faint sound of water running, down the hall, told him otherwise.

 

Bakugo smirked.

 

The shower.

 

His feet carried him automatically—soft steps, no stomp this time. He tossed his hoodie onto a chair, kicked off his shoes, peeled off his damp tank and shorts.

 

By the time he reached the bathroom door, steam was already curling out from underneath it, warm and thick in the air.

 

He opened it without knocking.

 

Inside, the room was fogged up. The mirror was useless.

 

And through the glass of the shower, he could see Todoroki’s silhouette—back turned, head tilted down as the water poured over his shoulders.

 

Bakugo didn’t say a word.

 

He just stepped in.

 

The shower door clicked closed behind him, and Todoroki startled slightly—turning just enough to see him over his shoulder.

 

“You know there’s another bathroom, right?” he said, voice already lazy with heat and amusement.

 

“Yeah,” Bakugo muttered, stepping forward. “But it doesn’t have you in it.”

 

Todoroki huffed a laugh and let him come close.

 

Bakugo slid his arms around Todoroki’s waist from behind, pressing in until their bodies aligned perfectly.

 

Water hit his shoulders, hot and soothing, but he barely felt it over the way Todoroki relaxed against him.

 

“Didn’t expect you back so soon,” Todoroki murmured, tilting his head as Bakugo kissed the side of his neck.

 

“Missed you.”

 

“That’s gross. We were only apart for thirty minutes.”

 

“Thirty-eight.” Bakugo corrected.

 

Todoroki snorted.

 

Bakugo’s hands roamed lazily—over his stomach, across his hips, slow and unhurried.

 

Not possessive. Just curious. Like he hadn’t touched him a thousand times already and was still trying to memorize him.

 

Todoroki shivered. “Water’s hot,” he muttered.

 

“So are you.”

 

“You’re such a loser when you’re soft.”

 

Bakugo bit his shoulder gently. “You like me soft.”

 

“Only certain parts of you.”

 

Bakugo laughed against his skin, arms tightening.

 

He kissed Todoroki’s neck again—then lower, down his spine, while his hands slid over wet skin like he was checking to make sure everything was still real.

 

Todoroki turned then—hands finding Bakugo’s hips, tugging him close, eyes heavy-lidded and still shining under the spray.

 

Bakugo leaned in and kissed him—slow and deep, like the water could drown them and he’d still keep kissing.

 

The heat curled between them, but it wasn’t urgent.

 

Hands mapped ribs and spines, lips dragged over jawlines and shoulders, mouths finding each other again and again like a conversation they didn’t want to end.

 

“You gonna keep staring at me like that?” Todoroki whispered, smirking.

 

“Only when you’re naked and wet.”

 

When they finally stepped out—skin flushed, towels loose around their waists—Todoroki grabbed Bakugo’s hand and pulled him back toward the bedroom with that same quiet confidence.

 

“You’re not jogging tomorrow,” he said casually.

 

“Why not?”

 

Todoroki didn’t look back. “Because I plan to ruin your legs.”

 

Bakugo blinked.

 

Then grinned like a man in very real danger. “God, I've never been so attracted to you.”

 

“Good,” Todoroki said. “Now shut up and get back in bed.”

 

***

Chapter 24

They barely made it as far as the bed.

 

Todoroki dropped his towel somewhere along the way.

 

Bakugo didn’t even bother trying to hang his up—just let it fall as he followed Todoroki, all smirk and sharp edges and water still dripping from his hair.

 

“Visiting hours start in about an hour,” Todoroki said as he slid onto the mattress, voice a little breathless but still smug. “So you’ll need to make this quick.”

 

Bakugo climbed over him, settling between his legs like he lived there. “Please. I’m insulted.”

 

“You should be.”

 

Bakugo leaned down, kissing along Todoroki’s jaw. “I can make you see god in forty-five minutes.”

 

“Debatable.”

 

Bakugo bit at his throat, just hard enough to make Todoroki suck in a sharp breath.

 

“That mouth of yours,” Bakugo muttered, dragging his hand down Todoroki’s side, “is gonna get you in trouble.”

 

“Promise?”

 

Bakugo grinned, and that was the warning—lazy, confident, dangerous.

 

He slid one hand between them, the other bracing him beside Todoroki’s head. "Bet you’ll be begging before the clock hits the half-hour."

 

“You’re cocky today,” Todoroki murmured, breath already catching as Bakugo rocked his hips forward, slow and teasing.

 

“I’m always cocky,” Bakugo said, voice thick. “You’re just finally not pretending to hate it.”

 

Todoroki arched up into him, fingers digging into his back. "For someone who’s so good with his hands, you really like hearing yourself talk."

 

“Tch,” Bakugo growled, "You love it. Makes you wet when I run my mouth."

 

And he was right.

 

Todoroki’s breath hitched again as Bakugo kissed him—deep, heated, all tongue and teeth and want. Their bodies slid together, still warm from the shower.

 

The hour before visitation?

 

More than enough time.

 

And Bakugo had every intention of making Todoroki regret setting a time limit.

 

Twice.

 

*

 

The hospital visit was good.

 

Better than yesterday—Rei was awake, chatty in her soft way. Todoroki looked lighter every time she smiled.

 

They stayed just long enough not to overstay.

 

When they left, Todoroki leaned into the car door with a sigh, turned to Bakugo, and said, “Quick detour? I need to grab a few more things from my place.”

 

Bakugo nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

 

Todoroki hesitated, eyes flicking toward Bakugo cautiously. “As long as… that’s okay? If I stay over again?”

 

Bakugo softened for just a heartbeat, looking almost surprised. “Of course it’s okay.”

 

Todoroki almost smiled, but then Bakugo's expression sharpened abruptly into a wicked grin.

 

Bakugo continued, “God, you're needy. Worried I might kick your clingy ass out?”

 

Todoroki exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes, clearly regretting the moment of sincerity. “Forget I asked.”

 

“Nah,” Bakugo said, relentless, “this is great. Let’s talk about your abandonment issues on the way. Want me to hold your hand? Wipe your tears?”

 

They both climbed into the car, but their little spat continued.

 

“Actually,” Todoroki said, deadpan, “can you do both? You’re already so good at multitasking. Like talking and being annoying at the same time.”

 

Bakugo barked out a laugh, loud and delighted. “Wow. That mouth. It’s like you want to die.”

 

Todoroki turned to the window, just barely smirking. “I just want you to drive.”

 

“Oh, I’ll drive, all right,” Bakugo muttered, flicking on the turn signal. “Right into a goddamn lake.”

 

“Sounds peaceful,” Todoroki said, still facing away. “Let me know when we get there.”

 

Bakugo glared sideways, but the corner of his mouth twitched, like he couldn’t decide whether to strangle Todoroki or kiss him.

 

Possibly both.

 

They drove in companionable, petty silence for a while.

 

Bakugo tapped his fingers on the steering wheel like he was trying to drum Todoroki’s patience into submission. Todoroki stared out the window like he was imagining a world where Bakugo had a mute button.

 

The second they pulled up in front of the building, Todoroki unbuckled his seatbelt and said, “You don’t have to come in.”

 

“Wow,” Bakugo said, killing the engine. “Way to make a guy feel special.”

 

Todoroki blinked at him, completely sincere. “I was trying to give you an out. I'll just be a minute.”

 

“Yeah, well.” Bakugo shoved the door open and climbed out. “Too bad. Gonna judge your fridge contents and everything. See if it's gotten any better since I was here last.”

 

“Great,” Todoroki muttered as he followed. “Just what I needed. A houseguest with a superiority complex.”

 

“I’m not a guest,” Bakugo said over his shoulder. “I’m your boyfriend with a superiority complex.”

 

Inside, Todoroki’s apartment was spotless, minimalist, and silent—until Bakugo walked in and said, immediately, “Why does it smell like nothing in here?”

 

Todoroki raised an eyebrow. “What should it smell like?”

 

“I dunno. Soap? Pine? Regret?”

 

“I have a candle,” Todoroki offered.

 

“Oh my god, you’re the worst.” Bakugo opened the fridge, squinted. “Is this just miso paste and... hydration? What the hell do you eat?”

 

Todoroki toed off his shoes and shrugged. “Sometimes rice.”

 

Bakugo straightened slowly. “Sometimes—rice?”

 

“Yeah. Do I need to remind you that I haven't been staying here? Of course the fridge is empty.”

 

“But no snacks? You want me to die?”

 

Todoroki finally cracked a full smile. “Tempting. But no.”

 

Bakugo slammed the fridge shut and pointed at him like a man unhinged. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

 

Todoroki leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You tell me that a lot.”

 

“Yeah, well, I gotta remind myself why I put up with this.”

 

Todoroki’s smile softened. “You like my apartment. You just don’t want to admit it.”

 

Bakugo made a noncommittal sound and walked toward him, crowding into his space like it was second nature. “I like you, idiot. The apartment’s just... bland.”

 

“And yet, you keep coming back.”

 

“Yeah,” Bakugo muttered, eyes catching his for just a second too long. “I do.”

 

The silence that followed stretched just long enough to feel like something shifted—just slightly—before Bakugo shoved Todoroki’s shoulder and stepped back with a scoff.

 

“Alright, Romeo. Go get your stuff. You’ve got, like, two outfits and a toothbrush, right?”

 

Todoroki nodded, already heading toward his bedroom. “Three outfits, actually.”

 

“Oh damn,” Bakugo called after him. “Slow down, big spender.”

 

*

 

Todoroki was quickly tossing more outfits into a duffel bag, listening to the vague sounds of Bakugo marching around the apartment opening cabinets and scoffing at whatever he saw.

 

It was almost peaceful for about sixty seconds.

 

Then came the voice.

 

Low. Sharp. Familiar.

 

“What the hell is going on?”

 

Todoroki froze.

 

He dropped the hoodie he was holding and turned.

 

Then he heard Bakugo. “Yeah, great to see you too.”

 

Todoroki rushed out into the hallway and stopped dead in the doorway to the living room.

 

Enji stood just inside the entrance—still in a pressed dress shirt, coat over one arm, eyes like steel.

 

And Bakugo was squared up in front of him, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

 

“I asked you a question,” Enji snapped. “Why didn’t anyone tell me the surgery date changed?”

 

“Maybe because nobody gives a shit,” Bakugo shot back.

 

Todoroki stepped forward. “What are you doing here?”

 

Enji’s gaze cut to him, sharp and full of accusation. “You weren’t answering your phone. Or your work emails. I had to go through your agent just to find out you were alive.”

 

“I’ve been at the hospital,” Todoroki said flatly.

 

“And I had a right to know about that.”

 

“Why?” Todoroki asked, voice low. “Why do you think you get to be outraged now? You’ve ignored everything until it affected you. You didn’t offer to help. You didn’t visit. You didn’t even ask.”

 

Enji stepped forward. “I’m her husband.”

 

“Exactly,” Todoroki said, voice flat. “So where the fuck have you been?”

 

Bakugo moved in without thinking, stepping between them just slightly, arm out like a warning. “Enji. Seriously. Back off.”

 

Enji turned on him again. “This is between me and my son.”

 

“No,” Bakugo growled. “This is bullshit. You wanna visit Rei? Fine. But if you’re here to yell, guilt-trip, or act like you’re owed something? You can turn the fuck around.”

 

Enji’s fists clenched.

 

Todoroki’s breath was shaky, but his voice didn’t waver. “Just go. Visit her if you're so concerned.”

 

There was a moment of frozen silence in the middle of the living room.

 

Then Enji stepped back. Looked at Todoroki one more time—cold, unreadable. “Tell your mother I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

 

And then he left.

 

The door shut with a dull thud.

 

Bakugo let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

 

Todoroki was still standing there, arms at his sides, jaw tight.

 

Bakugo walked over, gently brushing their fingers together before lacing them without a word. “You okay?” he asked, quieter now.

 

Todoroki didn’t speak at first.

 

His eyes stayed on the door, like he expected it to open again. Like maybe the next thing would hit even harder.

 

Bakugo gave his hand the faintest squeeze. “Hey. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

Still nothing. But Todoroki’s grip tightened.

 

“I just hate the way he talks to you,” Bakugo murmured. “You don't owe him shit. After... After everything.”

 

Todoroki finally turned toward him then, face still blank, but his shoulders dropped. Just slightly. “I know,” he said quietly. “I just… if you hadn’t been here—”

 

“I was,” Bakugo cut in, firm but soft. “I am.”

 

Todoroki looked at him for a long moment. Then his expression shifted, just barely.

 

“Can we go?” he asked, voice smaller now. Honest.

 

Bakugo reached up, brushed his thumb over Todoroki’s knuckles. “Yeah,” he said. “Go grab your bag, baby. Let's go home.”

 

*

 

Todoroki sat in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, clutching his duffel bag like it might try to escape.

 

His jaw was locked. His fingers kept twitching around the strap.

 

Bakugo didn’t say anything.

 

He kept his hands on the wheel, eyes flicking to the road, then to Todoroki, then back again.

 

Waiting. Letting the pressure build.

 

They were halfway home when Todoroki finally cracked. “Who the fuck does he think he is?”

 

Bakugo blinked. “There it is.”

 

Todoroki didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

 

“He didn’t call. Didn’t show. Didn’t pay a cent toward the hospital bills. But now that it’s convenient for him—now that he can throw a tantrum in person—suddenly he gives a shit?”

 

Bakugo nodded. “Fuck him.”

 

“He has no idea what I’ve done to keep everything from falling apart. What I’ve sacrificed. I’ve sold my entire fucking life just to pay for Mom’s treatment and he—he shows up mad?”

 

“Un-fucking-believable,” Bakugo muttered.

 

“He’s spent years looking at me like I’m disposable. A walking paycheck. A disappointment. He even fired me, for literally no reason. But now I’m supposed to be grateful he dragged his ass to my apartment like it’s some kind of favor?”

 

Bakugo shot him a glance. “Say it.”

 

“What?”

 

“He’s a selfish, cold, arrogant bastard.”

 

Todoroki’s mouth twitched. “He’s a selfish, cold, arrogant bastard.”

 

“Louder.”

 

“He’s a selfish, cold, arrogant bastard.”

 

“There you go. Keep going, Sho. Let it out. You deserve to have your voice heard after all this time.”

 

Todoroki was fully in it now—body tight, words tumbling like a dam had broken.

 

He kept going, even as they pulled into Bakugo’s driveway.

 

Even as the car shut off.

 

Even as they just sat there, unmoving.

 

“Where was he when I was breaking myself on set to make deadlines? Where was he when I was pulling doubles to pay rent and order medication in the same week? Where the fuck was he when I was waking up every night wondering if I was failing her?!”

 

Bakugo didn’t interrupt.

 

Didn’t flinch.

 

Just let him burn.

 

Todoroki’s chest heaved. His knuckles were white.

 

He stared down at his lap like the rage was a fire he hadn’t realized he’d been feeding this whole time.

 

And Bakugo just sat there.

 

Watching.

 

This—this was what he always worried about.

 

That Todoroki would keep swallowing it all down until it poisoned him from the inside out.

 

Because he did that. Always had. Quiet. Composed. Stoic to a goddamn fault.

 

He folded in on himself like it was his job not to take up space. Like existing too loudly might inconvenience someone.

 

Tried so hard not to burden anyone that he forgot it was okay to need.

 

And now, finally, he was letting it out. Letting himself feel. Letting himself be.

 

Then—

 

Out of nowhere—

 

“You got a camera here?”

 

Bakugo blinked. “What?”

 

Todoroki turned to him, eyes sharp. Wild. “Camera. Tripod. Anything we could film on?”

 

Bakugo hesitated, gears grinding to catch up. “Uh… yeah. Think so. Why?”

 

Todoroki grabbed his bag again, tighter. “Good. Because I’m pissed, and I want to shoot a scene. Right now. You cool with that?”

 

Bakugo stared.

 

Then smirked. “You want angry revenge porn?” he asked. “Because baby, I excel at angry revenge porn.”

 

Todoroki was already climbing out of the car. “You better.”

 

Bakugo followed—heart pounding, adrenaline surging.

 

Not just from lust. Not just from anticipation.

 

But from the raw, electric thrill of seeing Todoroki unleashed.

 

Not afraid. Not apologizing. Not small.

 

And hell if that wasn’t the hottest goddamn thing in the world.

 

By the time they reached the door, Todoroki had already ditched his jacket.

 

By the time Bakugo dug out the camera bag, Todoroki was in the guest bedroom, stripping like he had something to prove.

 

And Bakugo?

 

He set up the tripod, adjusted the lighting, hit record—

 

And walked toward Todoroki like a man who knew exactly what kind of storm he was stepping into.

 

This wouldn’t be soft.

 

Wouldn’t be tender.

 

It would be cathartic.

 

And when the scene ended, when the camera stopped rolling—

 

It would be crystal fucking clear to anyone who watched: Todoroki Shoto was done being quiet.

 

And Bakugo was right there beside him—grinning like the luckiest bastard alive.

 

***

Chapter 25

Notes:

So obviously y'all know what's about to happen lol. It's smutty time

** I'm back after editing this chapter and holy shit y'all, this is A LOT. Get comfortable lol

The guest room wasn’t prepped. The lighting was shit. The camera was crooked on the tripod.

 

And Bakugo barely had time to hit record before Todoroki shoved him—hard—backward onto the bed.

 

Bakugo caught himself on his elbows, eyes wide with shock and amusement. “Well fuck,” he breathed, grinning. “Didn’t realize we were skipping foreplay.”

 

Todoroki was already stripping. Shirt off, pants undone, skin flushed from fury, not lust—but the line was starting to blur.

 

He tossed a handful of supplies onto the bed—lube, wipes, condoms, all pre-grabbed like he'd planned this ambush mid-breakdown.

 

He didn’t say a word.

 

Just climbed on top of Bakugo and tore at his clothes like they were the enemy.

 

Bakugo laughed—actually laughed, even as his shirt was yanked halfway over his head. “You’re not even gonna sweet talk me a little?”

 

Todoroki pulled the shirt off completely and threw it behind him. “No time,” he muttered, voice sharp, breath ragged. “You’re supposed to be good at this. Prove it.”

 

Bakugo grinned like the devil. “Oh, baby. I was born for this.”

 

Todoroki yanked down his pants, didn’t even bother fully removing them—just got them far enough to make room.

 

His fingers curled into Bakugo’s hips, tight and possessive.

 

He leaned down and kissed him—not gentle. Not soft.

 

Bakugo kissed back with equal heat, hands finding Todoroki’s waist, pulling him closer.

 

The camera caught all of it—the wild tangle of limbs, the sharp gasps, the way Todoroki pushed Bakugo flat with a hand on his chest and rode the kiss like he was trying to steal every ounce of breath out of his lungs.

 

“God, you’re so hot when you’re pissed,” Bakugo rasped against his mouth.

 

Todoroki’s eyes burned. “Stop. Behave.”

 

Bakugo didn’t argue.

 

Didn’t need to.

 

Because this is what he wanted. To give Todoroki a safe place to finally have a breakdown.

 

To finally snap under the weight of all the pressure he'd been under.

 

To scream with his body instead of his mouth.

 

Bakugo could handle it. He wanted to handle it.

 

He’d take every sharp edge Todoroki threw at him.

 

Every scrape of teeth, every bruising grip, every frantic thrust like he was trying to outrun the ache in his chest.

 

And yeah, maybe Bakugo's back was gonna look like a war zone tomorrow.

 

Maybe his thighs would be sore. Maybe he'd be limping.

 

But god, the way Todoroki moved—furious and gorgeous and a little bit unhinged—Bakugo would let him go feral on him any day of the week.

 

Especially if it meant Todoroki didn’t have to suffer in silence anymore.

 

He tangled a hand in Todoroki’s hair and held him steady for another kiss—deeper this time. Slower.

 

Just for a second.

 

Just to remind him that he wasn’t alone.

 

That no matter how wild the world got, no matter how much shit they were drowning in—Bakugo would always be right here.

 

On his back, on his knees, whatever the hell Todoroki needed.

 

*

 

Bakugo was already moaning, already breathless, already hard, hands gripping Todoroki’s thighs like he was anchoring them both to the mattress.

 

Todoroki’s hands were everywhere—firm, focused, no hesitation.

 

Bakugo was completely bare underneath him, and Todoroki was determined to touch every inch of him.

 

His weight pressed Bakugo into the mattress, thighs bracketing his hips, lips dragging over his jaw.

 

Then—

 

Todoroki paused.

 

One hand gripped Bakugo’s thigh.

 

The other slid up his chest, fingers curling lightly around his throat—not squeezing, just there, possessive. A signal.

 

“You okay with this?” Todoroki murmured, voice quieter now, breath brushing Bakugo’s cheek.

 

Bakugo shivered.

 

God, he loved that.

 

The restraint in Todoroki’s voice. The weight in his hands. The awareness.

 

Bakugo nodded, eyes half-lidded. “More than okay.”

 

Todoroki studied him—searching. Making sure. “You’d tell me to stop?” he asked.

 

Bakugo smirked. “Wouldn’t have to. I’d throw you across the room.”

 

That earned him a small, crooked smile—one that vanished as quickly as it came.

 

“Good,” Todoroki said softly.

 

And then he moved.

 

His hips rocked forward, slow and heavy, grinding down against Bakugo’s in a rhythm that left no space for teasing.

 

No space for thinking.

 

Bakugo arched, a low moan punching from his throat. “Fuck, okay—shit.”

 

Todoroki leaned in, mouth at his ear. “You still good?”

 

Bakugo gasped, gripping Todoroki’s arms. “I’m amazing. You’re so fucking hot right now.”

 

Todoroki’s hand slid under Bakugo’s thigh, lifting, shifting.

 

He kissed down Bakugo’s throat—biting lightly, just enough to make him squirm—and then reached for the lube.

 

Bakugo was already panting. Already nodding. “Do it. Fucking do it.”

 

Todoroki didn’t rush.

 

He took his time prepping him—efficient, but careful. Watching Bakugo’s face the whole time.

 

Every breath.

 

Every twitch.

 

Bakugo’s fists curled in the sheets, hips moving without conscious thought. “Fuck, Sho—don’t go easy on me, I can take it—”

 

Todoroki kissed him to interrupt him. “I know. But I want you to want it.”

 

Bakugo groaned into his mouth. “I do want it—please.”

 

That did it.

 

Todoroki lined himself up, hands braced on either side of Bakugo’s shoulders, breath stuttering once before he pushed in—slow and steady.

 

Bakugo whined. Loud. Barely even pretending to be composed.

 

“Oh—fuck, yes,” His hands scrambled for Todoroki’s upper arms, holding tight. “God, you feel—fuck, baby—”

 

Todoroki stopped once he was all the way in, chest heaving. “Okay?” he asked again, voice lower now. Strained.

 

Bakugo looked up at him, eyes wild, face flushed. “You’ve got one job,” he growled. “And it’s to ruin me.”

 

Todoroki laughed—breathless, and relieved.

 

Then he started moving again. Rhythm hard, precise, relentless.

 

Bakugo lost track of his own voice—words spilling out half-coherent, praise and curses and “fuck yes, just like that” layered between gasps and moans.

 

Todoroki didn’t let up.

 

Didn’t falter.

 

He gripped Bakugo’s legs tighter, pushed deeper, drove harder—and with every thrust, Bakugo broke a little more.

 

In the best fucking way.

 

His voice cracked.

 

His back arched.

 

He clutched Todoroki like he was trying to fuse them together.

 

And still—Todoroki checked in, even when Bakugo looked gone.

 

“Feel good?” Todoroki whispered against his jaw.

 

Bakugo nodded fast. “Fuck—yes—don’t you dare stop—”

 

Todoroki smirked. “You gonna beg for it?”

 

Bakugo grinned up at him, cocky and flushed. “Tch—please. You’re not even close to breaking me.”

 

“Oh?” Todoroki rolled his hips slow and deep, eyes locked on Bakugo’s. “You sure?”

 

Bakugo barked a breathless laugh. “Positive.”

 

Todoroki raised an eyebrow. “That a challenge?”

 

Todoroki didn’t let him answer.

 

He shifted his grip—one hand bracing Bakugo’s thigh, the other wrapped firm around his jaw, keeping him in place—and fucked into him even harder.

 

Like he was aiming for something deep and ruinous.

 

Bakugo’s next sound came out strangled.

 

“Still feeling cocky?” Todoroki muttered, not easing up.

 

Bakugo’s hands scrabbled for purchase, breath stuttering. “Y-you’re getting warmer—”

 

Todoroki thrust again, brutal. “Tell me when I hit boiling.”

 

Bakugo’s eyes fluttered. “Sh-shit—”

 

“I’m not stopping,” Todoroki growled against his mouth, “until all that attitude’s gone.”

 

Bakugo’s laugh came out cracked. “You think you can fuck the fight outta me? Good luck.”

 

Todoroki didn’t respond. Just shifted his grip—one hand around Bakugo’s throat, not tight, just firm.

 

And then he slowed down.

 

Bakugo’s eyes went wide. “Hey—”

 

Todoroki moved again—just enough to tease, not enough to satisfy. “I’ll give you what you want,” he said, voice steady, smug. “But not until you beg.”

 

Bakugo bared his teeth. “I said don’t stop—”

 

“I’m giving you a chance,” Todoroki cut in, rhythm maddeningly shallow. “Use your words.”

 

“God—fuck you.”

 

Todoroki pressed his thumb under Bakugo’s chin, making him look up. “Try again.”

 

Bakugo writhed beneath him, furious and desperate.

 

His hands scrambled to grab, push, something—but Todoroki caught his wrists and pinned them to the bed.

 

“You’re not in control right now,” he said, low and firm.

 

Bakugo panted, chest heaving, body straining.

 

Todoroki shifted his hips, angled deep—right there —then stilled again.

 

Bakugo snapped. “Don’t—don’t you fucking tease me—”

 

“Beg,” Todoroki said simply.

 

Silence.

 

Bakugo’s jaw clenched.

 

Todoroki leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. “Come on. You’re so close. Don't you wanna come on my cock?”

 

Bakugo growled low in his throat, teeth gritted. “Fucking—goddamn—please.”

 

Todoroki didn’t move.

 

Bakugo thrashed once, fists tight. “I hate you—”

 

“Try again.”

 

Bakugo’s whole body trembled. He glared up at Todoroki—red-faced, wrecked—and hissed it like it burned his tongue. “Please, T. Just—fuck me already.”

 

Todoroki finally smiled. “Good boy.”

 

Then he slammed back in—all restraint gone.

 

Bakugo’s whole body arched, a cry torn from his throat.

 

Todoroki dragged his hand down Bakugo’s chest—then wrapped it around his cock and started stroking, timed with every thrust.

 

Bakugo’s head dropped back.

 

Eyes squeezed shut.

 

Mouth open.

 

He looked wrecked.

 

He looked perfect.

 

“Holy fuck,” Bakugo choked out, voice practically a sob.

 

Todoroki stroked him harder in time with every thrust, precise and relentless.

 

“You’re close,” he said, low and certain. “I can feel it.”

 

Bakugo nodded, frantic. Couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

 

Todoroki shifted forward, one forearm braced beside Bakugo’s head, their bodies flush—chests pressed tight, skin slick and burning.

 

Then he leaned in fully and kissed him.

 

Really kissed him.

 

Deep, consuming, stealing the last bit of breath left in his lungs.

 

Bakugo gasped into it, but there was no room to breathe, no room to think—just heat and friction and Todoroki’s mouth claiming his, Todoroki’s hips still driving into him, Todoroki’s hand stroking him in perfect, ruthless rhythm.

 

It was too much.

 

Bakugo arched once—then collapsed under him, legs falling open wider, arms slipping around Todoroki’s shoulders and holding on.

 

No more fighting. No more bracing.

 

His whole body gave in.

 

“I—I can’t—please—don’t stop, don’t stop.”

 

Todoroki didn’t.

 

He kissed him harder. Fucked him deeper.

 

“Let go,” Todoroki breathed against his mouth, voice steady, grounding.

 

And Bakugo broke.

 

He came with a cracked, helpless sob, whole body locking tight, then melting—his muscles going loose beneath Todoroki, mouth still parted, throat working around a breath that never fully came.

 

Todoroki didn’t stop moving.

 

He held him through it—kept stroking, kept thrusting, kept holding—one hand cradling the back of Bakugo’s head now, the other still wrapped around his cock, gentler now, coaxing every last tremble from him.

 

Bakugo clung to him, boneless and shaking.

 

His legs stayed wrapped around Todoroki’s waist, but it wasn’t to take control anymore—it was just to stay close.

 

His face pressed into Todoroki’s neck, mouth grazing his skin with every gasped inhale.

 

No curses. No teeth.

 

Just soft, shuddering breath.

 

The camera caught everything.

 

Every sound.

 

Every look.

 

Every second of fire.

 

And when it was over, they collapsed together—sweaty, shaking, tangled, spent.

 

Bakugo’s chest heaved under Todoroki’s weight.

 

Todoroki’s hand found his, fingers weaving together.

 

And for a long time, neither of them moved.

 

Todoroki smoothed a hand up his spine. Fingers sifting through his sweat-damp hair, brushing along the back of his neck.

 

“You did so good,” Todoroki murmured, voice low and warm. “Took everything I gave you.”

 

Bakugo let out a shaky exhale, breath catching in his throat.

 

Todoroki kissed his cheek. His jaw. The corner of his mouth. Gentle, unhurried.

 

“Such a good boy,” he whispered.

 

Bakugo shivered. “Alright... Quit it.”

 

“No,” Todoroki said, with calm finality. “You deserve the praise.”

 

Bakugo didn't answer, but he pressed closer, like he couldn’t help it.

 

Todoroki kept touching him—palms moving over his sides, his ribs, slow strokes meant to soothe.

 

“You don’t have to do anything else,” Todoroki said. “Just stay right here. Let me hold you.”

 

*

 

The room was hot.

 

Bodies tangled, skin damp, breath still stuttering between them. The camera blinked silently from the corner, forgotten but still recording.

 

Todoroki lay sprawled across the bed, one hand lazily curled around Bakugo’s.

 

His other arm rested over his forehead, chest rising and falling in the aftermath.

 

Bakugo lay beneath him, completely fucked-out, skin flushed, a ghost of a grin playing at the corner of his mouth. “I can’t believe you’re just lying there,” he murmured.

 

Todoroki’s fingers traced lazy patterns along Bakugo’s ribs. Gentle. Thoughtless.

 

Todoroki blinked. “What?”

 

Bakugo turned his head, smile tugging at his mouth. “You did all that damage and now you’re just gonna rest?”

 

Todoroki gave him a look. “You want me to apologize?”

 

Bakugo snorted. “I want you to take responsibility.”

 

Todoroki raised a brow, unamused.

 

Bakugo laughed—soft and warm this time. “What if I said I could go again?”

 

“You said you couldn’t walk.”

 

“I’m not walking,” Bakugo said, stretching his arms above his head with a grin. “I’m lying here. Behaving. Being yours.”

 

Todoroki blinked.

 

Bakugo’s smile turned sly. “Still pissed off?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Shame,” Bakugo said, tilting his head. “I kind of liked the edge.”

 

Todoroki leaned over him, one hand sliding up his thigh. “You trying to bait me?”

 

Bakugo’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. Then opened, soft and sure. “No,” he said. “I’m asking.”

 

Todoroki’s hand stilled.

 

Then moved again, slow and deliberate, up Bakugo’s side.

 

“You want more?”

 

Bakugo nodded. “Yeah.”

 

Todoroki leaned in, kissed him slow. “You sure?”

 

Bakugo pulled him closer by the hips.

 

Todoroki shifted between his legs, mouth brushing Bakugo’s. “You gonna beg again?”

 

Bakugo smiled into the kiss. “Maybe.”

 

Todoroki’s hand slid between Bakugo’s thighs again, deliberate, forceful. “Say please.”

 

Bakugo grinned through a pant. “Make me.”

 

***

Chapter 26

Notes:

A little more smut here at the beginning, and then it calms down a bit lol

Bakugo barely had time to catch his breath before Todoroki’s hand was back on him—firm, assured, leaving no question who was in charge now.

 

“Alright. I think I've heard enough,” Todoroki said, voice low, controlled.

 

Bakugo’s eyes snapped open, fire in them. “The fuck—”

 

Todoroki clapped a hand over his mouth.

 

Bakugo froze—surprised.

 

Then his eyes fluttered, and his body shivered, and—

 

Todoroki felt it. Saw it.

 

The way Bakugo’s hips jerked up just slightly, the sharp inhale through his nose, the immediate flush blooming high on his cheekbones.

 

He liked it.

 

Todoroki leaned down until his mouth was at Bakugo’s ear again, voice barely above a whisper. “You like that?” He asked, just to make sure.

 

Bakugo’s eyes met his—wild, almost pleading.

 

He nodded.

 

Todoroki smiled. And decided to keep his hand there.

 

He reached down with the other—slow, sure, patient now, like he had all the time in the world—and prepped him again. 

 

Gentle stretch, slick and steady, two fingers curling just right. He felt Bakugo’s thighs twitch around him, breath stuttering into his palm.

 

Bakugo squirmed beneath him, moaning into Todoroki’s hand, the sound muffled but desperate. Need painted in every inch of him—arched spine, flushed skin, the sheen of sweat gathering at his temples.

 

Todoroki took the time to grab one of the condoms and some of the lube, and then he was leaning over Bakugo once again.

 

Todoroki's hand clamped back down onto Bakugo's mouth as he lined himself up, pausing only to glance at Bakugo one more time to make sure it was all okay.

 

It only took one strong thrust to fill him, and Bakugo arched, gasping hard against Todoroki’s hand.

 

“Fuck,” Todoroki breathed, feeling the way Bakugo gave in so fast—no fight, no flinch. Just that beautiful, involuntary clench around him and a full-body shudder like the air had been punched from his lungs.

 

He pulled back, snapped his hips forward again, harder.

 

Bakugo made a noise that was half-moan, half-growl, eyes squeezed shut, hands scrabbling at the sheets.

 

Todoroki didn’t let up.

 

He moved faster, hips snapping with a relentless precision that had Bakugo gasping into his palm, thighs trembling from the pressure, the stretch, the heat building into something unbearable.

 

Every drag and push sent a sharp ache curling up Bakugo’s spine—pain kissed with pleasure, deep and hot and dizzying.

 

And when Bakugo got too loud, too wild—Todoroki reached up, grabbed both of his wrists, and pinned them above his head in one smooth motion.

 

Bakugo gasped, voice cracking as he choked out, “Fuck—!”

 

His entire body bucked, a shocked, strangled sound catching in his throat as he let Todoroki hold him there—helpless, grounded, lost in the drag and thrust and heat of it all.

 

Todoroki whispered into his neck, voice low and tight. “Look at you. All bark, no bite.”

 

Bakugo whimpered—the sound raw, involuntary.

 

God, the way he sounded.

 

Todoroki hadn’t expected it—hadn’t known that Bakugo, explosive, merciless Bakugo, could whimper like that. And under him, no less.

 

It was obscene. Beautiful. Addictive.

 

Like watching a wildfire surrender to ice.

 

There was heat between them, but it was Todoroki’s this time—steady, consuming.

 

Not the way Bakugo burned things down, but the way Todoroki melted them from the inside out.

 

And Todoroki nearly lost control. “You want more?” he demanded, tightening his grip on Bakugo’s wrists.

 

Bakugo nodded furiously, mouth parted, eyes glassy with need.

 

Todoroki fucked him harder. Pinned, breathless, fully taken—Bakugo moaned like he was falling apart.

 

It wasn’t just sex anymore. It was surrender.

 

And the fact that it was Shoto—quiet, unreadable, always so careful Shoto—doing this?

 

That made it better.

 

“You’re so good like this,” Todoroki murmured, dragging his mouth over Bakugo’s collarbone. “So fucking good.”

 

Bakugo bit his lip, trembling beneath him, already close.

 

Todoroki felt it. Matched it. Rushed with it.

 

He paused, just long enough to press his lips to the flushed skin at Bakugo’s throat. “Never thought I’d see the day,” he added. “You—quiet, obedient.” His teeth grazed skin. “Perfect.”

 

He let go of Bakugo’s wrists and cupped the back of his neck instead, pulling their mouths together in a rough, gasping kiss.

 

And Bakugo broke.

 

Came hard, body shaking, soundless at first—then full of breath and raw, unfiltered ecstasy.

 

Todoroki followed with a groan that sounded half like Bakugo’s name, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to Bakugo’s shoulder.

 

And then silence. Shaking. Sweating.

 

Heartbeats hammering in tandem.

 

Bakugo lay there for a moment like he’d been struck by lightning—numb, blinking, still twitching slightly under Todoroki’s palm.

 

The only sound in the room was the slow wind-down of their breath and the faint hum of the camera still blinking red in the corner.

 

Then Bakugo let out a dazed, wrecked laugh. “What the fuck,” he croaked.

 

Todoroki kissed his temple, hand smoothing over his chest. “You’re welcome.”

 

Bakugo nodded weakly. “Yeah. Definitely gotta piss you off more often.”

 

*

 

The room was still thick with heat—humid and quiet, the sheets twisted beneath them, skin sticking together in the best kind of mess.

 

Bakugo lay flat on his back, eyes half-lidded, chest still rising in slow, shaky breaths.

 

Then—

 

“Shit,” Todoroki muttered, and abruptly rolled off the bed.

 

Bakugo blinked, dazed. “The hell—?”

 

Todoroki walked naked—zero shame—across the room and hit a button on the still-blinking camera.

 

The red light died.

 

He sighed and turned back to the bed. “Forgot it was still on.”

 

Bakugo let out a lazy laugh. “We’re gonna have to edit so much.”

 

Todoroki climbed back onto the mattress, settling beside him, arm thrown over Bakugo’s waist.

 

For a moment, it was quiet again.

 

“So,” Todoroki said, voice unusually hesitant. “Was that… okay?”

 

Bakugo turned his head.

 

Stared.

 

“Okay?” he repeated, like the word had offended him. “That was fucking unreal.”

 

Todoroki flushed—just a little. “You’re sure? I mean, the—when I held your wrists, or… covered your mouth. I didn’t go too far?”

 

Bakugo went quiet. Then reached up, ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, and let out a long breath.

 

“I didn’t even know I liked that shit,” he said, voice quieter now. “But—fuck, T. You were amazing. I mean it.”

 

Todoroki looked at him—curious, careful.

 

Bakugo met his eyes. “I’d let you do anything,” he said simply. “Anything you wanted. Because I trust you. And you should trust me to tell you, or stop you, if I don't like something.”

 

That stopped Todoroki for a beat.

 

But not in panic.

 

He just stared for a second longer, then leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Bakugo’s shoulder. “Anything, huh?” he murmured.

 

His fingers brushed over Bakugo’s stomach, light and slow, like he was reminding him that he could still be gentle, too.

 

Bakugo huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Don’t get cocky.”

 

“Too late.” Todoroki smiled, sly. “Love hearing you say the word 'cock.'”

 

Bakugo could only roll his eyes.

 

Todoroki settled back down beside him, lips brushing Bakugo’s cheek. “But I’ll remember that next time.”

 

Bakugo grinned, and reached over to lazily lace their fingers together.

 

God, he was so screwed.

 

And he wouldn’t change a thing.

 

*

 

Bakugo padded into the kitchen completely naked, hair still damp, skin still flushed from earlier.

 

He didn’t even blink before yanking open a drawer, pulling out an apron, and tying it on like this was just another Tuesday.

 

Todoroki, to his credit, had at least put on some sweatpants.

 

He wandered in a minute later, rubbing at his jaw, shirtless, sore in all the best ways—and froze when he saw what was waiting for him.

 

Bakugo at the stove.

 

Naked.

 

Apron on.

 

Nothing else.

 

Todoroki grinned. “Did I die and wake up in a very specific fantasy?”

 

Bakugo didn’t look up. “Shut up.”

 

Todoroki walked in slow, arms loose at his sides, like a lion that had definitely already eaten but wasn’t done playing.

 

“You shouldn't test me like this, Katsu,” he said, stepping right up behind him. “I will put you back on your knees.”

 

Bakugo let out a sharp bark of a laugh. “Oh, fuck off—”

 

Todoroki’s hands slid over Bakugo’s hips—greedy, shameless—and gripped his ass, hard.

 

Bakugo jumped, almost dropped the spatula. “Hey.”

 

“Sorry,” Todoroki said, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s just… goddamn. You look edible.”

 

“Ten seconds,” Bakugo muttered. “You couldn’t keep your hands off me for ten seconds.”

 

“I’m only a man,” Todoroki said, kissing the side of his neck. “And you’re standing here with the ass of a Greek statue. What do you want me to do, ignore it?”

 

“Yes, you idiot. Don't objectify me.” Bakugo teased.

 

Todoroki almost laughed, but instead he reached out and smacked him right on the ass. 

 

Bakugo nearly flung the skillet across the room. “Shoto—!”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Todoroki said, dragging his hands around Bakugo’s waist. “I thought we were sharing power now.”

 

Bakugo huffed, trying not to laugh, trying not to melt. “I only let you borrow the top card.”

 

Todoroki leaned in, voice hot in his ear. “You want it back?”

 

Bakugo went still for a second—then slowly turned to glare at him over his shoulder.

 

That was a mistake.

 

Because Todoroki was smirking.

 

Confident. Relaxed.

 

Dangerous.

 

He pressed Bakugo gently into the counter with his hips—just enough pressure to make the message clear.

 

“Maybe,” Todoroki said, fingers trailing up under the edge of the apron, “Maybe I don't wanna give it back.”

 

Bakugo’s breath caught.

 

Todoroki smiled wider. “Now that I’ve seen how gorgeous you look when you give it up…” A kiss to the nape of Bakugo’s neck. “…I’m not sure I ever want it to stop.”

 

Bakugo’s eyes fluttered shut.

 

Just for a second.

 

Then he groaned and elbowed Todoroki back—gently, still grinning. “Let me finish cooking before you bend me over the fucking stove.”

 

“No promises.”

 

Bakugo rolled his eyes.

 

But his ears were bright red.

 

And lunch?

 

Lunch was gonna be late.

 

*

 

Bakugo flipped the stove burner off.

 

The pan of sautéed vegetables hissed to a stop as he turned—quietly, decisively—and stepped back toward Todoroki, still hovering too close, still smirking like he might throw Bakugo back onto the bed at any second.

 

Bakugo stared at him for a beat.

 

Then grabbed Todoroki by the waist and lifted—effortless, practiced, a reminder that just because he'd surrendered earlier didn’t mean he’d forgotten who he was.

 

Todoroki let out a surprised grunt as Bakugo set him down on the kitchen counter, hands braced behind him for balance.

 

Bakugo stepped between his knees.

 

Crowded into his space.

 

Made him look up.

 

And then—low, quiet, close enough to kiss, “I don’t let people do that to me.”

 

Todoroki blinked.

 

Bakugo didn’t break eye contact. “Like—ever. You get that, right?”

 

Todoroki nodded once, slowly.

 

Bakugo’s voice softened, but his eyes stayed sharp. “I’ve been on sets since I was nineteen. People have tried. Directors. Partners. Guys with something to prove.”

 

He leaned in just a little more.

 

“I don’t let them. I never have. Until I met you.”

 

Todoroki didn’t speak.

 

Bakugo exhaled. “You? I didn’t just let you. I wanted it. All of it. Every second.”

 

Todoroki’s throat bobbed.

 

Then—without a word—he reached out, cupped Bakugo’s face gently between both hands, and leaned in.

 

Their lips met—slow and warm. Like Todoroki was trying to reassure him.

 

When they parted, Todoroki kept his forehead pressed to Bakugo’s.

 

“I know,” Todoroki murmured. “I know how much it means. I didn't mean to take it for granted. I got carried away. I saw how much you gave me, and I—I wanted more. I should’ve slowed down.”

 

His thumbs brushed over Bakugo’s cheekbones, eyes searching his face.

 

“I love that you trust me so much,” Todoroki added. “And I'm sorry.”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer. He just leaned in again, kissed him harder this time—fingers digging into Todoroki’s thighs like he didn’t know where to put all the feelings burning under his skin.

 

And Todoroki let him.

 

Held him.

 

Because this—this wasn’t about who was on top.

 

It was about being seen, completely, and letting it happen anyway.

 

*

 

Back at the studio, Aizawa didn’t even look up from his laptop as they walked in.

 

“I know Todoroki needed to be at the hospital,” he said flatly. “But where the hell were you all day?”

 

Bakugo smirked, slouching a little against the office doorway. “I was working. I sent you a file. Check your email.”

 

Aizawa’s fingers clicked a few keys. Then—

 

A pause.

 

He sighed.

 

Long and suffering.

 

“Of course,” he muttered. “You idiots sent porn to my personal email.”

 

“You wanna be a millionaire or not?” Bakugo asked, grin widening.

 

Aizawa shook his head, but it didn’t come with a lecture. Just a muttered, fond, “Get to work.”

 

Todoroki was already halfway out the door when Aizawa suddenly raised his voice.

 

“And take this filth off my computer, Todoroki. You want to be a director, act like one—put it on the edit drive.”

 

Todoroki turned back with a small, rare smile.

 

“Got it,” he said, grabbing a flash drive from the desk.

 

He leaned in and gave Bakugo a quick kiss—just a press of lips, simple and real—before vanishing down the hall.

 

Bakugo watched him go.

 

Eyes soft. Stupid little smile on his face.

 

It was stupid, probably, how something so small could hit harder than anything they’d filmed.

 

“You gonna stand there all day?” Aizawa asked, dry as ever.

 

Bakugo blinked. “Huh?”

 

“Come here. Shut the door.”

 

Bakugo stepped further inside, and closed the door.

 

Aizawa leaned back in his chair, finally looking up. “So,” he said. “What’s the plan?”

 

Bakugo raised an eyebrow. “What plan?”

 

“Yours,” Aizawa said. “Todoroki’s clearly thinking long term. You? You fine just doing scenes with him? Want me to find you other partners? Or other work around here? I know the game changes when you start dating people you work with.”

 

Bakugo was quiet for a moment. “You think it’s smart? Just filming with one person?”

 

Aizawa didn’t blink. “I think your scenes with him are some of the highest-performing content we’ve ever had. The fans eat it up. The chemistry’s real. And unlike most industry couples, you two actually seem to like each other.”

 

Bakugo huffed. “Sometimes.”

 

Aizawa smirked.

 

He leaned forward slightly. “If you want to diversify? Cool. But if you’re happy filming with just him—and that’s clearly working—I’d say stick with it.”

 

Bakugo nodded slowly, processing that.

 

Then Aizawa added, almost as an afterthought, “You ever think about social media?”

 

Bakugo blinked. “Like what?”

 

“YouTube. Patreon. Some soft stuff. No nudity. Just… showing off the two of you being domestic, maybe answering questions, doing dumb boyfriend challenges. People love that shit. You’d make bank.”

 

Bakugo scratched the back of his neck. “You think I’d be good at that?”

 

“I think people love you,” Aizawa said plainly. “Especially when you’re not trying to be liked.”

 

That caught Bakugo off guard for a second.

 

He nodded, slower this time. “Thanks.”

 

Aizawa waved a hand. “Get outta here. Go help your boyfriend finish editing your sex fantasy. And don't forget to send me those pictures when you get a chance.”

 

Bakugo snorted, already halfway to the door. “On it.”

 

And for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—Bakugo didn’t feel like he was chasing his career.

 

He felt like he was building something.

 

***

Chapter 27

Notes:

Oh you thought the smut was done?

Nope.

My creative sexy brain has no limits lol

Also a quick heads up for a little spanking that's about to happen. Skip it if you want, or enjoy. Up to you haha.

After work, Todoroki came back over to Bakugo’s house, comfortable now in the rhythm of their routine.

 

Steam clung to his skin as he stepped out of the shower, hair damp and clinging to the sides of his face.

 

He towel-dried absentmindedly as he wandered out into the hallway, bare feet silent on the wood floor.

 

He squinted toward the kitchen. His phone had to be somewhere in there—he’d heard it buzz earlier.

 

Probably abandoned next to his water bottle or one of Bakugo’s tragically spiced protein bars.

 

But then his eyes landed on it.

 

The apron.

 

Still hanging near the pantry, where Bakugo left it to dry after he'd washed it.

 

Todoroki tilted his head. Then smirked.

 

He walked over and took it down, one brow arched in lazy amusement.

 

He slipped it on—no shirt, no pants, just the apron tied low across his hips. Loose in the front. Concealing enough to tease. Just barely.

 

He padded toward the counter and started wiping it down, absurdly casual about it.

 

Like this was just a normal day in someone’s cooking show fantasy.

 

He heard the water shut off.

 

A pause.

 

Then Bakugo’s voice, still fogged with post-shower haze, “Hey—where’d you put my phone charger?”

 

Todoroki didn’t answer.

 

Not a word.

 

The floor creaked.

 

Footsteps approached.

 

“Hello?” Bakugo said again, louder. “Did you hear me?”

 

He stepped into the kitchen, and completely froze.

 

Todoroki didn’t look at him. Not right away. Just kept wiping the counter like this was totally normal.

 

Like he wasn’t standing there bent at the waist in nothing but a familiar black apron, hips tilted just so, hair still damp, skin glowing faintly gold under the kitchen lights.

 

Bakugo stared like he’d forgotten how to speak.

 

“Need something?” Todoroki asked, finally glancing over his shoulder, eyes way too innocent.

 

Bakugo’s mouth finally opened. “Don’t move.”

 

Todoroki straightened a little. “Why?”

 

Bakugo turned and walked out of the kitchen with a purposeful stride.

 

Todoroki blinked.

 

Waited.

 

And then Bakugo came back, damp hair curling at the edges, a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips—

 

With condoms and the camera in his hands.

 

Todoroki groaned. “Seriously?”

 

Bakugo was already setting up the tripod. “If you don’t want to post it, we won’t. But I am keeping the footage.”

 

“You’re ridiculous.”

 

“You’re evil,” Bakugo countered, adjusting the lens. “Walking around like that—bending over my counters in my apron.”

 

Todoroki leaned back against the sink, arms crossed. “Just thought I’d return the favor.”

 

Bakugo pressed record.

 

Didn’t say another word.

 

He just walked up to Todoroki, eyes locked on his like he was trying to memorize the whole damn scene.

 

Todoroki was not ready for the way Bakugo dropped to his knees in front of him without breaking eye contact.

 

He reached for the apron’s hem—

 

And Todoroki’s breath hitched.

 

“Payback, huh?” Bakugo murmured, fingers trailing up his thighs.

 

Todoroki swallowed.

 

Bakugo’s hands slid higher, deliberate. His breath brushed against skin just below the apron hem, and Todoroki shivered.

 

“Let’s see how much you can take, then.” Bakugo hummed.

 

*

 

Bakugo pressed a kiss just above his knee and dragged his palms higher until they met the hem of the apron, bunched teasingly at Todoroki’s hips.

 

“Wanna play cute in my apron, huh?” Bakugo murmured, breath hot and damp against his thigh. “Show off that gorgeous little body of yours and think there won't be consequences?”

 

Todoroki exhaled, slow and shaky. “Maybe.”

 

Bakugo stood.

 

Gripped Todoroki by the waist.

 

And turned him. Bent him.

 

Pressed him right back over that countertop until Todoroki’s forearms rested flat against the granite, his breath fogging the surface.

 

Bakugo tugged the apron tight around Todoroki’s hips. “Bet you thought you were being clever.” His voice dropped low. “Now hold still.”

 

Then—without warning—his hand came down hard across Todoroki’s ass.

 

The slap cracked loud in the kitchen, the sound bouncing off tile and glass.

 

Todoroki jolted, hissed in surprise. “Fuck—”

 

Bakugo grinned. “That a bad ‘fuck’ or a good one?”

 

Todoroki looked back at him over his shoulder, wide-eyed, flushed. “Both?”

 

Bakugo snorted.

 

He tugged the apron strings even tighter—the knot digging just slightly against Todoroki’s skin—cinching the fabric snug against his waist, just enough to hold him in place, just enough for Todoroki to feel it.

 

Something about being tied in like that—wrapped up in Bakugo’s apron, bent over Bakugo’s counter—had Todoroki breathing heavier already, his thighs braced wide, muscles taut and expectant.

 

Bakugo rubbed a hand over the sting he’d left. “Color?”

 

Todoroki’s voice was low. “Green.”

 

Bakugo didn’t wait.

 

Another sharp smack—then another, alternating cheeks, just enough to light a burn under the skin, just enough to leave Todoroki panting into the counter, eyes squeezed shut.

 

“You’re gorgeous like this,” Bakugo muttered, dragging his hand down the curve of Todoroki’s ass. “And all mine. Mine to touch, mine to fuck...”

 

Todoroki moaned, hips shifting, skin flushing from his neck down his back, thighs trembling just slightly.

 

Bakugo gripped the back of the apron, tugged Todoroki toward him by the knot at his waist, and then reached forward—one hand sliding under the hem to stroke him, slow and firm.

 

Todoroki gasped. Loud.

 

“You’re so fucking hard already,” Bakugo said, smug rising like smoke. “Didn’t know you liked getting spanked, baby.”

 

Todoroki couldn’t think—couldn’t breathe.

 

His brain short-circuited every time Bakugo so much as touched the knot at his back. He didn’t want to be in control right now. He just wanted to fall apart.

 

“Shut up,” Todoroki rasped.

 

Bakugo leaned over him and kissed his shoulder as he quickly slid a condom onto himself. “Make me.”

 

Todoroki didn’t answer—he couldn’t.

 

Not when Bakugo pressed inside him slowly, thick and hot, the stretch burning just enough to make Todoroki groan into the counter, fingers digging hard into the edge of the granite.

 

His breath hitched. His legs shook. Every inch felt impossibly full—like he was being split open and rewired all at once.

 

Bakugo didn’t stop talking.

 

He never did.

 

“You’re not gonna last,” Bakugo murmured, thrusting slow and deep, dragging out every motion with precision. “Look at you. All bent over, tied up, making such pretty fucking sounds.”

 

Todoroki moaned, breathless, hands clenched into fists on the counter.

 

Bakugo gripped the apron again, used it—pulled Todoroki back onto him with every thrust, setting a brutal rhythm that echoed off the tile, skin meeting skin in wet, hungry slaps.

 

The camera caught it all—every sound, every flex of muscle, every filthy promise Bakugo growled into the back of Todoroki’s neck.

 

“You think you’re slick,” Bakugo breathed, snapping his hips harder. “Walking around here like that, thinking you could drive me crazy.”

 

Todoroki’s voice broke. “I did.”

 

“Yeah?” Bakugo bit his ear, grinning. “Well congrats. Tomorrow, you won’t be able to look at this counter without getting hard.”

 

*

 

Bakugo was already in deep—one hand fisted in the knot of that apron, the other gripping Todoroki’s hip so hard it would bruise.

 

The slap of skin against skin echoed sharp and fast, and Todoroki could barely think, let alone breathe.

 

Bakugo leaned over him again, chest to Todoroki’s back, breath hot at his ear. “You wanted attention, right?” he growled. “Wanted me to lose my fucking mind?”

 

Todoroki moaned, nodding into the countertop, cheek pressed against the cool granite. “Kat—fuck—”

 

Bakugo spanked him again, and Todoroki gasped.

 

Then again—another smack, and Bakugo laughed when he felt Todoroki twitch under him. “Keep makin’ those sounds, pretty boy. Let me know how bad you want it.”

 

Todoroki whimpered, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, eyes fluttering shut.

 

“You like being spanked now? Like being bent over my counter, looking like a desperate little housewife?”

 

“Y-yeah,” Todoroki choked out, shaking.

 

“Yeah, you do. Fuck—look at you. You’re so goddamn pretty I could lose my fuckin’ mind.”

 

Bakugo tightened his grip and slammed his hips forward, hard enough to knock a sound out of Todoroki’s throat that was halfway between a moan and a plea.

 

“You wanna come like this?” Bakugo snarled, slamming into him again, the rhythm intense. “Think you can come without even touching yourself?”

 

Todoroki could barely manage a nod, jaw slack, eyes glassy.

 

Bakugo grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the counter, flat and wide. “Keep your hands where I put 'em,” he snapped. “I don’t care how close you are.”

 

Todoroki cried out as Bakugo fucked into him harder, each thrust purposeful, brutal, raw. The slap of his hips echoed with every stroke.

 

The angle was perfect, devastating—Bakugo knew his body too well by now. Knew everything.

 

“You’re so tight like this,” Bakugo groaned. “You’re so fucking hot when you give it up.”

 

Todoroki’s legs were shaking, voice gone.

 

It was too much—Bakugo’s voice, the sting on his skin, the stretch, the sound of his name torn apart in that voice.

 

Bakugo bit his shoulder, and Todoroki came with a shout.

 

Body jerking, spilling untouched against the fabric of the apron, fingers clawing uselessly at the counter.

 

Bakugo didn’t stop.

 

He just fucked him through it.

 

Relentless.

 

Desperate.

 

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” Bakugo hissed, hips stuttering now, driving into him deep and wild. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

 

And then he came—hard and loud, voice breaking open, face buried against Todoroki’s back, fingers gripping so tight they’d leave marks.

 

The kitchen was a mess of panting and sweat and silence.

 

Neither of them moved for a long time.

 

Then—slowly—Bakugo eased out, breathing hard, eyes wide with what they’d just done. He tied off the condom and tossed it in the trash, while Todoroki struggled to put his brain back in his skull.

 

Todoroki collapsed forward against the counter with a weak groan. “Jesus,” he mumbled.

 

Bakugo huffed a laugh. “Still feelin' smug?”

 

Todoroki’s legs trembled under him, the knot of the apron still snug at his hips, like it was the only thing holding him together.

 

Todoroki blinked at him over his shoulder. “I can’t feel my legs.”

 

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Bakugo smacked his ass one last time—light, fond.

 

Todoroki sighed as Bakugo helped him up, wrapping an arm around his waist, holding him close.

 

“I don’t know if I hate or love that you’re so competitive during sex,” Todoroki mumbled.

 

Bakugo grinned. “Don't hate the player, baby.”

 

“You better be sweet to me tonight,” Todoroki added, eyes closed, breath evening out. “Like... disgustingly sweet. I’m talkin’ snacks, massages, forehead kisses—the whole package.”

 

“On one condition.” Bakugo stepped back just enough to run a hand down Todoroki’s spine—slow, deliberate, almost soothing. Then he leaned in, mouth brushing the shell of Todoroki’s ear. “I need a favor.”

 

Todoroki stiffened. “What now?”

 

“Just trust me,” Bakugo murmured, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

 

Todoroki went still, breath shaky, but nodded.

 

Bakugo gently guided him forward again—until Todoroki’s chest rested flat on the counter, arms folded under his head, face hidden in the crook of one elbow.

 

He tightened the apron strings again, just enough to reframe the way it clung to Todoroki’s hips.

 

Then—without warning—smack.

 

Todoroki flinched, hips jerking slightly.

 

Another. Then another. Firm, but not cruel—each one sharp enough to sting, soft enough to glow.

 

“Katsu, please—” Todoroki started.

 

“Shh,” Bakugo whispered, palm dragging over flushed skin, admiring the way pink bloomed across the curve of his ass. “Aizawa's been buggin' the shit out of me for more pictures of you for the site, so just... Hold still.”

 

Not technically a lie, since Aizawa was asking for pictures of Todoroki. But for a different reason.

 

Todoroki gritted his teeth, breathing harder, but didn’t move. Didn’t fight.

 

He trusted him.

 

Bakugo stepped back, grabbing his phone off of the back counter, eyes scanning the scene like he was composing something sacred.

 

Todoroki laid there—completely wrecked and still, the apron hanging low over one hip, the red blooming high across his thighs and ass, muscles taut, body twitching from aftershocks.

 

A picture of surrender, perfect and real.

 

“Fuck,” Bakugo muttered under his breath, staring at the screen. “You’re unbelievable.”

 

Todoroki didn’t lift his head. “Baby, please. I just wanna lay down.”

 

“I know, I know. Just a few more,” Bakugo said.

 

Click.

 

“Hurry.” Todoroki practically whined.

 

Bakugo lowered his phone, satisfied, gaze still locked on the pink flush spreading across Todoroki’s thighs and ass.

 

“Okay,” he said, voice low. “One more.”

 

Todoroki groaned into the counter.

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Bakugo ran a hand up his back, slow and possessive. “C’mon, get on your knees.”

 

Todoroki hesitated—just for a second.

 

His body was already buzzing, shaky with afterglow and overstimulation.

 

But then Bakugo gave him that look—low and hungry, but also weirdly soft around the edges—and Todoroki nodded.

 

He sank down, legs folding beneath him. The tile was cool under his knees, sharp compared to the heat still clinging to his skin.

 

Bakugo circled him slowly, already raising the camera again. “Fuck, you look good like that.”

 

Todoroki didn’t look up.

 

Didn’t know where to put his hands. He settled them awkwardly on his thighs, posture stiff.

 

“Relax,” Bakugo said, stepping behind him. “Here. Let me—”

 

He reached down and untied the apron, slow and deliberate, then slipped it off completely—dragging it over Todoroki’s skin, leaving him bare.

 

Todoroki flushed deep red, visibly resisting the urge to cover himself.

 

Bakugo’s voice softened. “Hey. You trust me?”

 

Todoroki met his eyes. Nodded once.

 

“Good,” Bakugo said, brushing his thumb along Todoroki’s jaw. “Then let me show you off.”

 

He adjusted Todoroki’s posture, tugged gently at his knees to spread them wider, then nudged his chin up.

 

Click.

 

“Hands behind your back,” Bakugo murmured.

 

Todoroki obeyed, cheeks still red, eyes glassy.

 

Click. Click.

 

Bakugo stepped in, reached down, and fisted a hand in Todoroki’s hair—tilting his head slightly to bare the line of his throat.

 

His other hand stayed steady on the phone, catching the angle. Todoroki shivered.

 

Click.

 

“God, you look good,” Bakugo muttered. “Perfect.”

 

He let Todoroki go, then crouched behind him for a lower shot, framing the curve of his ass, the flush still lingering, the way his spine dipped. Todoroki didn’t look at the camera once—but that only made it better.

 

“You’re insane,” Todoroki mumbled.

 

Bakugo grinned. “And you’re beautiful.”

 

Todoroki closed his eyes.

 

And Bakugo—satisfied, hungry, and just a little guilty—tucked his phone away. “Okay,” he said softly. “That’s it. You’re done.”

 

He reached out and helped Todoroki up again, pulling him gently into his arms, the post-storm quiet settling heavy around them.

 

But the pictures?

 

Bakugo was already mentally sorting them. Already thinking about which ones to send.

 

And which ones to keep just for himself.

 

***

Chapter 28

Todoroki hissed as soon as he sat down.

 

“Shit,” he muttered, shifting on the couch cushion, face flushed with the kind of lingering sting that had nothing to do with shame.

 

Bakugo’s hand was under his arm instantly, steadying him.

 

“Sorry,” Bakugo said, quieter now.  He kissed Todoroki’s temple. “Didn’t mean to go that hard.”

 

Todoroki huffed a tired laugh. “Yes you did.”

 

Bakugo helped him recline slowly, then crouched beside the couch to untie the apron’s string, fingers gentle where it had dug into Todoroki’s hips.

 

There were faint red welts where the fabric had pressed tight against his skin.

 

He eased the apron off, careful not to pull.

 

Then used it to clean up Todoroki’s stomach, moving slow, steady, efficient.

 

Todoroki lay back, head tilted toward the ceiling, utterly boneless.

 

Bakugo disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, and when he came back, he dropped a cold water bottle into Todoroki’s lap—and that familiar little red-and-green bag of watermelon candies.

 

Todoroki smiled and popped one into his mouth, letting the sugar dissolve on his tongue.

 

Bakugo sank down to sit on the floor in front of the couch, between Todoroki’s knees, leaning slightly against his shins.

 

He ran one hand gently over Todoroki’s thigh, fingertips ghosting over the bruises already starting to form.

 

Then—slowly—he pressed a kiss to one.

 

Then another.

 

Then to the faint marks left by the apron, the soft welt at Todoroki’s side.

 

“You okay?” Bakugo asked, voice quieter now, looking up at him.

 

Todoroki nodded lazily, eyes half-closed.

 

Bakugo trailed a hand up the outside of his thigh. “You want lotion?” he asked. “Or ice, or anything for the burn? I, uh... Hit you a little harder than I meant to.”

 

Todoroki’s mouth curled into a sleepy smile around a watermelon candy. “No,” he said. “I like the burn.”

 

Bakugo snorted, shaking his head fondly. “You little masochist.”

 

Todoroki shrugged. “You bring it out of me.”

 

Bakugo leaned back against the couch again, one hand resting on Todoroki’s knee. “You've never been so hot,” he muttered, almost to himself.

 

Todoroki giggled.

 

Actually giggled.

 

Which made Bakugo laugh, too—low, warm, totally undone by how much he liked this idiot.

 

They stayed there for a while—Todoroki stretched out, sticky and sore, flicking candies into his mouth with slow satisfaction, and Bakugo on the floor like some worn-out prizefighter, quietly kissing every bruise like he was proud of them.

 

Because maybe he was. Just a little bit.

 

*

 

The morning light spilled through the windows, golden and lazy.

 

Todoroki sat at the dining room table, hair still damp from his shower, wearing one of Bakugo’s older T-shirts that hung too loose at the collar.

 

The little camcorder was propped up on the table in front of him, screen flipped open, audio faint but audible.

 

He was smiling.

 

Soft. Private.

 

Bakugo walked in, tugging his shirt down over his stomach, still towel-drying the back of his head.

 

“You ready to go?” he asked, grabbing his keys from the counter.

 

Todoroki mumbled something that sounded like “almost.”

 

Bakugo looked up.

 

Paused.

 

Then wandered over, glancing at the screen. “…What’re you watching?”

 

Todoroki didn’t answer right away.

 

Bakugo stepped closer and caught the timestamp—late last night, long after they thought they’d stopped recording.

 

There on the screen: Bakugo gently easing Todoroki down onto the couch. Grabbing a water bottle.

 

Rummaging for that crinkly bag of watermelon candies.

 

Sitting on the floor. Kissing bruises. Talking low.

 

The video was grainy and unposed, the camera slightly tilted.

 

It looked like a home movie.

 

Todoroki’s face was still soft when he looked up at Bakugo. “We forgot to turn it off,” he said.

 

Bakugo stared at the screen for another beat.

 

Then slowly—quietly—he reached out and pulled Todoroki’s chair out just a little, crouching beside him.

 

Without a word, he lifted the hem of Todoroki’s shirt, exposing the sharp curve of his hip.

 

There it was—the darkest bruise. A little swollen. Right where Bakugo’s hand had landed hardest.

 

Todoroki set the camera down, eyes never leaving him. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Doesn’t hurt.”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer.

 

He just leaned in, kissed it.

 

A light press of lips.

 

More reverent than apologetic.

 

Then he let the shirt fall back into place, rising to his feet again with a hand still resting on Todoroki’s shoulder.

 

Todoroki looked up at him. “Can we keep it?” he asked.

 

Bakugo nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “That one’s just for us.”

 

*

 

The studio was already buzzing by midmorning—early calls, grip crews, mid-edit chaos, and the low hum of music from the lighting department.

 

Todoroki sat in the editing suite, leaned forward in his chair, a pair of headphones slung around his neck.

 

On the screen, Midoriya was in the middle of an overly enthusiastic scene with Sero, and Todoroki was scrubbing through footage to clean up a camera shake.

 

His co-editor, Ashido, leaned over the desk, sipping an energy drink. “He’s so twitchy when he bottoms. It’s like trying to light a firework with wet matches.”

 

“I kind of like it,” Todoroki said. “It’s authentic.”

 

The door cracked open behind them.

 

Bakugo stepped in, looking like he owned the place.

 

He didn’t say anything.

 

He walked right up behind Todoroki, set a fresh cup of coffee beside his keyboard, and pressed a slow, warm kiss to the side of his head.

 

Then turned and walked right back out.

 

Todoroki didn’t even flinch.

 

Just smiled to himself and hit play again.

 

Ashido blinked. “Okay, that was weirdly hot.”

 

Todoroki just kept editing.

 

*

 

Later, in one of the front studios, Bakugo was helping two of the set designers rearrange furniture.

 

He was sweaty, shirt halfway tucked in, forearms flexing as he moved a leather couch into place.

 

Todoroki walked in mid-conversation, Midoriya fast on his heels with a clipboard in hand.

 

“I just need to see it done once,” Midoriya was saying. “I’ve never used one like this, and it’s got way more clips than usual.”

 

“Yeah,” Todoroki said. “I know it's kinda tricky, but I can show you.” He turned toward the set crew. “Katsu. Got a minute?”

 

Bakugo straightened up, wiping his hands on his pants. “What’s up?”

 

“Can I borrow your arms?”

 

Bakugo blinked. “Can you—what?”

 

Todoroki was already walking toward him with a leather harness in hand.

 

Before Bakugo could even form a protest, Todoroki turned him around and started strapping the chest harness into place.

 

Bakugo huffed but stayed still.

 

His jaw tensed as Todoroki slung the harness over his shoulders.

 

Midoriya stood just off to the side, eyes wide, a little nervous, clutching a clipboard like it could protect him.

 

“Okay, so—” Todoroki began, voice even, “—this model has four main straps. Shoulder, chest, lower sternum, and cross-back. You start by buckling the top ring here—”

 

He reached around Bakugo’s chest, clipping the thick strap behind his back.

 

The leather snapped into place with a clean, efficient click.

 

Bakugo flinched slightly at the sound.

 

Todoroki didn’t miss it. “Easy,” he said under his breath, just for Bakugo. “You're okay.”

 

Bakugo breathed in once.

 

Let it out.

 

“Yeah. Okay.”

 

“Then the lower strap,” Todoroki continued, now addressing Midoriya. “You want it snug, but not cutting into their ribs. Just tight enough to hold tension if they pull.”

 

He ran his fingers along Bakugo’s side, smoothing the strap down with deliberate slowness, and tugged the buckle through.

 

Bakugo’s fingers twitched.

 

“Color?” Todoroki asked, still quiet.

 

Bakugo rolled his eyes. “Green. Don't underestimate me.”

 

Todoroki smirked—barely.

 

Next came the wrist restraints.

 

Todoroki stepped behind Bakugo again, unrolling the short cuffs attached to rings along the rear of the harness.

 

“These aren’t for suspension,” he told Midoriya. “They’re just to restrict movement. Enough pressure, no pain.”

 

Midoriya nodded fast, clearly trying to memorize everything.

 

Todoroki reached for Bakugo’s arms, guiding them behind his back gently. “Let me know if anything pinches,” he murmured.

 

Bakugo gave him a look. “Oh, you'll know.”

 

Todoroki made a soft sound—something like a laugh—and locked the cuffs in with two quick clicks.

 

Bakugo exhaled slowly.

 

His body was still tense—his instinct was to move, to fight, to not let anyone bind him down.

 

But it was Todoroki.

 

So he stayed still.

 

Todoroki looked at the cuffs approvingly, and then nodded toward Midoriya. “Unhook his wrists, and reattach. Same process.”

 

Midoriya hovered awkwardly. “You, uh... You sure?”

 

Todoroki just nodded.

 

As Midoriya worked—fumbling a little with the buckle—Todoroki began circling Bakugo slowly.

 

Checking the straps.

 

Tightening them.

 

Maybe a bit too snug at the shoulders.

 

Bakugo grunted. “You’re not subtle, you know.”

 

“I’m not trying to be,” Todoroki replied, reaching up to adjust the shoulder tension again—deliberate, slow, fingertips dragging slightly along Bakugo’s collarbone.

 

Midoriya had managed to hook one wrist back in.

 

“Nice,” Todoroki said. “Now just make sure it’s even—see how this one’s pulling his posture? You gotta balance it.”

 

Midoriya nodded, and started loosening one side.

 

Todoroki stepped around behind Bakugo again, leaned in, and whispered just under his breath, “Very good.”

 

Bakugo clenched his jaw—but didn’t move.

 

Not even a twitch.

 

Todoroki walked back around and gave Bakugo a final once-over.

 

Then—smiling just faintly—“Thanks for letting us use you.”

 

Bakugo arched a brow. “Don’t get any ideas.”

 

Todoroki looked him up and down, perfectly calm. “Too late.”

 

***

Chapter 29

Notes:

Another smut warning - enjoy some bondage lol

The evening passed like nothing had happened.

 

Dinner was quiet—leftovers reheated, feet brushing under the table.

 

They watched a movie, half-focused, curled together on the couch.

 

The shower was routine—steam and soap and a few lingering kisses, but nothing that tipped into more.

 

By the time they got to bed, Todoroki had almost convinced himself it was over.

 

No payback.

 

No revenge.

 

Just Bakugo letting it go.

 

Which was... suspicious.

 

Todoroki dropped his shirt to the floor, then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling them down.

 

Todoroki didn’t even make it fully onto the bed before Bakugo was on him.

 

Strong arms around his waist, rough hands yanking his wrists behind his back in one practiced motion.

 

“You thought I forgot?” Bakugo growled against his ear, the low rumble making Todoroki’s knees falter. “You really thought I was gonna let you get away with that shit today?”

 

Todoroki smirked, half-bent over the mattress. “You were very well-behaved.”

 

Bakugo snarled, and Todoroki barely caught the glint of leather in his hands before the harness hit his chest, the first strap already being wrapped around him with efficient, punishing precision.

 

“I should’ve fucked you right there in the studio,” Bakugo muttered, cinching a buckle tight enough to steal Todoroki’s breath. “Let our co-workers see how cocky you are when your legs are shaking.”

 

Todoroki laughed—breathless, excited, hooked.

 

“You could’ve,” he said. “I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

 

Bakugo’s answer was to tighten the cross-back straps until Todoroki felt every inch of pressure across his chest, hips, and spine.

 

The final click of the wrist restraints behind his back made his whole body arch.

 

Bakugo pushed him flat onto the bed—face down, knees bent, arms bound, body laid out like an offering.

 

And then Bakugo watched him.

 

Stared at him like something wild. Like he was cataloging every inch of him.

 

Planning destruction with absolute focus.

 

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he said, voice thick. “Tied up. Begging for it. I can’t believe I ever let you pretend you were in charge.”

 

Todoroki moaned softly, eyes fluttering shut. “Then take it back.”

 

Bakugo didn’t need to be told twice.

 

He climbed over him—knees bracketing Todoroki’s thighs, hands bracing over his shoulders, lips brushing just beneath his ear. “I’m not holding back,” he warned. “You want bruises, you’ll get them.”

 

“I want you.”

 

Bakugo grabbed the harness straps and yanked Todoroki back into him—not enough to hurt, but enough to jolt him, enough to remind him exactly who was running this show.

 

Todoroki shuddered, face flushed, every nerve alight.

 

Bakugo pressed kisses—hot, harsh ones—down Todoroki’s neck, his back, every inch of exposed skin he could find.

 

Kisses that promised you’re mine.

 

Bakugo traced his fingers down the harness, following the curves of leather with slow, reverent pressure. “You know what the difference is,” he murmured, low and dangerous, “between me and you?”

 

Todoroki, breath hitching, gave a lazy shrug. “I look better in this?”

 

Bakugo laughed once—sharp and delighted.

 

Then he grabbed a fistful of Todoroki’s hair and yanked his head back, forcing him to arch.

 

Todoroki’s smirk dissolved into a gasp.

 

“I don’t play at control,” Bakugo growled. “I don’t tease it. I take it.”

 

And then he shoved Todoroki forward again—flat to the mattress, arms still pinned behind him, legs now spread just slightly by Bakugo’s knee.

 

“You wanna be cute?” Bakugo muttered, dragging his hand down the side of Todoroki’s thigh, slow enough to make him twitch. “Keep running that mouth, see what it gets you.”

 

Todoroki tilted his head with a smug little hum. “Hopefully railed.”

 

Bakugo groaned through a smile—couldn’t help it. “God, you're infuriating.”

 

“I try.”

 

Bakugo leaned over him again, pressing his weight down just enough to pin him, mouth at his ear. “You’re lucky I like you.”

 

Todoroki’s smile turned soft for half a second. “Yeah,” he whispered, “I know.”

 

Bakugo paused.

 

Not long. Just long enough.

 

Long enough to let the mood shift. Long enough for the heat to deepen into something heavier. Then—

 

He slapped Todoroki’s ass, hard enough to make him jolt, then kissed the red bloom his palm left behind. “Alright, sweetheart,” he said, voice dark with glee. “Let’s see how smug you are when I’m done with you.”

 

Todoroki moaned into the mattress, breathless, but defiant. “Still gonna win.”

 

“Oh, baby,” Bakugo laughed, already lining himself up behind him, “you wish this was a competition.”

 

*

 

Bakugo didn’t ease in.

 

Why would he?

 

Todoroki hadn’t earned soft. And Todoroki didn't want soft.

 

Bakugo eased the first few inches in with a low hiss through his teeth—slow only to savor the stretch, to listen to Todoroki’s gasp as his spine arched and the cuffs pulled taut behind him.

 

“Shit,” Todoroki whispered, half-buried in the sheets. “You’re really—”

 

“Yeah,” Bakugo muttered. 

 

He thrust deeper, and Todoroki swore, knees sliding wider on instinct.

 

Bakugo grinned and snapped his hips forward once, just to hear the crack in Todoroki’s breath.

 

Todoroki made a sound like a laugh and a whimper had a car crash. “You’re such a dick.”

 

Bakugo braced both hands on the harness straps and leaned forward, cocky enough to whisper right into his ear. “And yet here you are—begging for it.”

 

Todoroki shivered, cheeks flushed, lips parted. “I’m not begging.”

 

“You will be.”

 

Bakugo rolled his hips with ruthless precision—every thrust angled to drag a noise out of Todoroki’s throat.

 

Every pull of the harness was deliberate, keeping him exposed, open.

 

“Fuck, you're hot,” Bakugo muttered, watching the way Todoroki pushed back into him.

 

“I know,” Todoroki said, though his voice trembled, his eyes fluttering.

 

Bakugo tightened his grip on the harness and pulled Todoroki up slightly, just enough to speak against the back of his neck. “You’re shaking.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“You’re whimpering.”

 

“I’m being polite.”

 

Bakugo laughed—that deep, wicked sound that always meant he was about to be worse. “You can be rude, baby,” he whispered. “You know I love a challenge.”

 

Todoroki turned his head, breathing hard, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Make me.”

 

Bakugo slammed into him so hard they both gasped.

 

And Todoroki’s smile broke.

 

“I will,” Bakugo growled, breath hot on his shoulder.

 

Todoroki whimpered into the blankets, panting now, biting back every moan like it was a point of pride.

 

Bakugo saw it—loved it.

 

The way Todoroki wanted to be good and difficult at the same time.

 

How he pushed back just far enough to challenge him, never far enough to stop him. That glint in his eye even now, daring Bakugo to ruin him harder.

 

So he did.

 

Thrust after thrust, gritting his teeth with how perfect it was—how Todoroki let him take it, trusted him to walk that razor’s edge between pain and pleasure. Between teasing and tenderness.

 

“You feel so fucking good,” Bakugo bit out. “Always knew you’d be like this. Underneath all that pretty-boy charm—you melt.”

 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Todoroki gasped.

 

Bakugo barked a laugh, flushed and furious and so attracted to this man he could hardly see straight. “God, I hate you.”

 

Todoroki glanced back at him, smirking through the haze of heat and tension. “No, you don’t.”

 

Bakugo kissed him in response.

 

And when he pulled back, he kept his forehead pressed to Todoroki’s, eyes locked. “No,” he said. “I really fucking don’t.”

 

*

 

Todoroki shifted beneath him—slow, controlled.

 

Bakugo didn’t think much of it at first, too caught up in the rhythm, in the way Todoroki’s body moved under his hands like it was made for him.

 

But then Todoroki pushed.

 

Used the tension in the cuffs and the strength in his thighs to press himself up, changing the angle. Forcing Bakugo to follow or fall off.

 

And Bakugo—completely unprepared—choked on a groan as Todoroki rocked back hard against him.

 

“Fuck,” he gasped, hands flying to Todoroki’s hips.

 

Todoroki did it again.

 

And again.

 

Using only the strength in his legs and the tension of the harness to take control—bound, breathless, beautiful.

 

“Oh shit,” Bakugo swore, eyes rolling back. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. You wanna ride me like this? Fuck, go ahead, baby.”

 

Todoroki didn’t answer—just moved.

 

A slow, brutal rhythm. Every motion dragged Bakugo deeper, kept him desperate and chasing.

 

And Bakugo couldn’t stop—couldn’t shut up, couldn’t stop touching him.

 

“Goddamn,” Bakugo groaned, one hand dragging up Todoroki’s spine. “You’re so fucking strong. Look at you.”

 

Todoroki tipped his head, hair damp, cheeks flushed. “Feel good?”

 

Bakugo moaned—didn’t even care how ruined he sounded.

 

“Fuck yes. You feel—Christ—you feel unreal. Fuckin’ perfect. I’ve been thinking about this all day, since the second you opened that smartass mouth.”

 

Todoroki smirked. Breathless. Confident. “So talkative.”

 

Bakugo leaned in, kissing the back of his neck like it would help. “Can’t help it. Look at you—fuck, you’re gorgeous. You’re fuckin’ taking me so good. Tied up and still taking control.”

 

Todoroki rocked his hips back again—slow and deep—and Bakugo shivered, hands trembling where they gripped the leather straps.

 

And Bakugo almost lost it.

 

“God, yes. Just like that. Keep going. You feel so fucking good. Strongest fucking person I know, and I’m the one lucky enough to have you like this? How the fuck did I get this lucky?”

 

Todoroki kept moving—fluid and relentless—his breathing harsh, his muscles flexing with every roll of his hips.

 

And Bakugo couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t stop loving every minute of it. “You’re making me lose my fucking mind.”

 

Todoroki let out a low moan—shaky, almost surprised by his own pleasure.

 

Bakugo kissed between his shoulder blades, still panting, still praising. “You’re doing so good. So fucking good. You hear me? You’re—fuck, you’re perfect.”

 

Todoroki slowed—just enough to make Bakugo whine. “You gonna fall apart on me?” he asked, smug and breathless.

 

Bakugo didn’t even hesitate. “I already am.”

 

And he was.

 

Unraveled and undone, trembling under the weight of it—under the beauty and strength and trust in Todoroki’s body, his movements, the confidence in every single roll of his hips.

 

***

Chapter 30

Notes:

got a second one for y'all today

wooooo

Bakugo felt the moment Todoroki started slipping.

 

His body trembling under the strain, the rhythm faltering, those quiet moans dissolving into ragged, desperate breaths.

 

Bakugo didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, wrapping an arm firmly around Todoroki’s waist, pulling him back down, gently reclaiming control.

 

“Easy,” he whispered against Todoroki’s ear.

 

Todoroki melted instantly.

 

All tension draining from his shoulders, his spine curving, body surrendering fully.

 

Bakugo groaned softly, nuzzling into the curve of his neck, teeth grazing skin. “God, you’re incredible. Look how good you are for me.”

 

Todoroki whimpered softly, barely audible.

 

Bakugo smiled against flushed skin, hips moving steadily, slower now, deliberate and powerful. Every thrust was possessive, claiming him deeper with every breath.

 

“You feel so fucking perfect,” he murmured, running his palm across Todoroki’s chest, tracing the harness, feeling every tremor and sigh. “I’ve never had anyone like this—never trusted anyone enough to just let go.”

 

Todoroki nodded weakly, eyes shut, mouth slack. He’d stopped resisting entirely, surrendered fully to the pleasure, the overwhelming sensations.

 

Bakugo’s hands moved with reverence, gliding down Todoroki’s torso, gripping his hips, pulling him closer, deeper, slower.

 

Each thrust whispered ownership, trust, and adoration.

 

“You’re mine now, understand?”

 

“Yes,” Todoroki breathed instantly, voice broken, and beautifully honest.

 

Bakugo shuddered at that, burying himself deeper, chest pressed flush to Todoroki’s back, lips dragging softly across sweat-slick skin.

 

He traced a path of kisses down Todoroki’s spine, pressing soft and filthy praise into every inch of skin, voice rough with awe.

 

“I love seeing you like this—coming apart under me, trusting me. God, the way you feel right now—”

 

Todoroki could only nod, body shivering, overwhelmed, entirely lost.

 

Bakugo wrapped his fingers around Todoroki’s throat—not tightly, just possessive, grounding. Todoroki’s pulse fluttered wildly under his fingertips, proof of how deeply he’d let go.

 

“Tell me,” Bakugo whispered roughly. “Tell me I’m the only one who can make you feel like this.”

 

“You are,” Todoroki gasped immediately, voice strained with pure desperation. “I need you—only you.”

 

“Fuck,” Bakugo choked out, hips stuttering, losing rhythm entirely. “You perfect—fuck, you perfect man.”

 

And he could feel Todoroki tightening, trembling, slipping toward the edge.

 

He slowed just enough to steady him, palms stroking his sides, voice impossibly gentle through the haze.

 

“Come, baby,” he said quietly, lips pressed softly behind Todoroki’s ear. “Come for me. Let go—I’ll fuck you through it.”

 

It was like permission was all Todoroki needed.

 

He came with a muffled, breathless cry, body jerking against Bakugo’s steadying hold, hands bound, heart open wide.

 

Bakugo held him through every aftershock, every twitch and sigh, whispering filthy sweetness into his ear—how perfect, how beautiful, how completely his Todoroki was—until he tumbled over too, muffling his own rough, desperate moan into Todoroki’s shoulder.

 

*

 

Bakugo stayed right there for a moment, forehead resting against Todoroki’s damp shoulder, both of them breathing hard.

 

The room was quiet except for the hum of the city outside and the broken rhythm of their lungs finding their pace again.

 

Todoroki didn’t move.

 

Bakugo pressed a soft kiss to the back of his neck. Then another.

 

Then one just below his ear, barely more than a brush of lips. “You still with me?” he murmured.

 

No answer.

 

Just a shaky exhale.

 

Bakugo didn’t panic—he knew this. Knew how deep Todoroki had gone, how far he’d fallen into him. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t regret.

 

It was vulnerability.

 

Bakugo kissed his way down Todoroki’s spine, slow and careful now, fingers ghosting over the leather where it stretched across pale, trembling skin.

 

“Gonna take this off you,” he whispered. “Nice and easy, okay?”

 

Still no words, but Todoroki nodded—just barely.

 

Bakugo started with the wrist cuffs, unbuckling them gently, rubbing circles into the raw spots where the pressure had lingered.

 

“You did so good for me,” he said, his voice warm, quiet, reverent. “So fucking good. You were perfect.”

 

The harness came next.

 

Each strap loosened with slow fingers, Bakugo careful not to tug or scrape.

 

He worked his way across Todoroki’s chest and down his sides, smoothing over every mark left behind.

 

He kissed each one.

 

Softly. Thoughtfully.

 

Like an apology and a thank you wrapped into one.

 

Todoroki’s arms dropped forward limply, wrists heavy and spent.

 

Bakugo caught them before they could fall too hard against the bed and cradled them instead, brushing soft kisses over each one.

 

“Still got you,” he murmured. “Not going anywhere.”

 

Todoroki’s breathing was still shallow, his eyes unfocused, but his lips parted like he wanted to say something.

 

Bakugo didn’t push.

 

He helped him ease down onto his side, pulled the blankets over his legs, grabbed a warm towel from the bathroom to gently clean him up.

 

He worked in silence, pausing every so often to run his hands along Todoroki’s arms, his ribs, the curve of his hip.

 

“I’ve got you,” he said again. “Talk to me when you can, baby. You okay?”

 

He crawled into bed beside him, tugging Todoroki into his chest—careful, always careful.

 

One hand cradled the back of his head, the other curled around his waist.

 

He kissed Todoroki’s temple and kept talking, quiet and steady. “You don’t ever have to do that for me,” he said. “But I’m so fucking glad you did. I... I feel really lucky that you trust me like that.”

 

Todoroki’s body finally moved—just the slightest turn toward him, forehead pressing into Bakugo’s collarbone.

 

And then, hoarse and barely audible, “I feel safe with you.”

 

Bakugo’s breath hitched.

 

He tightened his hold just a little, curling around him like a shield. “Good,” he whispered.

 

Bakugo kept kissing him—shoulders, temple, knuckles. Every soft piece of him that needed to be reminded he wasn’t alone.

 

Todoroki melted into Bakugo’s chest, and he let himself smile.

 

Bakugo just held him there—quiet, steady, his heart thundering with something deeper than victory.

 

Something dangerously close to love.

 

*

 

The next day, Todoroki was sore. 

 

He didn't want to say anything, but damn... He was sore.

 

The studio was buzzing, but the editing room was quiet—just the low hum of the computer fans and the faint tapping of keyboard keys.

 

Todoroki sat slouched in his chair, jacket half-zipped, energy drink cracked open on the desk beside him.

 

His shoulders were stiff, posture a little too tense for someone pretending to focus.

 

A faint bruise peeked out just above his collarbone, dark and clear against pale skin.

 

Ashido noticed it immediately. “Damn,” she said, grinning as she leaned over his shoulder. “What’d he do, leave a whole signature?”

 

Todoroki didn’t even try to hide it. Just let out a tired, amused huff. “You know I’m basically dating a wild animal.”

 

Ashido laughed, popping the tab on her own drink. “Yeah, but at least the animal’s house-trained now.”

 

She took over the mouse for a moment, clicking through footage from Midoriya’s latest solo video. “Okay, we should cut this intro,” she said. “He stammers through the first ten seconds like he forgot his own name.”

 

Todoroki nodded, resting his chin in his hand. “Agreed. Clean jump to the title card.”

 

They worked in silence for another minute before the door opened behind them.

 

Bakugo.

 

He crept in like he thought he was being sneaky—until he dropped both hands over Todoroki’s eyes.

 

“What the fuck,” Bakugo whispered, smug as ever, “you watching another man?”

 

Todoroki groaned instantly, voice low and genuine. “Katsuki, please. Not today.”

 

It wasn’t snappy. It wasn’t playful.

 

It was tired.

 

Bakugo froze.

 

Ashido shot Bakugo a look. A full-body, “are you serious right now” kind of look.

 

But Bakugo was already moving—hands sliding away gently, crouching down beside Todoroki’s chair like it was instinct.

 

He looked up at him, serious now. “Hey.”

 

Todoroki blinked at him, already softening. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m just… Tired. And sore.”

 

Bakugo reached for his hand and gave it a light squeeze. “I know, baby. My bad.”

 

He leaned in, wrapped an arm around Todoroki’s waist, and pulled him into a short hug. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t loud.

 

But Todoroki leaned into it, like he needed it.

 

Bakugo kissed the side of his neck—gently, over the jacket. “Didn’t mean to mess with your flow,” he said. “I’ll come back and check on you later, okay?”

 

Todoroki nodded, already half-lost in the hug.

 

Bakugo pulled back, gave Ashido a little nod, and left without another word.

 

The door clicked shut behind him.

 

Ashido stared at it for a second, then turned back to Todoroki with wide eyes. “Okay. What? Wild animal? You domesticated the hell out of him.”

 

Todoroki raised an eyebrow.

 

She gestured vaguely at the door. “I thought he was genetically incapable of emotional intelligence.”

 

Todoroki cracked a small smile and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his shoulder absently. “Turns out,” he said, “he’s just never had a reason to practice it.”

 

Ashido snorted. “So what—you’re his emotional support bottom now?”

 

Todoroki glanced at the screen.

 

Then at the fading bruise on his collarbone.

 

Then back to her.

 

“Something like that.”

 

***

Chapter 31

The editing room had emptied out around noon, chairs pushed back, wrappers rustling, the soft chorus of “you coming?” as the team filtered out.

 

Todoroki hadn’t moved.

 

Eyes fixed on the screen, posture curled, one hand on the mouse, the other gripping his half-empty energy drink.

 

He didn’t even seem to notice when the door creaked open behind him.

 

Bakugo stepped inside without a word.

 

He set a takeout bag on the desk.

 

A water bottle next to it.

 

Then, with deliberate casualness, he reached over and slid Todoroki’s energy drink out of reach.

 

Todoroki blinked. “Hey—”

 

Bakugo pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Take a break.”

 

Todoroki frowned, eyes still on the timeline in front of him. “I just wanna finish this part first.”

 

Bakugo didn’t budge. “You’re hourly. The footage’ll still be here in twenty minutes.”

 

Todoroki groaned. “Katsu—”

 

“Babe. Relax.” Bakugo’s voice went firm. Not loud. Not angry. Just unyielding.

 

It wasn’t a command—it was a reminder.

 

That he cared. That he was watching.

 

Todoroki sighed, shoulders slumping, and finally let himself roll back a few inches in his chair.

 

Bakugo grabbed the other seat and pulled it closer than necessary—close enough that their knees brushed.

 

He unpacked the takeout with practiced hands, handed Todoroki his favorite noodles and a pair of chopsticks.

 

Todoroki looked down at them.

 

Then up at Bakugo.

 

His eyes were tired, but his mouth twitched into a smile. “Thanks.”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer. Just unwrapped his own protein bar and scrolled through his phone, letting Todoroki eat in peace.

 

The room stayed quiet.

 

No pressure. No questions.

 

Just the rhythmic sound of chopsticks tapping against the container, the gentle scroll of a thumb on glass, the comfort of a shoulder within reach.

 

Halfway through the meal, Todoroki leaned sideways.

 

Head resting lightly against Bakugo’s shoulder.

 

Bakugo didn’t move.

 

Didn’t tease.

 

Just kept scrolling with one hand and tilted his body a little, making the lean more solid.

 

They stayed like that until the door opened again and voices started filling the room—chairs sliding, bags rustling, low chatter returning like the tide.

 

Bakugo stood and gathered their trash.

 

Todoroki got up too, brushing his hands on his pants, then catching Bakugo’s arm before he could leave.

 

He kissed him. Quick. Grateful.

 

“Thanks for lunch.”

 

Bakugo shrugged. “Figured you’d forget to eat.”

 

Todoroki hesitated for half a second. Then quietly, he asked, “You wanna come with me later? To see my mom?”

 

Bakugo didn’t even blink. “Yeah,” he said. “Just say when.”

 

Todoroki nodded.

 

And when he sat back down, his shoulders were a little looser than before.

 

*

 

The hospital room was quiet that evening, save for the low hum of machines and the occasional creak of the bed when Rei shifted.

 

Todoroki sat beside her, gently adjusting the blanket across her lap.

 

They’d only been there ten minutes, but he’d already refilled her water cup twice, fluffed her pillow, and asked if the lighting was too harsh.

 

She smiled at him, always patient. “I’m alright,” she said softly. “Just… a little sore.”

 

Todoroki was on his feet instantly. “I’ll grab the nurse—just in case.”

 

Rei opened her mouth to say it wasn’t urgent, but he was already halfway to the hallway.

 

The door clicked behind him.

 

Bakugo, who’d been standing near the window trying not to hover, let out a soft exhale.

 

Rei turned her head toward him. “You doing okay?” she asked, her voice warm but pointed.

 

Bakugo shrugged, crossing his arms loosely. “Yeah.”

 

He didn’t elaborate. Not because he was hiding anything—but because that was just who he was.

 

Rei hummed. Then, after a pause, “How’s Shoto?”

 

Bakugo looked over at her, eyes steady. “He’s… working a lot. Trying to stay busy. Still taking on too much, like always.”

 

Rei nodded, unsurprised.

 

Bakugo’s voice softened. “But he’s good. I think... I think he’s happy.”

 

A beat.

 

Then, quieter, more vulnerable, Bakugo added, “I hope I’m... Contributing to that.”

 

Rei smiled. No hesitation. No doubt. “You are.”

 

Bakugo blinked.

 

She continued, her voice calm and certain. “I’ve never seen him like this before. Not even as a kid. When he talks about you… there’s something light in him. Something I didn’t know he had.”

 

Bakugo’s chest tightened.

 

Not in panic.

 

In something else.

 

Something warm.

 

“You’re a big reason that he’s happy, Katsuki,” Rei said gently. “And he needs that. He needs you.”

 

Bakugo swallowed hard, and nodded once.

 

The door opened again as Todoroki stepped back in, a nurse behind him.

 

He glanced between them briefly—nothing in his voice but concern. “They’re going to bring something for the pain.”

 

Rei thanked him.

 

Bakugo stepped back again, quiet, unreadable. But his heart was thudding in his chest.

 

Because for the first time in a long time, someone had looked him in the eye and told him he mattered.

 

And he believed it.

 

*

 

Back at Bakugo’s house, the quiet felt different.

 

Warmer.

 

More intentional.

 

They kicked off their shoes in the entryway, and Todoroki wandered into the kitchen, tugging his jacket off, rolling up his sleeves.

 

Bakugo followed close behind.

 

Dinner wasn’t anything special—just stir-fried vegetables, some marinated tofu, and rice.

 

But from the moment they started cooking, Bakugo was glued to him.

 

At first, it was subtle.

 

A hand brushing Todoroki’s lower back as he reached for a knife.

 

A squeeze to his hip as Bakugo passed behind him.

 

Resting his chin on Todoroki’s shoulder while he stirred the vegetables.

 

Then it escalated.

 

Arms around his waist from behind, refusing to let go while Todoroki tried to plate the rice. “Katsu.”

 

Bakugo just hummed, nosing at the back of his neck. “What? I’m helping.”

 

“You’re holding me hostage.”

 

“I’m protecting you.”

 

Todoroki laughed.

 

They sat down to eat at the bar, hips pressed together even though there were two empty stools on either side.

 

Bakugo didn’t move more than a few inches from him the entire time.

 

And Todoroki loved it.

 

Every second.

 

But when Bakugo stood behind him after dinner—hands resting on Todoroki’s shoulders, lips brushing his hairline as he dried the dishes—Todoroki finally turned around, a smile tugging at his mouth.

 

“Alright,” he said, laughing. “What’s up with you?”

 

Bakugo blinked. “What?”

 

“You’re being…” Todoroki gestured vaguely between them. “Like this.”

 

Bakugo cocked an eyebrow. “Like what?”

 

“Like you’re either asking for forgiveness or trying to butter me up before you ask if we can film some weird shit in the garage later.”

 

Bakugo snorted. “I’m not.”

 

Todoroki narrowed his eyes. “You are hiding something. You can't lie to me anymore, babe. I know you too well.”

 

“I'm not hiding.”

 

“Liar. Just tell me. Is something wrong?”

 

Bakugo leaned in, hands sliding to the sides of Todoroki’s neck. “No,” he said, voice quiet now. “I’m just… in love.”

 

Todoroki froze.

 

The words hit him like a wave.

 

“I talked to your mom while you were out of the room,” Bakugo added. “She said she’s never seen you this happy. And I just... I've been meaning to tell you. But your happiness is so important to me, and... Yeah. I guess I'm in love.”

 

Todoroki’s eyes softened.

 

He didn’t say anything at first. Just reached up and cupped Bakugo’s face with both hands, brushing his thumbs across his cheekbones.

 

Bakugo leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut.

 

Then Todoroki kissed him.

 

Not rushed. Not dirty.

 

Just full.

 

When they parted, Bakugo whispered against his mouth, “So yeah. Maybe I am being a little extra tonight.”

 

Todoroki smiled, tugging him in by the wrists. “I don’t mind.”

 

Their foreheads pressed together, breath shared in the quiet space between them.

 

“Good,” Bakugo murmured, eyes still closed. “’Cause I’m not planning on stopping.”

 

*

 

The TV murmured softly in the background—another episode of Todoroki’s favorite true crime docuseries.

 

Bakugo barely registered the details anymore, but Todoroki was glued to it, eyes trained on the screen, mouth slightly parted in that focused, suspicious way he got when he was trying to solve the case before the show did.

 

They were curled up together on the couch—Todoroki lying half on his stomach, half on his side, his head pillowed on Bakugo’s chest.

 

Bakugo had one arm slung loosely across Todoroki’s back, fingers tracing idle circles through the fabric of his shirt.

 

His other hand held his phone, thumb scrolling in slow, distracted motions.

 

“You’d think,” Todoroki said, voice muffled by fabric, “that if your wife went missing, you’d call the police.”

 

Bakugo hummed noncommittally.

 

Todoroki blinked. “Babe.”

 

Another hum.

 

Todoroki shifted and looked up at him, squinting. “What are you even doing?”

 

“Nothing,” Bakugo said quickly—too quickly.

 

Todoroki narrowed his eyes, then reached up and tilted Bakugo’s phone toward himself with two fingers.

 

Bakugo tried to jerk it away, but it was already too late.

 

Todoroki snorted.

 

There on the screen was a photo from that shoot—the fundraiser they'd organized for Rei’s hospital bills.

 

Todoroki shirtless, sprawled across a velvet couch, one eyebrow cocked at the camera, skin glowing under studio lights.

 

Bakugo had clearly zoomed in. Several times.

 

And had been scrolling through an entire gallery of similar shots.

 

“You’re shameless,” Todoroki said, half laughing, half stunned.

 

Bakugo let out a long, loud exhale through his nose and dropped the phone onto the cushion. “I appreciate art.”

 

Todoroki giggled. “Art?”

 

“Your thighs should be in a museum.”

 

Todoroki buried his face in Bakugo’s chest, still laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”

 

Bakugo grinned and trailed his fingers down Todoroki’s spine. “And you’re hot. So I win.”

 

Todoroki looked back up, a soft flush spreading across his cheeks.

 

His hair was a little messy, his expression somewhere between touched and embarrassed. “You really like those pictures?” he asked, quieter now.

 

Bakugo’s eyes softened immediately. “I like you in them,” he said. “I like that you look confident. I like that you look like yourself.”

 

Todoroki blinked once.

 

Then dropped his head back down on Bakugo’s chest and closed his eyes, letting out a small, content sound.

 

Bakugo ran his hand through Todoroki’s hair, the television still flickering in the background. “I mean it,” he murmured. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

 

Todoroki didn’t say anything.

 

But the way he curled tighter against him said it all.

 

***

Chapter 32

Notes:

Alright y'all we're heading into the third act... Got a couple more chapters for this story.

I have loved every second of writing this, and I'm so glad I get the opportunity to share it with y'all <3

Buckle uppp

Morning came in slow and golden.

 

The curtains in Bakugo’s bedroom let in just enough light to glow warm across the sheets.

 

The air was quiet, still, heavy with sleep. The kind of silence that made everything feel suspended—like the world could wait just a little longer.

 

Todoroki blinked awake, barely.

 

Bakugo was still out cold beside him, one arm thrown across Todoroki’s waist, face pressed into his shoulder, breath warm against his collarbone.

 

Todoroki didn't move. He didn't want to ruin the moment.

 

Instead, he just… existed there for a while. Breathing. Feeling.

 

Letting the weight of Bakugo’s arm and the sound of his steady inhale lull him deeper into that in-between space.

 

Eventually, Bakugo stirred—just a little. His grip tightened lazily. “Why’re you awake.”

 

Todoroki smiled to himself. “I’m not.”

 

Bakugo grunted, face still buried in his skin.

 

They laid there another ten minutes before either of them really shifted.

 

Bakugo reached over blindly for his phone on the nightstand, unlocking it with a groggy swipe.

 

Todoroki caught a glimpse of the screen.

 

Paused.

 

Then propped himself up on one elbow, eyebrows raised. “…Kat.”

 

“What.”

 

“Is that me?”

 

Bakugo squinted at the phone, then groaned and turned it face-down. “Shit.”

 

Todoroki grinned. “Did you make me your lock screen picture?”

 

“No.”

 

“You definitely did.”

 

“It was an accident.”

 

Todoroki raised a skeptical eyebrow. “It’s that crop top picture, huh?”

 

Bakugo groaned louder, dragging a pillow over his face. “You're hallucinating. You clearly think very highly of yourself.”

 

Todoroki leaned over, tugging the pillow away just enough to kiss his cheek. “You’re adorable.”

 

“I’m deleting it.”

 

“You’re not.”

 

Bakugo peeked one eye open.

 

Todoroki was smiling at him—sleep-rumpled, warm, fond in a way that made Bakugo’s chest ache.

 

Bakugo exhaled, pressing a palm to Todoroki’s side. “…Fine,” he muttered. “I guess you can stay.”

 

Todoroki laughed, then sank back into the blankets, curling up beside him again.

 

They didn’t talk for a while after that.

 

*

 

The hallway outside Studio 3 buzzed with the usual midday chaos—lights clanking into place, someone yelling about a missing boom mic, muffled laughter from the makeup room.

 

Bakugo slipped out quietly, hoodie pulled up, shoulders tense like he was sneaking off to do something illegal.

 

He walked fast down the back corridor and knocked twice on Aizawa’s office door before slipping in.

 

Aizawa looked up from his computer, blinking slowly. “He’s still filming?”

 

“Yeah. They’re halfway through the third setup.” Bakugo shut the door behind him. “He’s not gonna miss me.”

 

Aizawa leaned back in his chair, eyes sharp despite the tired slump of his posture. “You wanted to talk.”

 

Bakugo nodded and slid his phone out of his pocket, tapping the screen once before handing it over. “I sent some more last night. Just checking if you got ’em.”

 

Aizawa took the phone, scrolling through the shots Bakugo had picked out from the fundraiser shoot—the ones where Todoroki was mostly dressed, not much skin showing but every frame magnetic. Self-contained. Controlled.

 

“I got them,” Aizawa said, tapping the screen to zoom in on one. “Sent them to a few agencies I know. Fashion, not editorial. No porn. No nudity.”

 

Bakugo nodded once. “Good.”

 

“They’re legit,” Aizawa added. “A couple have been asking about fresh faces. Yours’ll stand out.”

 

Bakugo’s jaw worked for a second like he was chewing on something he didn’t want to say. “And... Not to be crass, but. He’d be making more than what he does here?”

 

“Easily,” Aizawa said. “Especially if he gets a full campaign. Benefits. Structure. Something sustainable.”

 

Bakugo exhaled through his nose. “That’s what I want. I can take some more pictures at the convention, if he agrees to come with me.”

 

Aizawa glanced up from the phone. “You’re not gonna send me any pictures of yourself?”

 

Bakugo just shrugged. “Nah. It's not about me.”

 

“You’re not even sure if he’d leave the studio.”

 

“I don’t care if he leaves,” Bakugo said. “I care that he’s got options.”

 

A pause.

 

Then Aizawa set the phone down and folded his hands. “That’s a thoughtful thing to do, Bakugo. Trying to get him a more stable job, without any regard for yourself. Not a lot of people would make a hard sacrifice like that.”

 

Bakugo stared at the desk for a moment.

 

Then looked up. “For someone you love,” he said, voice steady, “it’s easy.”

 

*

 

The meeting regarding the convention was a few days after that.

 

Bakugo was upset that the meeting was mandatory, but more than that, he was upset that Mr. Awful had to show up.

 

The studio’s conference room smelled faintly like cold coffee and printer paper.

 

Six chairs lined the long glass table, all filled—Midoriya, Sero, Kaminari, Kirishima, Bakugo, and Todoroki.

 

At the head sat Aizawa, looking about three seconds from burnout.

 

At the opposite end, sipping from a thermos like he owned the air in the room, sat Enji.

 

“Alright,” Aizawa began, tone flat. “This is your XXXpo pre-brief.”

 

The word alone made Kaminari vibrate in his seat. “Oh my god,” he whispered. “It’s finally happening.”

 

Midoriya was already typing notes into his phone with military precision.

 

Aizawa passed around a rough itinerary. “Most of you know the deal. Panels, merch, fan meets, and a few private industry events. Don’t get drunk on the floor. Don’t flirt with fans in the booths, do it on your own time. Don’t cause problems.”

 

Kaminari raised a hand like they were in high school. “Do we get, like, name tags? Or are we going incognito?”

 

“You’re literally famous for taking your clothes off,” Sero said, leaning back in his chair. “Nobody’s gonna struggle to recognize you.”

 

Kirishima laughed. “Dude, don't worry, it’s so fun. People bring posters and body pillows and, like, art of you. Some of it’s weird, but it’s kind of awesome. Sometimes they do cosplay contests, it's wild.”

 

Kaminari lit up. “A cosplay contest?”

 

“Last time, there were three,” Midoriya said without looking up. “One’s studio-sponsored. It’s pretty competitive.”

 

“And the parties,” Sero added, nodding like a veteran. “Don’t sleep on the hotel mixers. That’s where the networking really happens.”

 

Todoroki glanced up, expression neutral. “Networking? I don't remember any networking.”

 

“He's talking about hooking up with other models,” Bakugo said dryly, arms crossed.

 

Sero grinned. “Also that.”

 

Kirishima leaned over with a grin, nudging Bakugo's arm. “Hey Kugo, you worried about seeing what's-his-face? Or think he'll be a no show like last year?”

 

Bakugo didn't even glance at him. “The big guy? Or the dumbass blond guy?”

 

“You know, that one guy you used to sleep with at our...” Kirishima's voice trailed off, as Bakugo's glare turned to him. “The dumbass blond.”

 

Bakugo's glare was intense, but before he got the chance to verbally reply, he was interrupted.

 

Enji cleared his throat sharply. “Focus.”

 

Everyone straightened automatically.

 

“You all need to be at the hotel lobby tomorrow morning,” Enji said. “Makeup and wardrobe will be on site. You’ll be assigned slots for appearances and panels. I don’t care how you get there—carpool, train, teleport—but be on time. Don’t make me track you down.”

 

Aizawa nodded beside him, already tired. “We’re treating this like a business trip. That means professionalism. You’re not just representing yourselves. You’re representing your studios.”

 

Kirishima immediately whispered, “Do we still get to expense room service?”

 

Enji ignored him completely, and kept talking about deadlines. Schedules. Reputation.

 

Bakugo was staring at the itinerary with that silent intensity he got when he was already planning a strategy.

 

Todoroki leaned a little closer, eyes flicking across the schedule.

 

Their hands brushed under the table. Neither moved away.

 

“So,” Bakugo said quietly to him, flipping through the pages. “Wanna head down there tonight? Get an extra day at the hotel?”

 

“Absolutely.” Todoroki responded without hesitation.

 

*

 

It wasn't too far of a drive, and if Bakugo's honest, it was kind of a nice trip.

 

Just his car, his boyfriend, and a sunset illuminating the road. 

 

The hotel room was nicer than expected too.

 

Big windows, thick blackout curtains, soft cream walls.

 

One king bed with crisp white sheets. A low hum of city traffic far below.

 

Bakugo tossed their bags in the corner and cracked open the mini fridge.

 

Todoroki was already flopped across the bed, cheek pressed to the pillow, shirt rumpled from the drive.

 

He looked like he belonged there.

 

Bakugo cleared his throat. “Oi.”

 

Todoroki hummed.

 

Bakugo stepped closer. “We gotta talk for a second.”

 

“About what?”

 

“XXXpo rules.”

 

Todoroki cracked an eye open, amused. “Rules?”

 

Bakugo crossed his arms. “Yeah. Like—boundaries. Expectations. Whatever.”

 

Todoroki rolled onto his back, gaze fixed on the ceiling, waiting.

 

Bakugo sat on the edge of the bed, back straight.

 

“I don’t care if you flirt a little,” he said. “That’s part of the job. If Midoriya or Sero pulls you in for a photo, fine. But I don’t want you getting too close to anyone outside the studio. Especially not models I don’t know.”

 

Todoroki turned his head, watching him now.

 

“And no kissing. Not on the mouth. Not even for a bit.”

 

Todoroki raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m gonna kiss someone else?”

 

Bakugo scowled. “I’m not saying you would. I just—I’ve done this con before. It gets messy. Everyone’s pushing boundaries. Fans get handsy, studios push PR stunts, and I might not always be around.”

 

Todoroki sat up slowly, expression softening.

 

Bakugo looked away, jaw tight. “I just want you to be safe.”

 

Todoroki crawled toward him on the bed, arms looping loosely around Bakugo’s waist from behind. “I am safe,” he murmured. “Because I’m with you. The other models are scared of you, baby.”

 

Bakugo huffed a breath, not quite a laugh.

 

“You don’t have to worry,” Todoroki said, voice low. “I don’t care about exposure or fan service. I’m not doing anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

 

Bakugo finally turned to face him.

 

“Just... Stick close to me,” Bakugo said quietly, not asking.

 

Todoroki nodded. “Always.”

 

*

 

The hotel room was quiet in the early light.

 

Soft gray sunlight filtered through the edges of the blackout curtains.

 

The clock on the nightstand blinked 7:42 AM. Convention prep started at 9:00.

 

Bakugo was already dressed—black pants, fitted shirt, hair messily perfect.

 

He sat on the edge of the bed scrolling his phone, waiting.

 

And waiting.

 

He really wanted to get something to eat before the chaos officially started, but that dream was starting to fade.

 

Todoroki had already taken the world's longest shower, and now he was dragging ass.

 

Bakugo sighed, dropped his phone onto the bed, and finally stood. “This guy.”

 

He knocked lightly on the bathroom door before pushing it open.

 

Todoroki stood in front of the mirror, towel around his waist, still damp, carefully working product through his hair.

 

Bakugo leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Christ, not even dressed yet. You planning on seducing the entire hotel or just the convention?”

 

Todoroki didn’t look over. “I want to look nice.”

 

“You already look nice,” Bakugo muttered.

 

Todoroki finished styling and moved on to getting dressed—black slacks, silver-buttoned shirt, tailored just enough to hug his waist.

 

He started on the buttons when Bakugo crossed the room and batted his hands away.

 

“I got it.”

 

Todoroki raised an eyebrow but let him.

 

Bakugo worked slowly, buttoning the shirt with focused fingers, smoothing the fabric down after each one.

 

He pushed Todoroki’s damp hair out of his eyes, not saying anything.

 

But he sighed loudly, like the world was ending.

 

Todoroki watched him in the mirror. “You’re being dramatic.”

 

“You’re leaving me.”

 

“For three hours.”

 

Bakugo’s hands slipped to Todoroki’s hips, just to hold him. “You’re gonna be taking pictures. Smiling at strangers. Standing next to Midoriya in a tank top.”

 

Todoroki smiled faintly. “Jealous?”

 

Bakugo shrugged. “Yeah.”

 

Todoroki turned to face him fully, hands sliding under Bakugo’s shirt to rest against his waist. “You’re ridiculous. Territorial, devastatingly handsome, and ridiculous.”

 

Bakugo dipped his head down, nose brushing Todoroki’s.

 

The kiss was slow. Long. A little desperate.

 

Bakugo didn’t let go when it ended.

 

His hands fisted the back of Todoroki’s shirt like if he held tight enough, maybe he wouldn’t have to share.

 

“I’ll be okay,” Todoroki whispered. “I know how to take care of myself.”

 

“I don’t care,” Bakugo whispered back. “I’m still gonna hover like a guard dog.”

 

Todoroki smirked. “I'd be sad if you didn't.”

 

Bakugo fussed over the collar of his shirt one last time. “My phone’s staying on. I don’t care what the panel guidelines say. You text me, I’m there.”

 

Todoroki leaned in again to kiss him.

 

*

 

The convention center buzzed with barely managed chaos.

 

Booths were going up in every direction.

 

Giant banners with sultry photos of the industry's biggest names hung from ceiling rigging like celebrity war flags. The air smelled like heat, hairspray, and vinyl.

 

Aizawa's Studio had secured a prime spot—far enough from the food court to avoid the stink of fried grease, close enough to the main stage to catch traffic from every fan mob in the place.

 

Unfortunately, Enji’s studio had the booth right next to them.

 

And Yaorashi had apparently been invited.

 

“Holy shit,” Kaminari whispered, elbowing Kirishima. “Look who's here.”

 

Yaorashi looked like he’d stepped straight out of a perfume ad—hair immaculately styled, tan skin practically glowing, shirt unbuttoned low enough barely qualify as a shirt.

 

Bakugo clocked him instantly.

 

But stayed quiet.

 

Todoroki was seated in the makeup chair getting a final dust of powder when Yaorashi strolled up, hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just caused half the room to look up.

 

“Shoto,” he said, smiling wide. “Damn. You look incredible.”

 

Todoroki blinked at him. “Oh. You're here.”

 

“Enji needed another model to bring along, and thought it'd be good for my career. Seeing you is an added bonus though.” Yaorashi leaned casually against the counter. “You look even better than I remember.”

 

From across the prep area, Bakugo’s jaw flexed.

 

Yaorashi’s eyes flicked to him, then back to Todoroki. “Still together?”

 

“Yes,” Todoroki said. “Very.”

 

Yaorashi held up his hands, grinning. “Hey, no complaints. Just asking.”

 

He didn’t move. Just kept talking, tossing compliments like confetti.

 

“You modeling anything today? Or just being the most attractive man in this room?”

 

Bakugo’s fist curled around a protein bar wrapper, silently murdering it.

 

Todoroki, for his part, kept his voice even. “Nothing major. A few signings, and a photo thing with Midoriya.”

 

Yaorashi winked. “Still a star.”

 

Sero walked by, caught the expression on Bakugo’s face, and very wisely kept moving.

 

Yaorashi eventually gave Todoroki a lingering look, then said, “Catch you on the floor,” and sauntered off, back toward Enji’s booth.

 

As soon as he was out of earshot, Bakugo leaned in behind Todoroki’s makeup chair. “You okay?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“You want me to say something?”

 

“No.”

 

“Because I really want to say something.”

 

Todoroki smiled faintly, eyes still trained on the mirror. “You’re doing great, baby.”

 

***

Chapter 33

Notes:

it's chaos time y'all. happy fridayyy

The convention floor was a fucking zoo.

 

Bright banners hung from every steel truss in the ceiling, swaying in the heavy gusts of industrial AC.

 

Each one featured the airbrushed face of someone famous for making people moan—mid-laugh, mid-climax, mid-pose.

 

Lights flashed from pop-up booths like paparazzi. Music pulsed faintly from speakers overhead, competing with the constant din of chatter, camera clicks, and the occasional high-pitched squeal from a particularly enthusiastic fan.

 

There were over sixty booths, minimum.

 

Each decked out in its studio’s signature aesthetic—some sleek and minimalist, some neon and chaotic, some borderline medieval.

 

Body pillows lined display racks. Posters hung in frames.

 

Autograph tables stretched across folding setups and faux-marble counters, all manned by models in various states of undress and overexposure.

 

Security wove through the crowds in black polos with STAFF on the back, clipped radios squawking softly.

 

Some stood near high-traffic areas like living statues, eyes scanning.

 

Others walked the aisles with precision, keeping models shielded when fan lines swelled too thick.

 

And in the middle of it all, the models moved like professionals on a tight loop—photo ops, green room resets, signings, interviews, bathroom sprints, back again.

 

Kirishima was halfway through an on-camera interview, all smiles and charm, answering a question about his work-out routine while flexing just enough to make the mic guy blush.

 

Midoriya had a line of at least fifty people waiting at his booth, and still made time to thank every single person by name.

 

Sero was letting a pair of cosplayers take a picture draped over him like a coat, grinning ear to ear.

 

Kaminari had wandered off.

 

Nobody knew where he was.

 

Again.

 

Bakugo was seated at an autograph table—arms folded tight across his chest, marker cap clenched between his teeth, scowl just barely held at bay as fans approached one by one.

 

He was trying.

 

Really.

 

He smiled once—sort of.

 

It looked like it hurt.

 

He signed posters, let someone take a selfie, nodded when thanked, muttered a clipped “no problem” that came out sounding more like get lost.

 

He was surviving. Just barely.

 

And then a hand grazed his shoulder.

 

Bakugo turned.

 

Todoroki was beside him, not stopping, just walking past with easy calm—hair perfect, shirt crisp, gaze straight ahead.

 

But his fingers brushed gently across Bakugo’s jacket sleeve. Just enough contact to tether.

 

“You’ve been here a while,” Todoroki murmured as he passed. “Take a break soon. There’s onigiri in the green room.”

 

Bakugo blinked. Didn’t answer.

 

Just watched him walk away, threading effortlessly through the chaos like he wasn’t the most magnetic person in the building.

 

And when Bakugo looked down again, the next fan in line was already blushing as Todoroki went by. “He's so cute,” they murmured, holding out a copy of Firestarter, Vol. 3 for him to sign.

 

Bakugo clicked the marker open and scribbled his name without looking up.

 

“Yeah,” he said, the edge gone from his voice. “Tell me about it.”

 

*

 

The green room was quiet, dim, and stacked with water bottles and lukewarm snacks.

 

Bakugo grabbed a protein bar without slowing down.

 

He tore it open with his teeth and muttered around the wrapper, “Better be getting hazard pay for this.”

 

As he turned to leave, Kirishima appeared, radiant as ever, already halfway through giving a fan a high-five.

 

“Yo!” Kirishima said, waving him down. “Hey, can you do me a favor?”

 

Bakugo grunted. “Am I gonna regret it?”

 

Kirishima laughed. “Probably not. Maybe. I dunno. Can you keep an eye out for Kam? I haven’t seen him since before our panel and he’s not answering my texts.”

 

Bakugo scowled. “Maybe he had to pee, dude. I'm not his keeper.”

 

“Only if he's been peeing for two hours. Can you just? Please?”

 

Bakugo exhaled like a man who’d just been asked to babysit a firework.

 

“Fine,” he muttered. “If I find him making out with some rando in a bathroom stall, I’m leaving him there.”

 

“You’re the best,” Kirishima beamed, already turning back to the autograph table. “Tell him to use protection!”

 

Bakugo rolled his eyes so hard it nearly dislocated something. “Fucking convention,” he muttered, stalking off toward one of the back corridors.

 

The main floor noise thinned as he moved past the panel rooms and into the less-trafficked hallway behind the signing booths—dim, quiet, barely patrolled.

 

He kept walking, half-listening for the familiar sound of Kaminari’s stupid laugh.

 

And then— a voice.

 

Smooth. Confident. Instantly familiar.

 

“Well, well. If it isn’t the king himself.”

 

Bakugo froze mid-step.

 

No fucking way.

 

He turned.

 

And there he was—Monoma Neito, leaning against the wall, grin slow and wicked, arms folded across a sleeveless shirt that showed off his still-obnoxiously-perfect arms.

 

His hair was better-looking now. His smile wasn’t.

 

“Didn’t think I’d run into you here,” Monoma said, tilting his head. “You look good, Katsuki.”

 

Bakugo’s jaw locked. “Didn’t realize this place let in trash.”

 

Monoma laughed—light and easy, like it didn’t sting at all. “Still biting. I missed that.”

 

He pushed off the wall, slow and smooth, walking closer.

 

“Heard you’re with Todoroki now,” he said. “Cute. Very clean. A little vanilla, if we're being honest. But I know you. I know what you need.”

 

Bakugo’s spine stiffened.

 

Monoma kept walking, closing the space.

 

“He doesn’t give you what I gave you, does he?” he murmured. “The fire. The push. That edge you always pretended you didn’t crave.”

 

“Shut the fuck up. Are we really back here measuring our dicks right now?” Bakugo scoffed. “Still as immature as ever.”

 

Monoma smiled wider. “Come on, don’t lie to me. You used to beg for it.”

 

Bakugo didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

 

“We used to top the charts, remember?” Monoma's voice dropped, soft and cruel. “You used to claw at the sheets when I—”

 

“Say one more word,” Bakugo growled, “and I’ll put your head through that wall.”

 

Monoma's hand reached out, fingers curling around Bakugo’s wrist. “You’re still so fun when you’re angry.”

 

Bakugo yanked his arm back. “Don't fuckin' touch me. You really this desperate for my attention? You should be embarrassed.”

 

Monoma raised both hands like he wasn’t fazed at all. “And still so mean when you’re scared. Nothing's changed, huh?”

 

Bakugo glared at him, and realized he didn't care.

 

He didn't care.

 

So why was he still standing here?

 

“I'm not here to insult you, or your new pet. But I heard…” Monoma leaned in slightly, voice a whisper, “…You finally let someone else top. Someone that's not me. And I just had to see what all the fuss was about.”

 

Bakugo opened his mouth to tell him exactly where to shove his opinion—

 

“Oh.”

 

A voice down the hallway. Kaminari.

 

Jeans unbuttoned, shirt half-tucked, hair a mess.

 

He stopped dead as soon as he saw them. “Sorry. Am I... Interrupting?”

 

Bakugo didn’t even look back.

 

He stormed over, grabbed Kaminari by the arm with more force than necessary, and muttered, “Been looking for your dumb ass.”

 

Kaminari blinked, bewildered, as Bakugo dragged him away. “I was just—uh—networking?”

 

“Yeah, well, you’re done. Let’s go.”

 

Monoma called after them, voice smooth as ever. “See you around, Katsuki. We should catch up.”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer. Didn’t turn around.

 

Just tightened his grip on Kaminari’s arm and walked faster.

 

*

 

Bakugo didn’t say a word as he stormed through the service hallway, Kaminari trailing two steps behind like a stray dog caught in a thunderstorm.

 

He slammed open the door to the green room with more force than necessary, strode inside, and headed straight for the far wall—palms braced against it like he needed something solid to lean on or else he might come apart at the seams.

 

Kaminari followed. Quiet for a beat.

 

Then—softly, without malice—he reached out and gave Bakugo a light push between the shoulder blades.

 

Not hard. Just enough to make Bakugo turn around.

 

“Sit,” Kaminari said, nodding toward the couch. “You’re about to vibrate out of your skin.”

 

“I’m fine,” Bakugo snapped automatically.

 

“You’re not.”

 

“I said I’m—”

 

“Dude.” Kaminari stepped in front of him, palms up. “I’m just looking out for you, okay? You don’t have to bark at me.”

 

Bakugo’s mouth opened. Closed.

 

He looked away.

 

Kaminari took the opportunity and nudged him gently again.

 

This time, Bakugo didn’t fight it—just sank down onto the couch like his knees had finally stopped pretending.

 

The green room was quiet except for the soft hum of the vending machine and the faint roar of the convention floor through the walls.

 

Kaminari sat down beside him. Not close, not too far. Just… there.

 

A long moment passed.

 

Then Kaminari said, voice calm and low, “So... That was Monoma, right?”

 

Bakugo flinched like he’d been caught. “…Yeah,” he muttered.

 

Kaminari nodded. “Thought so. I remember him from the studio. He always acted like he was God’s gift to blowjobs. But then he went and got himself fired, right? Which... Hilarious, first of all.”

 

Bakugo huffed something like a laugh. But it was short. Bitter.

 

Kaminari watched him. “Been a long time since we've seen him... You okay?” he asked, gentle this time.

 

Bakugo didn’t answer right away.

 

He stared at the floor. At his hands.

 

At the muscle in his own thigh twitching like his body hadn’t caught up with the end of the adrenaline.

 

Then finally—quiet, like he didn’t want to say it out loud, “…No. Not really.”

 

Kaminari nodded again, slow and easy. “Yeah. Thought so.”

 

Another pause.

 

Then Bakugo added, quieter still, “Wasn’t expecting to see him. Not... Here. With Shoto and everything. It's like my worlds are colliding.”

 

Kaminari didn’t prod.

 

Didn’t make a joke.

 

Just let the silence fill the room without letting it get too heavy.

 

“You don’t owe me details,” he said, after a while. “But if you want to talk, I got time.”

 

Bakugo looked over at him.

 

Kaminari’s eyes were soft. Not pitying. Just… patient.

 

The kind of patience Bakugo really didn't think he was capable of.

 

Bakugo exhaled—long and tired—and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

 

He didn’t speak again.

 

But he didn’t get up either.

 

And Kaminari stayed right there.

 

*

 

The fan photo op was insane.

 

Midoriya and Todoroki had barely taken their seats before a line snaked around the convention floor—fans clutching posters, collector cards, even replica outfits.

 

Cameras flashed nonstop.

 

Posing. Smiling. Adjust your shirt. Posing again.

 

Todoroki was sweating through his long sleeves by the thirty-minute mark, jaw tight behind every forced smile.

 

Midoriya, ever the soldier, kept it together—until Aizawa appeared like a grim guardian angel behind the curtain.

 

“Break,” Aizawa said flatly.

 

“But—” Midoriya started.

 

“Now. Ten minutes. Green room. Hydrate before someone faints.”

 

Todoroki just stared at him, like he wasn't sure what to do.

 

Midoriya gave him a smile. “Come on,” he said, tugging Todoroki’s wrist. “We’ll be quick.”

 

They ducked past the side curtain and down the back hallway, Todoroki already unbuttoning his shirt like it was trying to kill him.

 

“Who puts someone in long sleeves at a porn expo?” he muttered. “Did I do something to hurt Momo in a past life?”

 

“You can take your clothes off, you know,” Midoriya said cheerfully. “Kinda the one place no one’s gonna judge you.”

 

Todoroki grumbled something, yanked his shirt the rest of the way off, and slung it over his shoulder.

 

Midoriya didn’t blink. “Great, now I gotta compete with that?”

 

Todoroki gave him a look. “You literally just told me... This feels like sabotage.”

 

Midoriya just grinned.

 

They turned the corner—and nearly ran straight into Sero and Kirishima.

 

“There you guys are!” Kirishima said, looking mildly frazzled. “You heading to the green room too?”

 

“Yeah,” Midoriya said, “Aizawa ordered us to drink water and not die.”

 

“Perfect.” Sero clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go before the snack table gets raided. Kaminari probably decimated it already.”

 

As they walked, Kirishima frowned at the mention of his name. “Any of you guys seen Kaminari? I'm starting to think he got lost.”

 

Before anyone could answer, they reached the green room.

 

Kirishima pushed the door open—

 

And let out a breath of relief. “Oh thank god.”

 

Inside, Bakugo and Kaminari sat on the far couch, still and quiet.

 

Bakugo looked like a live wire wound too tight. Kaminari looked vaguely guilty—but calm.

 

Todoroki didn’t hesitate.

 

He walked straight over and dropped down beside Bakugo, shoulders brushing, heat rolling off him.

 

Then—softly, without asking—he leaned in and pressed his face to Bakugo’s shoulder with a sigh.

 

Bakugo’s arm came up instantly and wrapped around his shoulders, like it was instinct.

 

Kirishima crossed the room and dropped to a knee in front of Kaminari.

 

“Where the hell were you, man?” he asked, voice low and warm. “I was actually starting to worry.”

 

Kaminari scratched the back of his head, sheepish. “Yeah, uh… you’re not gonna believe who we ran into.”

 

Kirishima blinked. “Who?”

 

Kaminari leaned in, voice dropping to a stage whisper. “Monoma.”

 

Sero and Midoriya perked up like meerkats.

 

“Monoma?” Sero echoed. “I've heard that name. Isn't that the guy that got fired a few years ago for professional misconduct or something?”

 

“Yeah.” Kaminari nodded. “He used to film with us back at Enji’s studio. You remember right, Kiri? Always dramatic. Licked cameras for attention. That guy.”

 

Kirishima made a face. “God, that guy. I remember him getting fired, but I thought he left town after Kugo dumped him.”

 

Todoroki blinked.

 

Midoriya looked up from the snack table. “Dumped?”

 

Sero raised his eyebrows. “You've dated more than one co-worker? Dude.” His tone was disapproving, but he was mostly joking.

 

“They didn’t date,” Kaminari said quickly. “They just—y’know, filmed together. And hooked up. A lot. Some of their scenes were, like, freaky deaky. Props. Restraints. Bakugo was wild back then.”

 

Bakugo slowly turned his head and stared straight at Kaminari like he was about to commit a crime with his eyes alone.

 

Kirishima shook his head slowly. “Not wild enough, though. And Monoma liked to cross lines. Liked to push boundaries. And that's what got him fired. Because he didn't listen to his partners, Kugo included.”

 

Midoriya's face shifted, like he figured it out. And suddenly his demeanor was sympathetic above all else. “Sorry... That sounds awful.”

 

Bakugo spoke up again, “Can you guys shut the fuck up? Shoto and I haven't exactly talked about all this yet.”

 

Todoroki, though, didn’t flinch.

 

He just turned toward Bakugo fully—searching his face, careful. “So this guy,” he said, low and even. “Did he talk to you? Bother you? Do I need to say something to him?”

 

Bakugo blinked. Taken off guard. “You're not pissed at me?”

 

Todoroki leaned in a little closer. “That doesn't matter, babe. You look like you’re about to crawl out of your skin. Is there something you need me to do?”

 

Bakugo’s jaw twitched.

 

He looked away.

 

“Hey,” Todoroki murmured, brushing their fingers together. “Talk to me.”

 

“I’m fine,” Bakugo muttered.

 

Kirishima, trying to help, added, “Honestly, man, that dude’s obsessed. Ever since he switched to that boutique studio, he’s been running his mouth to anyone who’ll listen about wanting you back. Like crawling-on-his-knees level pathetic.”

 

Bakugo snapped at him, sharp and loud. “Dude. Drop it.”

 

The room went still.

 

Kirishima held up his hands. “Okay. Shutting up.”

 

Bakugo scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “Sho, I... I promise we'll talk about it later. I just—I don’t want to give him space in my head right now.”

 

“Then don’t.” Todoroki leaned over to kiss the side of his head, and then turned to the rest of the group. “Can someone point him out to me when we go back out there? I'd like to keep an eye on him.”

 

Kaminari nodded immediately. “You got it, dude.”

 

Todoroki reached out and took Bakugo’s hand gently—no fanfare, no pressure—and held it like a grounding wire.

 

Bakugo didn’t pull away.

 

Midoriya cleared his throat. “Should we, uh, give you guys a minute?”

 

“No,” Bakugo said, too fast. His voice softened. “No. Just… stay. It’s fine.”

 

Kirishima dropped to the floor beside Kaminari with a quiet sigh. Sero passed out bottles of water. Midoriya started rambling about the panel schedule.

 

And Todoroki stayed right next to Bakugo, solid and calm, like he wasn’t going anywhere.

 

Because he wasn’t.

 

***

Chapter 34

Notes:

This is just goofy - pls enjoy my sense of humor hahaha

The convention floor hadn’t gotten any less chaotic.

 

If anything, it was louder now—thicker with crowds, cameras, the scent of vinyl and body spray.

 

Spotlights swept across the ceiling, banners fluttered from their rigs, and somewhere in the distance, a very intense Yaoi Panel Q&A was causing screams that sounded borderline religious.

 

Bakugo stepped back into it all with his jaw tight, shoulders squared.

 

Todoroki was right beside him.

 

Still shirtless. Still unfairly calm.

 

Bakugo adjusted his collar, scowling slightly as a passing fan gasped and waved, clutching a body pillow of him from three years ago.

 

He waved back. Barely.

 

“You don’t have to follow me around,” Bakugo muttered under his breath. “I told you I’m fine.”

 

Todoroki laced their fingers together. “I know,” he said simply. “I just want to. Midoriya can finish the photo thing without me.”

 

Bakugo’s heart did something inconvenient in his chest.

 

They reached the autograph table a few minutes later, where a new crowd was already gathered—phones up, cameras flashing, fans clutching merch and photo books and asking “Can I get a picture with both of you?” like it was Christmas morning.

 

Todoroki didn’t miss a beat.

 

He leaned into Bakugo casually for the first few pictures—then a little more when someone asked him to stand closer.

 

Then closer still.

 

By the fifth photo, Todoroki was pressing a kiss to Bakugo’s cheek, deadpan expression still in place like this was just a Tuesday, and Bakugo was just part of his natural ecosystem.

 

Bakugo flushed. Grumbled. Didn’t stop him.

 

He signed posters with a sharper scrawl than usual, still rattled underneath it all—but Todoroki kept everything under control.

 

Spoke up when fans complimented Bakugo, saying things like:

 

“He’s the best performer I’ve ever worked with.”

 

“His scenes are always the most popular.”

 

“Absolutely gorgeous. I know.”

 

Bakugo scowled through all of it.

 

But he didn’t let go of Todoroki’s hand.

 

More pictures. More autographs.

 

At one point, someone asked Todoroki to describe Bakugo in three words.

 

Todoroki said, completely serious: “Hot, brilliant, and mine.”

 

Bakugo almost choked on his water.

 

*

 

That night, the hotel room was warm with bodies and buzzed laughter. They all crowded into one room for a while, even though they had their own.

 

A half-watched movie flickered on the TV, but no one could’ve told you the plot if their life depended on it.

 

Sero and Midoriya were tangled together on one of the beds—limbs crossed, drinks in hand, giggling at something nobody else had heard.

 

Kirishima and Kaminari sprawled across the other bed in full chaos mode, snacking on gummy worms and popcorn like it was an Olympic sport.

 

Bakugo had commandeered the armchair—dragging it from the corner until it sat centered between both beds. Then he’d yanked Todoroki down into his lap like he owned him.

 

Todoroki hadn’t resisted.

 

Now he sat curled against Bakugo’s chest, quiet and comfortable, eyelids drooping.

 

His hair was slightly damp from a shower, skin warm from wine, and he hadn’t moved in twenty minutes except to lean heavier into Bakugo’s shoulder.

 

Bakugo’s arm wrapped snugly around his waist, his free hand lazily stroking over Todoroki’s thigh like a habit.

 

The others were more awake.

 

“Did you guys see the guy in the dog harness?” Kaminari burst out, half-choked on beer foam. “Like, full tail, leash, paws—the whole ensemble.”

 

Sero nodded, impressed. “He handed me his OnlyFans card with his mouth.”

 

Kirishima cackled. “Don’t judge him! He’s committed to his craft.”

 

“I had a guy ask if I could sign his chest,” Midoriya added, slightly pink in the cheeks.

 

“That’s not weird,” Kaminari said. “That’s flattering.”

 

“He was, uh… wearing a see-through mesh crop top. And nipple clamps.”

 

“…Still flattering,” Sero said, deadpan.

 

Kirishima leaned forward to look at him. “Okay but... Did you do it though?”

 

Midoriya covered his face with both hands, muffling a mortified laugh. “I panicked! I just… I panicked and signed his shoulder.”

 

There was a beat of silence, and Midoriya could feel the judgement.

 

Sero took a sip of his drink. “Lame. That man presented his nipples to you like a gift, and you re-gifted it.”

 

“You’re a disgrace to the industry,” Kaminari said solemnly, throwing a gummy worm at him.

 

“I panicked!” Midoriya repeated, muffled and red-faced.

 

“Should’ve signed the clamps,” Kirishima added, mouth full of popcorn. “Bet he’d have tipped extra.”

 

Bakugo snorted under his breath, just barely loud enough to be heard.

 

“Hey, what’re you laughing at?” Kaminari challenged. “You wouldn’t have done it either.”

 

“The hell I wouldn’t,” Bakugo said, not even opening his eyes. “I’d’ve signed it with my teeth.”

 

That earned a chorus of whoops and fake gagging.

 

“Oh my god,” Sero said, wheezing. “You’re disgusting. I love it.”

 

Todoroki blinked slowly. Tilted his face toward Bakugo’s neck. “Mm. That’s why he’s won Best Mouth of XXXpo.” He paused. “Three years in a row.”

 

The room exploded.

 

“Best Mouth?!” Kaminari howled, nearly knocking over the snack bowl. “Nobody told me they do contests at these things! Are there trophies too?”

 

“Yes. Suki is very proud,” Todoroki said, deadpan. “He keeps it on the bookshelf.”

 

Midoriya let out a strangled sound. “Wait. You have porn awards on your bookshelf? Like in your living room?”

 

“Next to the espresso machine,” Bakugo said. “Where the fuck else would they go?”

 

Kirishima flopped onto his back, dramatically throwing an arm over his face. “God, I want what you two have.”

 

“Best Mouth?” Sero asked innocently.

 

“No,” Kirishima said. “A boyfriend who lets me sit in his lap like a cat and defends my trophy placement decisions.”

 

“You don’t have any trophies,” Kaminari pointed out.

 

“Yeah,” Kirishima said, grinning, “but if I did, I’d put them in the bathroom. Ultimate flex.”

 

“Just imagine your guests,” Sero said, thoughtful. “You’re peeing, and boom—Best Anal 2025 staring you in the face.”

 

Todoroki hummed. “Might help you get laid.”

 

Bakugo smirked, squeezing his thigh. “You’re such a freak. You’re lucky I like you.”

 

“No. You’re lucky.” Todoroki murmured back. “I’m something else.”

 

“Terminal,” Kaminari said gravely. “He’s got Bakugo Syndrome.”

 

Kirishima raised his drink. “Thoughts and prayers.”

 

Bakugo just flipped them all off without lifting his hand from Todoroki’s thigh. “Jealousy’s a disease,” he said smugly. “Hope y’all recover.”

 

But he didn’t stop smiling.

 

*

 

Someone muted the TV. The room hummed with lazy comfort—half-empty glasses, melted ice, the gentle rustle of Todoroki adjusting against Bakugo’s chest.

 

Kirishima lay sideways across the bed, a gummy worm stuck to his shirt, still giggling at some joke that had long since ended.

 

Bakugo grunted, adjusting Todoroki slightly as he slipped lower in his lap. “Got another one—fan told me they wrote a fanfic about me.”

 

“Did you ask for the link?” Kaminari said, like this was a reasonable follow-up.

 

Bakugo stared at him. “No.”

 

“Oh come on,” Sero said. “You know there’s fics about all of us. Just accept it.”

 

“Not that I’ve read any, but, like… some of them are actually kinda good.” Kaminari said.

 

Sero raised his drink. “Cheers to the dudes writing smut about me.”

 

Kirishima laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bed.

 

Bakugo glanced down.

 

Todoroki was still curled up, lips faintly parted, letting the laughter warm him like sunlight.

 

“You good, pretty boy?” Bakugo muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

 

Todoroki gave a soft hum and tipped his head back against Bakugo’s shoulder. “I’m perfect,” he murmured. “Warm. Fed. Tipsy. Surrounded by idiots.”

 

Bakugo huffed a laugh. “Can’t argue with that.”

 

“I still can’t believe Monoma showed up,” Kirishima said, breaking the moment.

 

Sero made a noise like he was sucking a lemon. “He’s like a walking ego in designer jeans.”

 

Midoriya frowned, twisting the edge of his shirt. “How’d he get hired after getting fired for misconduct? That’s… something you'd think would matter to a future employer.”

 

The laughter slowed just a fraction. Bakugo’s grip on Todoroki’s thigh stilled.

 

“Apparently not,” Kaminari muttered.

 

Bakugo tensed slightly under Todoroki—but said nothing.

 

Todoroki noticed. He pressed a light kiss to Bakugo’s jaw.

 

“Anyway,” Kaminari said, flopping back dramatically, “I give day one of XXXpo a solid nine out of ten.”

 

“Same. Docking one point for the guy who called me ‘Daddy Zawa’s favorite,’” Midoriya mumbled.

 

Kirishima snorted. “Oh my god. Did you correct them, or just say thank you?”

 

Midoriya looked horrified. “I said sorry.”

 

Kaminari sighed, all content and smug. “Honestly? Between the panels, the freebies, and that totally professional intermission—I had a great day.”

 

Bakugo sat up slowly. “I bet you did. I didn’t forget that I caught you comin’ out of that storage closet.”

 

Silence.

 

Kaminari blinked. “...What?”

 

Bakugo raised an eyebrow. “Pants half undone. Hair lookin’ like you got electrocuted twice.”

 

“That’s just my brand. I always look like that,” Kaminari said weakly.

 

Kirishima sat bolt upright. “Wait. You hooked up during the expo?!”

 

“I didn’t say that,” Kaminari sputtered. “I—I was just, uh, networking.”

 

Midoriya choked on his drink. “Was it with a fan?!”

 

“I’m not answering that,” Kaminari said, face going redder by the second.

 

Todoroki opened one eye. “So... yes.”

 

“Oh my god,” Sero said, grinning wide. “You were laying pipe during the convention. I’m so proud.”

 

“Who was it?” Kirishima demanded, eyes gleaming. “Vendor? Fellow performer? That random guy with free lube samples?”

 

“I’m taking this to my grave,” Kaminari groaned, yanking a pillow over his face. “Bury me with the lube.”

 

“Pretty sure you were already buried in something in that closet,” Sero said, sipping his drink like it wasn’t the worst sentence ever spoken.

 

Todoroki chuckled quietly, still half-asleep.

 

Bakugo kissed the top of his head.

 

And the night went on—soft and strange, full of laughter and comfort and wine buzz and ridiculous stories.

 

The bed creaked, the lights dimmed, and for the first time all day, everything felt easy.

 

***

Chapter 35

Notes:

I'm like... In shock that this has 35 chapters already lolll I'm having so much fun writing it, and i'm so glad y'all are enjoying. Here we goooo

Todoroki woke slowly, cocooned in heavy sheets, the air cool on his bare shoulders.

 

The bed felt too big, too quiet, too neat to be Midoriya’s hotel room. Which meant—

 

He blinked open his eyes.

 

They were in their hotel room.

 

His side of the bed was barely rumpled. The other side was empty, still warm.

 

Across the room, Bakugo sat in the armchair with his knees spread wide, coffee mug balanced in one hand, TV remote in the other.

 

The hotel news channel played on mute, all headlines and stock tickers and distant traffic footage.

 

Bakugo looked like he’d been up for hours—hair messy in that unfairly perfect way, wearing loose sweats and nothing else.

 

The mug in his hand read ‘I’m Not a Morning Person (Don’t Talk to Me)’ which was rich, considering the way his eyes softened the second he realized Todoroki was awake.

 

“You’re up,” he said quietly, voice low and warm.

 

Todoroki stretched with a soft groan, burying his face into the pillow. “Barely.”

 

Bakugo stood, walked over, and crouched beside the bed.

 

He pressed a slow kiss to Todoroki’s temple.

 

Then one to his cheek.

 

Then his nose.

 

“Sleep okay?” Bakugo asked.

 

“Mm. Can’t remember leaving the others.”

 

“You didn’t.” Bakugo smirked. “You fell asleep in the chair like a corpse. I had to carry your heavy ass all the way here.”

 

Todoroki blinked, surprised. “…You carried me?”

 

“Princess style and everything,” Bakugo muttered, clearly embarrassed now.

 

Todoroki let out a little breathy giggle. “My hero.”

 

Bakugo kissed his forehead again—quick, to hide his own smile—and stood. “You want this?” he asked, tilting the half-full mug in Todoroki’s direction.

 

Todoroki sat up slowly, blankets pooling around his waist. “Yes please.”

 

Bakugo passed it over, fingers brushing Todoroki’s as he did.

 

Todoroki cradled it with both hands, inhaled the warmth, and sighed like someone finally home.

 

Bakugo turned away to make another cup, already muttering about how he “should’ve spiked yours with protein powder,” and Todoroki leaned over to grab his phone from the nightstand.

 

It was fully charged, even though he was sure he did not remember to plug it in last night.

 

Katsuki. Of course.

 

He unlocked it with a thumb swipe, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

 

One new message.

 

From an unknown number.

 

Just a link.

 

Weird.

 

He trusted it—probably because he was still half-asleep, still wrapped in the safety of this room, this man.

 

Still believing nothing could go wrong today.

 

The preview showed nothing except a blurry thumbnail and a filename with Bakugo’s name in it.

 

Todoroki’s brows furrowed. He tapped it without thinking.

 

The browser loaded, and he turned his volume up just barely to hear it.

 

The video started playing instantly—no splash screen, no buffer.

 

Bakugo’s face. Younger.

 

His voice.

 

His moans.

 

A man Todoroki didn’t recognize, in the bed behind him.

 

But the title of the video clearly stated Monoma's name.

 

Todoroki froze.

 

His heart dropped straight through the mattress.

 

He should have closed it. Turned it off. Tossed the phone across the room.

 

But he couldn’t look away.

 

The screen burned.

 

The sounds—

 

The way Monoma spoke, filthy and low, coaxing things out of Bakugo that Todoroki had never heard.

 

Never earned. Never even known to want.

 

Not from him. Not with him.

 

The video wasn’t new, the date was years ago.

 

But it was vivid.

 

And Todoroki’s hands were shaking.

 

The coffee in his lap had gone cold.

 

And from somewhere beside the coffee pot, Bakugo said— “You want breakfast, babe?”

 

But Todoroki couldn’t answer.

 

*

 

Todoroki scrambled to shut the video off, screen dimming with a tap—but it was too late.

 

Bakugo was standing there, coffee forgotten, staring straight at the phone in his hands.

 

His whole body went rigid. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

 

Todoroki froze. “Suki, I—”

 

“Where the fuck did you find that?” Bakugo barked, voice already rising, heat behind every syllable.

 

Todoroki sat up straighter, stunned. “I didn’t look for it. Someone sent it to me.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

Bakugo snatched the phone from his hands before Todoroki could blink, thumb already flying over the screen.

 

He opened the message, read it again—just a single link from an unknown number.

 

He pulled out his phone to copy the phone number into his own contact list, just to see the number pop up as a blocked number.

 

His jaw flexed.

 

“Of course,” he muttered. “Fucking Monoma.”

 

Todoroki stared at him. “You think it was him?”

 

“Who the hell else?” Bakugo hissed. “No one else has that video. It never even went public. We filmed it for Enji, but it was supposed to be locked behind a paid campaign that never ran.”

 

Todoroki’s chest felt tight. “Why would he send it to me?”

 

Bakugo scoffed bitterly, pacing now. “Because he’s obsessed. Because he’s a fucking leech. He probably wants to prove some stupid point, like—‘see what I used to do to your boyfriend, bet he doesn’t do that for you,’ or some bullshit.”

 

Todoroki was still sitting in bed, coffee untouched, shirtless and bare in a way that suddenly didn’t feel romantic at all.

 

“I didn’t watch the whole thing,” Todoroki said quietly. “Just a few seconds. I didn’t even know what it was until—until I saw you. I’m sorry, I really am.”

 

Bakugo stopped.

 

His back was to Todoroki now. Shoulders tense.

 

One hand clenched around the hotel dresser like he needed to anchor himself.

 

For a second, neither of them said anything.

 

Then Bakugo exhaled—shaky, sharp. “I hate that you saw that,” he muttered, voice lower now. “I hate that that’s in your head. Because that’s not—”

 

He turned back around.

 

His face was different.

 

Less anger. More shame.

 

“That’s not who I am anymore.”

 

Todoroki looked up at him, eyes softening. “I know.”

 

Bakugo swallowed hard. “I was so fucking lost back then. Everything was performance. No boundaries. I let myself get used, over and over, because I thought it meant something. Because I thought if I gave enough, someone would stay.”

 

Todoroki’s heart ached in his chest. “I don’t think less of you,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to defend yourself.”

 

Bakugo sat down hard on the edge of the bed, shoulders heavy.

 

The phone lay between them—still hot with everything it showed, everything it couldn’t take back.

 

“I just wanted to protect you from that part of my life.” Bakugo muttered.

 

Todoroki leaned over, reaching for his hand—linking their fingers together. “You’ve protected me more than anyone,” he said. “But you don’t have to protect me from you.”

 

Bakugo didn’t speak.

 

“And you don’t have to worry,” Todoroki murmured. “No video is going to change my perception of you. I know exactly who you are.”

 

Bakugo's thumb brushed over Todoroki’s knuckles once. Then again.

 

Todoroki glanced at the mug on the nightstand. “You’re the man who carries me to bed. Who kisses my nose. Who makes terrible coffee and threatens me with protein powder.”

 

Bakugo almost smiled. Almost.

 

Todoroki’s voice dipped just slightly, fond and sure. “You’re not your past. You’re my present. And that’s the version I want.”

 

*

 

The convention floor was already humming when Kaminari ducked behind one of the studio booths to scarf half a granola bar between panels.

 

He barely had time to swallow when a voice slid in behind him, smooth as honey and twice as sticky.

 

“Well, well. Kaminari Denki. Still blond, still reckless. Good to see some things never change.”

 

Kaminari turned, blinking. “Oh—uh. Hey. Monoma. You usually don’t come to these things.”

 

Monoma smiled, all pristine teeth and perfectly manicured confidence. “Just a last-minute appearance. I like to keep things spontaneous. You know how it is.”

 

Kaminari shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Cool, cool.”

 

He tried to step around, but Monoma shifted to block him, just barely.

 

“You still tight with Bakugo?” Monoma asked casually, picking lint from his sleeve like the question was nothing.

 

Kaminari froze a beat too long. “Uh… yeah,” he said. “Why?”

 

“No reason,” Monoma said breezily. “Just wondering how he’s doing. I mean, we were so close back in the day. Haven’t heard from him in a while.”

 

Kaminari’s brows lifted. “Right. Uh, well. I guess he’s doing fine? He’s with Todoroki, and they’re pretty happy, so...”

 

“I noticed,” Monoma said, smile sharpening. “Cute. Not really his type though, is he?”

 

Kaminari stared at him, suddenly not smiling.

 

Monoma leaned in just a little. “If you hear anything, let me know, alright? Like if he’s looking for something different. Something… familiar.”

 

He gave Kaminari a wink and walked off before Kaminari could answer.

 

*

 

Later that afternoon, Kirishima was adjusting his mic backstage, waiting to be called out for his joint Q&A.

 

A hand tapped his shoulder lightly. “Kirishima! Damn, those arms got even bigger.”

 

Kirishima turned, surprised. “Monoma?”

 

The blond grinned like a fox. “In the flesh.”

 

Kirishima laughed, but it came out weird. “Hey, man. Didn’t know you were here this year.”

 

“Thought I’d pop in,” Monoma said smoothly. “Say hi to a few old faces. Stir up some nostalgia.” He stepped a bit closer, glancing around. “Speaking of which... You’re still with Bakugo’s crew, yeah?”

 

Kirishima nodded slowly. “Sure. Why?”

 

Monoma exhaled dramatically. “Just curious how he’s doing. Haven’t seen him all weekend.”

 

“He’s around,” Kirishima said, cautious now.

 

“You think he’d be open to reconnecting?” Monoma asked. “I know things ended rough, but there was… real heat there. Some things you don’t forget, you know?”

 

Kirishima crossed his arms. “Well, he’s in a relationship, so. I’m gonna go with no. You trying to start drama?”

 

Monoma blinked, all innocence. “Drama? Me? Never. Just an old friend looking out.”

 

“Right.”

 

Monoma winked. “Tell him I said hi.”

 

And then he disappeared again—like smoke through a crack in the wall.

 

Kirishima watched him go, unsettled.

 

Something told him Monoma wasn’t just here for the fans.

 

He was here for something else.

 

And Bakugo’s name was written all over it.

 

*

 

The convention floor was chaos again.

 

Fans packed the aisles, crowding every booth, flashing lights from vendor signs making the whole space feel like a hyper-sexualized carnival.

 

Todoroki and Midoriya had just finished another photo set for Aizawa's studio and were ducking toward the edge of the floor for a quick break.

 

The room was already warm considering all the people crowded into it, but if you add the heat from those lighting rigs, they were practically sweating out all the moisture left in their bodies.

 

Todoroki rubbed at the back of his neck, shirt long abandoned hours ago, skin flushed and hair laying flat in defiance of the stylist’s hard work.

 

Midoriya had pulled on a zip-up hoodie, but the collar was already soaked with sweat.

 

They leaned against a roped-off side wall, just catching their breath, when someone stepped up with a grin too wide and too smooth.

 

“Sorry to interrupt,” the stranger said. “Just had to say—I’ve been a fan of both of you for a long time. Really love your stuff.”

 

Midoriya smiled, polite and warm, but his brow furrowed slightly. “Thank you! Have we met before?”

 

Todoroki was already squinting. “You look familiar.”

 

The guy chuckled. “I get that a lot. Guess I just have one of those faces. You know how it is in the porn world.”

 

He offered a hand, and Midoriya shook it automatically.

 

“I’m Neito,” he said. “Big fan of both of you.”

 

“Thanks,” Todoroki said, measured.

 

Monoma's gaze landed on him like a weight—hovering too long. Appreciative. Calculating. “You’ve been killing it lately. Especially your newer stuff, the shoots with Bakugo—so raw. Intense.”

 

Midoriya smiled modestly. “Yeah, they’ve been getting a lot of attention.”

 

Monoma glanced at him, then back to Todoroki. “That chemistry is no joke. It’s real, huh? You and Bakugo.”

 

Todoroki blinked slowly. “Yes.”

 

“That must be… Complicated. Working so closely with someone you're dating.”

 

Todoroki didn’t answer.

 

There was something about his voice—smooth, deliberate.

 

Todoroki couldn’t place it, but it grated under his skin, like a splinter from a memory.

 

Midoriya shifted awkwardly. “I mean, it works for them. They’re kind of a power couple now.”

 

“Sure,” Monoma said with a casual shrug. “I’m just surprised, I guess. Bakugo’s always struck me as the kind of guy who loves his reputation. Wouldn’t wanna be tied down to just one man, y’know.”

 

Midoriya’s brows lifted. “Oh… I don’t get that impression from him at all.”

 

Monoma turned slightly, gaze still locked on Todoroki. “You must be pretty confident to take all that on. I mean, he’s so... intense. Dominant. That’s not easy to keep up with.”

 

Todoroki tilted his head, voice flat. “Was there something you needed?”

 

Monoma blinked, then laughed. “Sorry. I talk too much. Just excited, I guess. It’s not every day I get to meet another guy who got fired from Enji's.”

 

Todoroki’s eyes sharpened at the name.

 

Monoma smiled wider. “Not sure what your crime was, but I just didn’t have the right chemistry, I guess. But I do remember Bakugo liking a little more… fire. Would hate to see you lose your job the same way I did.”

 

The silence after that was heavy.

 

Midoriya’s eyes darted between them, confused.

 

Todoroki didn’t move.

 

Didn’t blink. Just stared.

 

Monoma winked—slow and smug—and then turned, vanishing back into the crowd. “Just be careful out there, Todoroki.”

 

Midoriya turned to him, concerned. “What the hell was that? Do you know him?”

 

Todoroki was already pulling out his phone.

 

He didn’t say anything.

 

But he knew.

 

He knew exactly who that was.

 

And something in his chest lit like a fuse.

 

***

Notes:

reminder to all not to open weird links from strangers on y'alls phones lol

Chapter 36

Todoroki stared down at his phone, jaw tight.

 

Midoriya was saying something—asking if he was okay—but the words didn’t land.

 

The crowd blurred. The lights dimmed. Just a low, burning hum under Todoroki’s skin.

 

His thumb hovered over Bakugo’s name in his favorites.

 

He tapped.

 

Bakugo answered mid-ring.

 

“Yo,” came the familiar rasp, warm and a little distracted. “I’m like twenty feet from our booth—what’s up?”

 

Todoroki opened his mouth.

 

Closed it.

 

The words were still there, coiled behind his teeth—Monoma. The video. What he said.

 

But suddenly it felt…small. Like dragging Bakugo into it would only make it real. Make it linger.

 

And what he needed—more than revenge, more than the last word—was just…

 

“Nothing,” Todoroki said quietly. “I just missed you.”

 

Bakugo paused, thrown. Then, “...You good?”

 

Todoroki looked up, eyes scanning the crowd until he caught a flash of blond near their booth. “I will be. Can you meet me at the booth?”

 

“Already moving.”

 

*

 

The second day of the XXXpo ended the way it started—loud, sweaty, and a little surreal.

 

By the time the crew stumbled back into Midoriya and Sero’s shared hotel room, everyone looked half-melted.

 

Someone had peeled off the wig Kaminari had worn for a themed panel and tossed it onto the TV.

 

A mess of takeout containers—ramen, dumplings, rice bowls—were spread across the beds like treasure.

 

Shoes were kicked off. Shirts were half unbuttoned.

 

Todoroki had a cold soda pressed to the side of his neck.

 

Bakugo was crouched by the bed, stealing a bite of Kirishima’s food without asking.

 

Kaminari was flopped out on the floor like roadkill.

 

“I don’t remember agreeing to share with five people,” Sero said, balancing a rice box on his chest from the bed.

 

“You also made out with a guy behind the hentai booth,” Kirishima pointed out, grinning. “So maybe your judgment’s off today.”

 

Sero held up two fingers in peace. “That was research.”

 

Kaminari wheezed. “You kissed a dude named Tank. That was not research.”

 

“He had piercings,” Sero muttered. “I was curious.”

 

“I got asked to go backstage and make out with someone's mom,” Kirishima added proudly, mouth full of dumplings.

 

Midoriya blinked. “Wait, you didn’t?”

 

“Nah. Too many cameras.”

 

Bakugo snorted, scooting back until he was seated against the bed, Todoroki sitting beside him, their legs pressed together.

 

There was a lull—everyone eating, decompressing—until Midoriya looked up suddenly.

 

“Oh. Right. T—” he said, gesturing at Todoroki. “You still gotta tell me about that weird guy from earlier. The one who came up to us like a fan? The one that started talking shit about Bakugo.”

 

Bakugo didn’t even flinch. “Blond asshole?”

 

Midoriya nodded. “Yeah. Is that... Who I think it is?”

 

Kirishima leaned over from the other bed. “Yeah, that would be Monoma. He talked to me too.”

 

Kaminari raised a hand like he was at school. “Also me. He kept trying to fish for info. Totally obsessed.”

 

Bakugo rolled his eyes. “That guy’s been clinging to my shadow for years. Ignore him.”

 

Kirishima cackled. “He’s so pressed, dude. You must’ve really wrecked him.”

 

Kaminari laughed too, nudging Bakugo with his foot. “You must’ve been incredible in bed.”

 

Bakugo scowled. “Shut the fuck up.”

 

“I thought he was checking in at first,” Kirishima added, frowning. “But he was clearly fishing. Super fake.”

 

Midoriya nodded. “Yeah, and then he started going in on Todoroki. Said he must be pretty confident to think he can keep up with someone like Bakugo. Then dropped this bomb about how he got fired from Enji’s too, like. As if that made him and Todoroki equals.”

 

Kaminari nearly dropped his drink. “He said what?”

 

Kirishima blinked. “How does he even know about that? You getting fired? Pretty sure Enji told everyone that you left.”

 

Todoroki shrugged, unbothered. “Doesn’t matter.”

 

“No, it kind of does,” Kaminari said, eyes narrowing. “He’s targeting you.”

 

“He probably looked it up,” Midoriya muttered. “Soon as he found out you and Bakugo were together.”

 

“Creepy stalker behavior,” Kirishima muttered.

 

“But like, what’s the endgame there?” Kaminari asked. “Embarrass you in public? Get under your skin? But what’s the point?”

 

Through all of it, Bakugo hadn’t said a word.

 

He sat with his arms crossed, expression unreadable, eyes locked on the carpet like he was listening to something only he could hear.

 

Midoriya hesitated, glancing at him. “You okay?”

 

Bakugo stood up.

 

“Hey, Shoto,” he said, already heading for the door. “Can I talk to you?”

 

Todoroki blinked but followed without question, the rest of the room falling quiet as the door clicked shut behind them.

 

*

 

The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the laughter and clatter of takeout boxes. The carpeted hallway felt too still, too quiet after the chaos of the hotel room.

 

Todoroki waited, hands in his pockets. “What is it?”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes on the floor, jaw shifting like he was working through the words.

 

Finally, he said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Todoroki’s head tilted. “About Monoma?”

 

“Yeah. About him cornering you, running his mouth, bringing up shit he had no right to.”

 

Todoroki’s voice was calm, steady. “Because I didn’t want to make it worse.”

 

Bakugo’s gaze snapped up.

 

“You hate him,” Todoroki continued. “I didn’t want you walking around with that in your head. It wouldn’t have changed anything except your mood.”

 

Bakugo’s mouth twisted. “You think I care about my mood more than I care about you?”

 

“That’s not what I said.”

 

“It’s what you meant.” His voice was still quiet, but there was a raw edge under it. “You thought I couldn’t handle it without losing my shit.”

 

Todoroki held his gaze. “I thought you didn’t need one more thing on your mind today. I handled it. Not a big deal.”

 

Bakugo exhaled hard through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his face. “That’s not the point.”

 

“Then what is?”

 

“The point is—” He broke off, pressing his lips together. “The point is, you don’t have to filter shit like that. Not for me. If somebody comes for you, I want to know. Doesn’t matter if it’s Monoma, or your dad, doesn’t matter if you think you’ve got it handled. I just… want to be in it with you.”

 

Something softened in Todoroki’s expression, the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth. “And I want to keep things off your plate when I can. Especially when it’s him.”

 

Bakugo stepped in closer, close enough their shoulders brushed. “Yeah, well… maybe we stop trying to protect each other by shutting each other out.”

 

Todoroki considered that, then nodded once. “Alright.”

 

Bakugo studied him for another long second. “You okay?”

 

“I am now,” Todoroki said, and this time it was warmer. “Let’s go back in before Kaminari eats the rest of my rice.”

 

Bakugo snorted. “He tries, he dies.”

 

*

 

The takeout had been cleared away, leaving only crumpled napkins and empty drink cans littering the nightstand. The room was warm, dim from a single bedside lamp, everyone in various states of sprawled exhaustion.

 

Sero was scrolling on his phone from the bed. “There’s a couple of afterparties tonight,” he said lazily. “One of ‘em’s got a rooftop pool.”

 

Kirishima perked up. “Ohhh, I’ve been to that one. It’s like ninety percent porn people and ten percent creeps who want to be porn people.”

 

Kaminari grinned. “So the usual.”

 

Midoriya hesitated. “Sucks that we have to get up early tomorrow, though.”

 

Todoroki leaned against the arm of the couch beside Bakugo. “I didn’t bring anything to wear for a party.”

 

Sero looked up, eyes glinting. “You want something sexy? I’ve got an outfit that would look amazing on you.”

 

Bakugo’s head whipped around. “The fuck you do.”

 

Sero raised an eyebrow. “What? It’s just a shirt.”

 

“Bullshit,” Bakugo said flatly. “How ‘sexy’ are we talking here?”

 

“Relax,” Sero said, smirking. “Just trust me—he’d look great.”

 

“I’m not ‘trusting’ you with my boyfriend’s clothes.”

 

Kaminari rolled his eyes. “Oh my god, territorial much?” Bakugo opened his mouth, but Kaminari cut in again. “Actually—hey, go get more ice. Soda’s warm.”

 

“Get it yourself,” Bakugo snapped.

 

“I would,” Kaminari said sweetly, “but you’re closer.”

 

“No.”

 

“I’ll go,” Todoroki said, standing.

 

“Okay,” Bakugo said instantly, already on his feet.

 

Kaminari blinked. “Wow. That was… instant compliance.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

*

 

The carpet was thick enough to swallow their footsteps, the hum of the ice machine faintly audible around the corner.

 

Bakugo had the bucket hooked in one hand, shoulders set in that loose, casual way he got when the day was winding down.

 

“Just saying,” he muttered, “you don’t need to borrow clothes from anyone but me.”

 

Todoroki gave him a sidelong look. “You’re worried about the shirt?”

 

“I’m worried about you,” Bakugo shot back. “Half the people at that party are gonna be drunk, horny, and looking for something to brag about.”

 

“Everyone at that party has already seen me naked,” Todoroki pointed out, calm as ever.

 

“That’s different,” Bakugo grumbled. “They’ve seen you naked on a screen, on my terms. They don’t get to see you dressed like bait.”

 

Todoroki’s mouth curved slightly. “So you’re saying you want me either completely covered or completely naked?”

 

Bakugo side-eyed him. “Exactly.”

 

The machine came into view, squatting in its little alcove under a buzzing fluorescent.

 

Bakugo crouched to press the lever, ice rattling into the bucket in sharp, cold bursts.

 

Todoroki stayed a step back, leaning against the wall, watching the tense line of his shoulders.

 

And then—something made his pulse skip.

 

He pushed off the wall, closing the space between them in two strides.

 

His hand curled around Bakugo’s arm, pulling him upright and turning him so his back hit the machine with a dull thud.

 

Bakugo’s brows shot up. “The hell—”

 

Todoroki kissed him.

 

Hard.

 

Like the world was ending.

 

Like the air between them had been pulled tight all day and he was finally cutting it loose.

 

One hand braced against the wall, the other sliding up Bakugo’s side, catching in the fabric of his shirt.

 

Bakugo froze for a second—half startled, half suspicious—before his mouth answered back, hot and fast.

 

The ice bucket tilted dangerously in his hand, water dripping cold down his knuckles, but he didn’t care.

 

Todoroki pressed in closer, hips brushing his, the kiss deepening until Bakugo could feel the faint rumble of a low sound in his chest.

 

Then Todoroki’s mouth broke from his, not to pull away—but to drag slow, deliberate kisses along his jaw, down the line of his throat.

 

Bakugo’s head tipped without thinking, a quiet hiss escaping when teeth grazed skin.

 

And with Todoroki’s head out of the way, his eyes had a clear view down the hall.

 

Of a person down the hall.

 

Monoma.

 

Standing there, half in shadow.

 

Not looking smug for once—just stock-still, caught mid-step.

 

Bakugo held Todoroki there, palm pressing lightly against the small of his back, while he watched Monoma’s expression shift.

 

The longer Todoroki’s mouth lingered on his neck, the tighter Monoma’s jaw got. That frozen surprise gave way to something darker—uneasy, maybe even angry.

 

Bakugo’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smirk.

 

So that was it.

 

He let Todoroki linger at his neck another second, his own free hand sliding to the small of Todoroki’s back, holding him there. If Monoma wanted a show, he’d get one.

 

Because apparently… his boyfriend was just as possessive as he was.

 

***

Notes:

okay so obviously im having way too much fun lol

dont question me just enjoy it hahaha

Chapter 37

The ballroom at the top of the hotel had been transformed into a flashing, thumping neon playground—reserved exclusively for performers, studio reps, and the inner circle of the industry.

 

No fans. No handlers. Just stars.

 

The doors opened with a low hydraulic hiss, and the group stepped inside together, each of them dressed like they had something to prove.

 

Sero had one arm thrown casually over Kaminari’s shoulder—his shirt halfway unbuttoned, gold chain glittering against his chest.

 

Kaminari was already wide-eyed, trying to take in the swirl of bodies, lights, and music that hit them like a wave. “Holy shit,” he muttered. “It’s like Studio 54 had a baby with a sex dungeon.”

 

Sero laughed. “Stay close, rookie. These parties get wild. I’ll keep an eye on you.”

 

Kaminari glanced up at him, both grateful and a little giddy. “Promise?”

 

“Swear on my dick.”

 

“Not comforting.”

 

They vanished into the crowd just as Kirishima grabbed Midoriya’s wrist and made a beeline for the bar.

 

“Two rounds!” Kirishima shouted. “One to warm up, one for courage.”

 

Midoriya laughed, already scanning the selection. “I might make terrible choices tonight.”

 

Kirishima winked. “That’s the goal, babe.”

 

Meanwhile, Bakugo didn’t break stride.

 

The second they cleared the doorway, he wrapped a firm hand around Todoroki’s wrist and dragged him toward the dance floor without so much as a word.

 

Todoroki blinked, stumbling after him, slightly dazed by the music. “What are you doing?”

 

“Dancing.”

 

“You hate dancing.”

 

“Sure do,” Bakugo said, weaving them through the crush of hips and sweaty bodies. “But I really wanna show you off right now.”

 

Todoroki raised an eyebrow. “To who?”

 

“Everyone.”

 

And he meant it.

 

The strobe lights hit Todoroki’s face just right, and he looked gorgeous—he hadn’t bothered with a shirt tonight, just black pants and an open blazer.

 

Glitter traced the edge of his collarbone. His hair was soft and slightly tousled.

 

He looked like the kind of fantasy people didn’t admit to out loud.

 

And Bakugo’s hand? Stayed firm at his waist.

 

The dance floor pressed around them, all heat and chaos.

 

Todoroki leaned in slightly, letting Bakugo’s confidence guide him. They moved like magnets—never quite touching enough, but always hovering in each other’s orbit.

 

“Still hate dancing?” Todoroki asked, breath close to his ear.

 

“Hate everything but this,” Bakugo muttered.

 

Todoroki smiled.

 

Behind them, the group was settling in.

 

Sero and Kaminari hit the edge of the crowd, close enough to feel the bass, far enough not to get trampled.

 

Kirishima handed Midoriya a cocktail with three cherries and zero explanation. Someone was already trying to pull Kirishima toward a back room.

 

It was a party.

 

And under the pulsing lights, the couple at the center of it all was starting to draw eyes.

 

Because no matter where you stood—whether you were sipping champagne in the corner or grinding against someone in designer mesh—one thing was clear.

 

Todoroki and Bakugo were the stars of this show.

 

*

 

Bakugo tugged Todoroki off the floor by the hand, threading them through the crowd toward the glowing bar at the edge of the ballroom. His palm was sweaty. So was Todoroki’s. Neither of them cared.

 

“Let’s buy you a drink,” Bakugo said.

 

Todoroki raised an eyebrow, still flushed from dancing. “Since when do you buy drinks?”

 

“Since you started grinding on me like we’re filming,” Bakugo muttered. “Least I can do.”

 

When they reached the bar, Midoriya was already there—alone, wide-eyed, cornered.

 

A stunning woman in a red corset dress was leaning in close, talking animatedly with a hand on Midoriya’s arm, smiling like she’d already decided he was going home with her.

 

Midoriya laughed nervously, backing into the bar like it might save him.

 

Bakugo didn’t even blink. “Yeah, not my problem.”

 

But Todoroki was already stepping in.

 

He slid up behind Midoriya and wrapped a lazy arm around his shoulders like he belonged there.

 

Then he leaned down, kissed the top of Midoriya’s head, and murmured sweetly, “There you are, sweetheart. You ready to head back?”

 

Midoriya blinked.

 

The woman blinked.

 

Todoroki didn’t even look at her.

 

The woman’s expression shifted—sharp calculation, then a flash of irritation. “Oh. Sorry,” she said, her tone suddenly tight. “Didn’t realize you were taken.”

 

“Yep. He’s all mine,” Todoroki said simply, still looking at Midoriya, who was now blushing so hard he was practically vibrating.

 

The woman stalked off without another word.

 

Todoroki released Midoriya once she was out of earshot.

 

Midoriya let out a high-pitched, relieved laugh. “Oh my god. You saved me.”

 

Todoroki just sipped the drink Bakugo handed him. “I owe you for something I’m sure.”

 

Midoriya grinned. “That’s… weirdly fair.”

 

“Also, you’re too pretty to be nice to strangers.”

 

“Stop,” Midoriya giggled.

 

*

 

Across the floor, the rest of the crew had gathered again—Kirishima and Kaminari stumbling back from their third round of drinks, arms looped around each other like it was second nature.

 

Kirishima’s hair was wild and damp. Kaminari’s shirt was definitely on crooked. Neither seemed to care.

 

Sero met them halfway, dragging Midoriya and Todoroki into the fold with an arm each.

 

And of course Bakugo immediately pulled Todoroki away from them, just to keep Todoroki all to himself.

 

Just so they could dance.

 

All of them.

 

A full-circle moment of limbs and laughs and music so loud it shook your ribs. No fans. No cameras. Just them.

 

Midoriya was leaning against Sero, both of them swaying together, whispering something that kept making them burst into laughter.

 

Kaminari had somehow ended up behind Kirishima, hands on his waist, laughing against his neck as they moved together to the beat.

 

Kirishima didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care. He kept smiling, bright and steady, like he was just happy to be here.

 

And in the middle of it all—Todoroki and Bakugo.

 

Todoroki was facing away, hips pressed back, rolling slow and deep into Bakugo like he wanted to break the man’s brain.

 

He wasn’t even looking at him—just smiling at their friends, content.

 

But Bakugo? He was a goner.

 

His hands stayed locked around Todoroki’s waist, pulling him back tighter with every beat. His eyes didn’t stray. Not once.

 

Every time Todoroki moved, Bakugo followed. Like gravity.

 

He leaned in and kissed the side of Todoroki’s neck, once, then again, lingering like he could memorize the moment through taste alone.

 

And when Todoroki tilted his head just enough to give him more skin, more access, Bakugo didn’t hesitate.

 

He kissed him again, a little harder. 

 

And for one fleeting second, Todoroki let his eyes slip closed.

 

Like this wasn’t a party.

 

Like it was just the two of them in the whole damn world.

 

Bakugo held him there, head buried in his shoulder, grip unyielding.

 

He had never been good at saying how he felt.

 

But moments like this said it all.

 

*

 

The bathroom was dimly lit—sleek and modern, all cool marble and stainless steel. Music from the ballroom thudded faintly through the walls, muffled but steady.

 

Bakugo stood at the sink, leaning on his hands, head bowed. His skin was a little flushed, his head a little buzzed. He took a minute too long washing his hands—more grounding himself than anything.

 

The door swung open.

 

Monoma strolled in like he owned the place, every step confident, like he’d been waiting for this moment all night.

 

He stopped beside Bakugo at the row of sinks, pretending to check his reflection, voice sliding in smooth. “Hell of a party,” he said, as if they were old friends catching up.

 

Bakugo didn’t look at him. “Get the fuck out.”

 

Monoma’s smirk deepened. “Don’t be like that. I’m being friendly. Don’t act like you don’t love the attention—hell, I’m probably the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

 

Bakugo grabbed a paper towel, drying his hands with slow precision. “If by ‘best thing’ you mean ‘biggest waste of time,’ sure.”

 

Monoma leaned closer until their shoulders almost brushed, his cologne sharp in the air. “Don’t be bitter. You used to love it. Back when you weren’t afraid to let someone actually handle you.”

 

Bakugo’s lip curled. “Back when I didn’t have standards.”

 

The smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before twisting sharper. “Cute. Tell me—do you let your prince charming take you apart like I did? Or does he just stare at you across the dinner table, pretending he knows what to do with you?”

 

Bakugo turned toward him fully now, gaze flat and cutting. “He doesn’t have to pretend. Which is more than I can say for you.”

 

Monoma’s tone dropped into a filthy purr. “You think he knows you like I do? Knows all the filthy things you want him to do? Or is he too busy lighting candles and whispering sweet nothings?”

 

Bakugo’s eyes narrowed. “The difference is... He makes me feel good without me having to fake it.”

 

Monoma’s eyes flashed. His hand slid along the sink edge until his fingers grazed the fabric just above Bakugo’s hip. “You can act like you’re too good for me, but I remember the way your legs used to shake. And I know—” his voice dropped lower, heat curling around every word, “—that part of you still wants it.”

 

Bakugo’s voice was ice. “Hell, I’ve had better one-night stands with people whose names I never bothered to learn. The only thing I want from you is distance.”

 

Monoma’s smirk widened like he’d just been challenged.

 

He tilted his head, leaned in slow, close enough for Bakugo to feel his breath, his hand drifting down to flirt with the edge of Bakugo’s waistband.

 

Bakugo reacted instantly. His palm slammed into Monoma’s chest with enough force to knock him back into the counter, the mirror rattling on its mount.

 

“You seriously just try to kiss me?” Bakugo barked, voice sharp with laughter that had no humor in it. “You desperate, washed-up little freak.”

 

Monoma straightened his shirt slowly, smirk still in place. “Don’t act like you didn’t feel it. You’re still the same—you’ll come crawling back when you’re bored.”

 

“You touch me again,” Bakugo said, voice low and lethal, “and I’ll make you choke on your own teeth.”

 

He didn’t wait for a reply.

 

He shouldered past him and strode toward the door, only for Monoma to call after him, voice just loud enough to carry. “Tell your boyfriend I said hi. Better yet—tell him I’m happy to teach him how to keep you satisfied.”

 

Bakugo’s hand twitched at his side like he might turn back, but he didn’t. He stepped out—

 

—and nearly ran into Midoriya, who was standing just outside the door, sipping a cocktail with two straws.

 

“Oh!” Midoriya smiled brightly. “There you are! I was sent to fetch you.”

 

Bakugo’s expression softened—barely—for the first time in minutes. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”

 

Midoriya looped an arm through his without asking and steered him back toward the ballroom.

 

“Everyone’s looking for you,” he said gently. “Todoroki’s been scanning the room like a satellite.”

 

Bakugo let out a slow, deliberate breath, the tension still clinging to his shoulders. “Good,” he muttered.

 

Midoriya glanced sideways at him, curious—but didn’t push.

 

They melted back into the lights and sound, just as the next song kicked up, the bass swallowing the last trace of Monoma’s smirk.

 

*

 

Todoroki had been searching the room for the last five minutes.

 

He wasn’t panicking. Not exactly. Bakugo had just disappeared for a bit—probably to cool off or grab some air. Maybe even the bathroom.

 

Still.

 

His eyes kept scanning the crowd.

 

He leaned against one of the tall cocktail tables now, sipping a glass of water someone had handed him, shirt still unbuttoned.

 

He could feel the heat radiating off his body, a slow buzz from the dancing, the drinks, the closeness of it all.

 

Kaminari and Kirishima were still dancing—all over each other now, both sweaty and glowing under the club lights.

 

Part of Todoroki thought they might end up filming something wild together tonight.

 

Sero had Midoriya in his lap, their heads pressed together in a soft, drunk giggle fit. It was chaos. But warm. Safe.

 

And then, there he was.

 

Across the crowd, parting through the dancing bodies—

 

Bakugo.

 

Todoroki’s shoulders dropped in instant relief.

 

Bakugo looked…off. Not bad. But tense. Jaw tight. Shoulders tight.

 

His eyes flicked toward the table, found Todoroki, and locked on.

 

Todoroki didn’t hesitate.

 

He moved first. Met him halfway.

 

Bakugo didn’t say anything. Just stepped into his space, close enough to brush shoulders.

 

His fingers grazed Todoroki’s side like he wasn’t sure if he should reach for him or not.

 

Todoroki answered for him.

 

He slid both arms around Bakugo’s waist.

 

Drew him in. Held him close.

 

No questions. No words. Just presence, because it seemed like Bakugo needed it.

 

Bakugo let out a slow, shaky breath against his neck.

 

“Hey,” Todoroki murmured, thumb tracing a circle at his back. “You okay?”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer right away.

 

But he didn’t move, either. Didn’t pull away.

 

Just leaned into Todoroki like the tension might melt out of his spine if he stayed there long enough.

 

“You don’t have to tell me about it,” Todoroki said softly, “but if you wanna get out of here, just say so.”

 

Bakugo shook his head once. Not a no—just not yet.

 

“I’m here,” Todoroki added. “Whatever it is.”

 

*

 

Midoriya was on a mission.

 

His friends were getting wasted, and he knew he had to get them out of here.

 

He weaved through the dance floor like a man on a battlefield—dodging drunken limbs, discarded heels, and more glitter than should be legally allowed in a hotel ballroom.

 

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. He was gonna find Sero first, he decided.

 

He found him near the DJ booth, shirtless, shoeless, and slouched against a speaker like he’d grown there.

 

His eyes lit up when he spotted Midoriya. “There’s my tiny, perfect boyfriend,” Sero slurred, arms outstretched. “C’mere, you absolute snack.”

 

Midoriya sighed, but he was smiling. He took his hand and tugged gently. “Come on, drunky. Time to go.”

 

Sero let himself be dragged without protest. “You’re so cute when you boss me around,” he mumbled.

 

Midoriya blushed, but didn’t stop walking.

 

They cut through the crowd, heading toward the back bar.

 

That’s where he found the next problem.

 

Bakugo and Todoroki.

 

Pinned against the wall. Hands under shirts. Mouths on necks.

 

Midoriya wasn’t even sure how they were still breathing.

 

Todoroki’s palm was flat on Bakugo’s chest, sliding under the fabric like he owned it.

 

Bakugo had one hand fisted in Todoroki’s waistband, the other pulling his head in closer.

 

Midoriya stopped, blinked, and sighed. “Seriously? In public?”

 

Todoroki looked over lazily, like he hadn’t just been devouring his boyfriend against a hotel wall. “We were about to leave,” he said, not even pretending.

 

“No, you weren’t,” Midoriya said flatly. “But now you are. Let’s go.”

 

Bakugo groaned, eyes hazy. “We fuck on camera, obviously we’re not exactly shy—”

 

“You can finish in your hotel room.” Midoriya interrupted, to save himself from whatever he was about to hear.

 

Todoroki leaned in and whispered something in Bakugo’s ear—low and promising. Whatever it was made Bakugo's eyes go wide.

 

“Fine,” Bakugo muttered. “But someone’s gonna have to pull me.”

 

Todoroki chuckled, tugged his belt loop, and Bakugo followed like a grumpy cat on a leash.

 

“Not ‘cause I’m whipped,” Bakugo grumbled. “Just makin’ sure I don’t get lost.”

 

“I know, baby,” Todoroki said, perfectly deadpan.

 

The group was nearly assembled. Nearly.

 

Until Midoriya stopped cold on the edge of the dance floor.

 

“Oh no,” he whispered.

 

Sero bumped into his back, squinting forward. “What—oh my god.”

 

Because there they were.

 

Kirishima and Kaminari.

 

In the middle of the dance floor. Making out.

 

Like full-on, messy, shameless kissing. Hands in hair, hips pressed close.

 

No camera, no set. Just them. Raw and hungry and drunk.

 

Bakugo cackled. “Holy shit.”

 

Sero wheezed next to him. “I didn’t think they’d actually do it.”

 

“They’ve filmed together before,” Todoroki pointed out, half-smirking.

 

“Yeah, but that was professional,” Sero laughed.

 

“This looks pretty professional to me,” Bakugo answered.

 

Midoriya groaned, exasperated beyond belief. He shoved his water bottle at Sero and marched toward the chaos. “Kiri. Kaminari. No. Stop it. You’re done. We're leaving!”

 

Kirishima grinned mid-kiss, eyes bleary. “Hi ‘Zu.”

 

Kaminari blinked, mouth puffy. “We were just—um—talking.”

 

“Uh-huh. Great. You can talk in your hotel room. With the door closed. And your pants on. Or off, I guess.”

 

Kirishima laughed as Kaminari pouted.

 

But they followed, stumbling into line with the rest of the group like guilty puppies.

 

Midoriya turned to look at the disaster herd now in his care—shoeless Sero, horny Bakugo, smug Todoroki, dazed Kirishima, and still-pouting Kaminari.

 

Midoriya exhaled. “I swear to god. Next year? I’m bringing a leash.”

 

Bakugo smirked. “Only if you let Shoto wear it.”

 

Sero perked up. “Kinky.”

 

Todoroki just leaned into Bakugo, arm around his waist, smirking quietly to himself.

 

And like that, the world’s hottest trainwreck stumbled back toward their hotel rooms—giggling, exhausted, and full of more wine and drama than anyone could rightly handle.

 

***

Chapter 38

The elevator ride was a disaster.

 

Midoriya stood in the middle of it all—tugging the phone from Sero’s limp hand, using his other hand to stop Kaminari from slapping the “Emergency Stop” button for the third time.

 

“Guys,” Midoriya pleaded, voice tight. “Can we just—function for five more minutes?”

 

“Function’s a strong word,” Sero slurred, eyes half-lidded as he leaned against the elevator wall. “We peaked an hour ago.”

 

“You peaked,” Kaminari mumbled, clinging to Kirishima’s arm like a koala. “I’m still climbing.”

 

“You’re climbing me,” Kirishima giggled.

 

“Midoriya,” Todoroki said from behind them, calm as ever, “Can we kill them?”

 

Midoriya didn’t answer. He was counting heads.

 

Todoroki. Bakugo. Kirishima. Kaminari. Sero.

 

All present.

 

All floppy.

 

All slightly too loud for a public hotel hallway.

 

When the elevator finally dinged, Midoriya stepped out first, holding Sero’s hand like a parent crossing a street.

 

They made it five feet down the hall before Bakugo spoke up—voice low, casual, almost lost under the group chatter. “Oh. Monoma tried to kiss me. In the bathroom.”

 

The chaos didn’t stop so much as change direction.

 

“What?” Kirishima asked, blinking hard like the words took a second to reach him.

 

“No way,” Kaminari laughed. “In the bathroom?”

 

“Did he get close?” Sero asked, vaguely fascinated. “Like… lips near lips? Or just like—dreams near lips?”

 

“Guys,” Midoriya said sharply.

 

Everyone went quiet.

 

He turned to Bakugo, face serious now, sobering instantly. “Are you okay?” he asked.

 

Bakugo blinked at him.

 

Then shrugged, one shoulder up, jaw tight. “Think so.”

 

Todoroki was beside him in an instant.

 

He reached up and gently turned Bakugo’s face toward him—thumb under his chin, scanning him with that soft, laser-focused intensity.

 

“You sure?” he asked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Bakugo tried to look away, but Todoroki didn’t let him. “It wasn’t a big deal,” he muttered. “I shoved him off.”

 

“Still,” Todoroki said, voice quiet. “That shouldn’t happen.”

 

Bakugo looked like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t.

 

Midoriya exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

“Okay,” he said. “New plan. Everyone’s coming to my room. I’m not letting you idiots wander off drunk after this kind of night. One couch, two beds—we’ll figure it out.”

 

“You’re such a mom,” Kaminari said, swaying as he leaned on the wall.

 

“Someone has to be,” Midoriya snapped. “Because if I leave you alone, someone’s gonna choke on a gyoza wrapper or break the minibar or call Monoma back.”

 

“I only did that once,” Sero said.

 

Todoroki still had his hand curled around Bakugo’s elbow.

 

And Bakugo—quiet now, smaller in a way only Todoroki would notice—just nodded.

 

“Alright,” Todoroki said softly. “Let’s go.”

 

And they all stumbled forward.

 

Together.

 

Like a weird, chaotic, ridiculous little found family.

 

*

 

Midoriya was doing his best.

 

The hotel room was already a nest of chaos—discarded jackets, half-empty takeout boxes, someone’s bra (none of them knew whose), and several adult porn stars who now had the energy level of overcooked noodles.

 

“Okay, water,” Midoriya said firmly, pressing a bottle into Kaminari’s hands. “And no, you can’t pour it on your face like last time.”

 

Kaminari blinked, holding the bottle like it was an alien object. “Can I just… look at it for a while?”

 

“No,” Midoriya said, shoving a pillow under his head. “Drink it.”

 

Sero was already snoring on the floor, legs tangled with Kirishima’s, who was still trying to open a fortune cookie with his teeth.

 

Midoriya turned, exasperated but fond. “Why is this my life.”

 

Behind him, the bathroom door clicked shut.

 

*

 

Inside, the lights were low and warm.

 

Todoroki stood in front of the sink, gently patting a cool cloth against Bakugo’s flushed cheeks.

 

Bakugo had one hand braced on the counter, the other loosely holding Todoroki’s wrist like he needed the contact.

 

“You don’t have to do this,” Bakugo mumbled.

 

“You’re hot,” Todoroki said simply, running the cloth along his jaw. “I’m cooling you down.”

 

Bakugo snorted. “Damn right I’m hot.”

 

Todoroki smiled softly, then leaned in and kissed his forehead.

 

Bakugo leaned into it—just barely. “I didn’t cheat,” he said quietly, voice rough. “Back there. In the bathroom. I didn’t let him touch me. I didn’t kiss him. I swear.”

 

Todoroki’s hand stilled.

 

He looked up and met Bakugo’s eyes. “I know, baby.”

 

Bakugo swallowed hard. “I just—he grabbed me. I shoved him off. He was being a dick. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want him.”

 

“I know,” Todoroki repeated, calm and certain. “I believe you.”

 

Bakugo’s shoulders dropped like someone had finally let the pressure out of him. “I’m sorry,” he muttered again, softer this time. “For ruining the night.”

 

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Todoroki said, brushing the cloth gently over Bakugo’s brow. “You handled it. You told me. And you’re okay. Nothing else matters.”

 

Bakugo closed his eyes.

 

Todoroki set the cloth down and stepped closer, hands settling lightly on Bakugo’s waist.

 

“You’re drunk,” Todoroki said softly. “But not stupid. And you didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

Bakugo exhaled—slow and shaky—and nodded.

 

“And I love you,” Todoroki said.

 

Bakugo’s eyes snapped open, wide and stunned.

 

Todoroki blinked, then went still like he just realized he’d said it.

 

They stared at each other.

 

Bakugo’s lips parted—but no sound came out.

 

Todoroki flushed, barely. “I mean—uh—sorry. I didn’t mean to drop that right now, I just—”

 

“No,” Bakugo said quickly, voice hoarse. “Don’t take it back.”

 

Todoroki’s hands curled tighter at his waist.

 

Bakugo stared at him, chest rising and falling like he was winded. “You serious?”

 

“I’m always serious,” Todoroki said, brushing his thumb over Bakugo’s side. “And yeah. I mean it.”

 

Bakugo didn’t answer right away.

 

But he reached up and tugged Todoroki in by the front of his shirt—kissed him, soft and slow, like it was the only thing that made sense.

 

When they pulled apart, Bakugo whispered, “Let’s go to bed.”

 

Todoroki nodded.

 

And they stepped out of the bathroom—together—into a hotel room full of passed-out idiots and empty takeout.

 

But it didn’t matter.

 

*

 

The hotel room looked like a war zone the next morning.

 

Blankets were draped over lamps. An open bag of chips had spilled across the carpet like confetti.

 

A plastic cup of wine sat upside down on the nightstand. Someone’s sock clung to the TV remote.

 

Midoriya stood in the middle of it all, brushing his teeth with one hand and scrolling his phone with the other, looking entirely too awake for 8:13 AM.

 

Sero groaned from the floor, flopping an arm over his eyes. “Why is my tongue fuzzy?”

 

“Because you drank Fireball out of a coffee mug,” Midoriya said through a mouthful of toothpaste.

 

Sero made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a whimper.

 

On one of the beds, Kirishima sat upright with a pillow hugged to his chest and his eyes squinting at the morning light. “Did we go to the club… or did the club come to us?”

 

Kaminari rolled over dramatically, face buried in someone’s hoodie. “I feel like I got hit by a train made of tequila and regrets.”

 

“No train,” Midoriya said. “Just you and Kirishima playing tonsil hockey in front of the whole cast of Dear Evan Hard-On.”

 

Kaminari groaned louder. Kirishima turned bright red.

 

Sero peeked out from beneath his arm. “Did I at least look hot?”

 

“You were shirtless and shoeless,” Midoriya said. “So technically yes.”

 

The bathroom door creaked open.

 

Todoroki stepped out first, fully dressed but bleary-eyed, hair still damp from the shower.

 

Bakugo followed behind him, hoodie pulled low, looking suspiciously well-rested.

 

Midoriya narrowed his eyes. “You two,” he said, pointing his toothbrush like a weapon. “Got the good bed. I saw it. I saw the cuddling.”

 

Bakugo raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? And?”

 

Midoriya spat in the sink. “I got the couch armrest and a foot in my ribs.”

 

“That was Sero’s foot,” Kirishima offered, half asleep. “I saw it.”

 

Bakugo dropped into the empty chair like he hadn’t slept on a mattress made of sin and good decisions. “Cry harder, nerd.”

 

Midoriya tossed him a protein bar without looking. “I made a list of who needs water and ibuprofen,” he said. “Start at the top.”

 

Todoroki walked over and handed Kirishima a bottle of water. “You snored like a dying lawn mower.”

 

“I’m sexy and flawed,” Kirishima said, sipping gratefully.

 

Kaminari rolled onto his back, hair a mess, hoodie half over his face. “Did we agree to go back to the floor today?”

 

“Yep,” Midoriya said. “Panels, photo ops, last day chaos.”

 

“Can we not?”

 

“No,” Midoriya said cheerfully. “You can do that after the Q&A.”

 

Bakugo groaned, rubbing his eyes. “I hate that I agreed to that.”

 

“You were drunk and feeling generous,” Todoroki said, dropping a kiss on the top of his head.

 

Sero opened one eye. “Anyone remember where I put my shoes?”

 

“You were dancing with them in your hands,” Midoriya said. “You said they didn’t deserve the floor.”

 

Everyone groaned again.

 

Midoriya smiled. He might have slept on a couch made of limbs and regret, but damn it, he loved these idiots.

 

“Alright,” he clapped. “Let’s go kick the final day’s ass.”

 

Kirishima raised a finger. “Can I eat first?”

 

Kaminari raised a hand. “Can I die first?”

 

Bakugo just dragged Todoroki into his lap and muttered, “Wake me when we’re rich.”

 

Todoroki leaned against him. “We already are.”

 

Bakugo grinned sleepily.

 

Midoriya sighed. “Okay, fine. Ten more minutes.”

 

He plopped down beside Sero, grabbed a half-eaten donut from the nightstand, and declared himself king of the hangover kingdom.

 

***

Chapter 39

A few days after the convention, the group went back to their regular lives.

 

Back to cleaning routines, nights at the gym, hospital visits, and work schedules. 

 

Back to porn.

 

For Bakugo and Todoroki, the porn was welcome.

 

That afternoon, the room was warm, lit with soft amber panels designed to mimic candlelight. A Bluetooth speaker hummed somewhere in the corner, playing fake spa music—gentle flutes and running water over rocks.

 

Todoroki was already face-down on the massage table, a crisp white towel draped across his hips.

 

His arms were folded beneath his cheek, silver-streaked hair falling over his forehead. He looked calm. Relaxed.

 

Professional.

 

Even if the camera five feet away was zoomed in on the glisten of massage oil across his lower back.

 

“Alright,” Aizawa said from behind the rig, barely awake. “Go ahead and continue.”

 

Bakugo stepped back into frame a second later—black tank top tight across his chest, hair already styled, hands covered in lotion.

 

He glanced at the camera once, then looked down at Todoroki like he wasn’t also mic’d up and on set.

 

“Hey, pretty boy,” Bakugo murmured, dropping his voice just enough to make it sound dangerous. “You ready?”

 

Todoroki made a soft sound. “Mhm.”

 

Bakugo leaned over the table, and set his hands gently against the small of Todoroki’s back. The first stroke was long, deliberate—just enough pressure to drag a low breath from Todoroki’s chest.

 

“Mm,” Todoroki said, just for the audio. “Big, strong hands.”

 

“Keep talking like that,” Bakugo muttered, leaning over him, “and I’ll give you something bigger to moan about.”

 

Behind the camera, someone stifled a laugh.

 

But neither of the actors broke.

 

Bakugo worked slowly, kneading the muscles along Todoroki’s back with sure, practiced strokes.

 

He let his hands dip lower—over the curve of his ass, his thighs, teasing along the towel.

 

Every few strokes, he “accidentally” pushed a little further, slipping two fingers under the edge of the towel, then pulling back again.

 

Todoroki made a sound halfway between a sigh and a hum. “Feels good,” he said, voice steady, but pitched just right for the mic.

 

Bakugo’s hands slid lower. Palmed both cheeks. Pressed his thumbs inward just enough to make Todoroki twitch.

 

There was no rush.

 

They knew what they were doing.

 

And then—just as Bakugo’s fingers started to dip between—

 

“Hold,” Aizawa said suddenly. “We’re losing light on his back.” Aizawa turned and looked at someone beside him. “Two minutes. Fix it.”

 

The room rustled with quiet movement—an assistant adjusting a diffuser, someone crouching beside the camera.

 

Bakugo sat back slightly, hands still resting on Todoroki’s thighs. His eyes flicked toward the crew, then back down. “You okay so far?” he asked quietly, voice lower now.

 

Todoroki turned his head slightly on the table, giving him a sideways glance. “Yeah,” he said. “You?”

 

Bakugo hesitated. “You kidding? Standing here, staring at your ass for the next forty-five minutes? This is what dreams are made of, baby.”

 

Todoroki grinned, and it looked so genuine, it almost hurt to look at. 

 

Then Todoroki did something even cuter, and waved Bakugo over like he had a secret to tell him.

 

Bakugo walked over, then crouched down with one knee on the floor, so he was eye-level with Todoroki’s face.

 

He brushed a bit of hair from his cheek, careful to keep the lotion away. “Yeah, baby?”

 

“You think you could stop by my place later?”

 

Bakugo blinked. “Sure,” he said slowly. “Why? Wanna go see your mom?”

 

Todoroki shrugged. “Just wanna hang out.”

 

Bakugo studied him for a second longer, reading something in the way he wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.

 

But then the lights shifted back into place, and someone called, “Reset.”

 

Todoroki smiled faintly. “Later,” he said. “Let’s get through this first.”

 

Bakugo gave a tiny nod.

 

Then got back into position, hands smoothing over Todoroki’s skin like the camera hadn’t stopped rolling at all.

 

And this time—when his fingers slipped lower—Todoroki arched into it.

 

Like he knew something was coming.

 

He just didn’t know what yet.

 

*

 

The cameras rolled again.

 

The fake spa music resumed, but neither of them noticed.

 

Their focus narrowed—like it always did—until it was just them.

 

Bakugo’s hands moved slow, steady. He worked the lotion deeper into Todoroki’s skin, spreading it with a palm, then dragging it back with knuckles.

 

He pushed into the base of Todoroki’s spine and felt the quiet shiver that followed.

 

Todoroki didn’t have to fake anything.

 

His breath had deepened. His fingers flexed against the white sheet.

 

His eyes were closed, not for the cameras—but because he trusted Bakugo enough to let go.

 

Bakugo watched him through hooded eyes. Not possessive, not even lustful—just in awe.

 

The way Todoroki’s body softened under his touch. The way he breathed in sync with Bakugo’s pressure.

 

The way every little shift—every press of his fingers—was met with a quiet willingness.

 

Like they weren’t filming.

 

Like this was just for them.

 

Bakugo dragged both hands down the backs of his thighs, then slowly up again, thumbs ghosting just beneath the towel.

 

He leaned down, close to his ear, letting his breath hit Todoroki’s neck. “Can I go further?” he whispered.

 

Todoroki’s eyes fluttered open just a sliver. “Is that a rhetorical question?” he murmured.

 

Bakugo smiled—barely. “Just checking.”

 

He leaned up again and let his hands work lower this time—fingertips pressing between his cheeks, a slow teasing rhythm.

 

Not hard. Not fast. Just enough to coax a soft inhale from Todoroki’s lips.

 

The kind of sound Bakugo wanted to bottle.

 

His free hand slid up Todoroki’s spine. His other hand pressed in further, fingers dipping slow—confident—until Todoroki’s hips lifted slightly off the table in response.

 

“Still good?” Bakugo asked, barely above a breath.

 

Todoroki smiled into the sheet. “Can you grab some more oil, please? Otherwise, yes. Good.”

 

Bakugo nodded immediately, turning to grab the bottle and follow orders.

 

Todoroki sounded wrecked already. And all Bakugo had done was touch him.

 

Something in Bakugo’s chest clenched tight.

 

He loved this part.

 

Not the cameras. Not the scene. Not the idea of thousands of people eventually watching this online.

 

Just this.

 

Todoroki’s trust. His warmth.

 

The way he looked—spread out and flushed and letting Bakugo do whatever he wanted—not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

 

Bakugo pressed his fingers in deeper. Todoroki exhaled low, steady.

 

Their rhythm smoothed out again—fluid, familiar, like music they’d memorized together.

 

*

 

That evening, Bakugo knocked once before unlocking Todoroki’s apartment door with his spare key.

 

He stepped inside with a muttered, “Hope you’re not naked. Actually I take that back,” but his voice caught the second he looked up.

 

The lights were low. Candles glowed on nearly every surface. Something jazzy played softly in the background.

 

There were rose petals—actual rose petals—scattered across the table and the kitchen counter and the damn floor.

 

The whole apartment smelled like garlic and herbs and something rich and buttery from the kitchen.

 

And Todoroki?

 

Standing by the dining table in a soft grey button-down, sleeves rolled, hair slicked back just slightly, cheeks pink with effort and nerves.

 

Bakugo blinked. “Did someone die?”

 

Todoroki took a breath. “I made you dinner.”

 

Bakugo stared. “...Why?”

 

Todoroki looked briefly panicked. “Not because of something bad. I just wanted to. You... You do so much for me, and I...”

 

A pause.

 

Bakugo was still staring at him. “You trying to butter me up before asking me to agree to a threesome? Because I won’t.”

 

“No.” Todoroki stepped forward. “No, no. Definitely not.”

 

Bakugo squinted at him. “Then what’s with all the—” he gestured vaguely at the soft lighting, the flowers, the everything. “You asking me to marry you?”

 

Todoroki flushed even more. “No. I mean. Not yet.”

 

That didn’t help Bakugo’s brain much.

 

Todoroki smiled, just a little, and stepped closer to pull out a chair for him. “Sit,” he said softly.

 

And Bakugo did. Still suspicious, still squinting. But his heart? Pounding.

 

*

 

Todoroki served him himself.

 

Gently piling food onto his plate, checking if he wanted more of anything, pouring him water and wine, brushing their fingers together whenever he handed something over.

 

“Is it okay?” Todoroki asked midway through the meal.

 

Bakugo was chewing slowly. “This is really fucking good.”

 

“I watched a video,” Todoroki admitted.

 

Bakugo blinked. “You what.”

 

“Online,” he said quickly. “After the convention. You mentioned liking homemade pasta. So I tried.”

 

Bakugo put his fork down. “I’m gonna need a second,” he muttered. “To not fall further in love with you so fast I pass out and hit my head on the plate.”

 

Todoroki smiled.

 

And Bakugo smiled back, dazed and touched and warm all over.

 

*

 

After dinner, Todoroki stood, then offered a hand. “Can I steal you for a minute?”

 

“Is this the marriage proposal part?” Bakugo grumbled as he let himself be pulled to his feet.

 

“No,” Todoroki said gently, tugging him toward the living room. “Just a dance.”

 

There wasn’t much space. But it didn’t matter.

 

Todoroki pulled him close, one hand on Bakugo’s waist, the other taking his hand.

 

He didn’t guide him so much as hold him, letting them sway gently to the slow rhythm of the jazz music.

 

Bakugo’s chin dipped toward his shoulder. “This is so cheesy.”

 

“I know,” Todoroki said. “I just wanted to spoil you.”

 

Bakugo buried a laugh in his neck. “You’re such a sap.”

 

Todoroki kissed his temple. “Sorry... You like it?”

 

“God help me, I fucking do,” Bakugo muttered, arms sliding tighter around him.

 

*

 

After a few minutes, Todoroki eased them toward the couch.

 

And when they sat, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a slim folder. “So... There is one more surprise. And... I’ve been talking to Aizawa,” he said.

 

Bakugo blinked. “About what?”

 

“About us. And what comes next.”

 

Bakugo sat up straighter. “What did he say?”

 

Todoroki handed him the folder. “That we’re good. Too good to get boxed into a genre we don’t want to stay in. I asked him to keep an eye out for other job opportunities for us. And while we were at the convention, he found one.”

 

Bakugo hesitated, wondering if Aizawa had told Todoroki about Bakugo trying to search for a new job for Todoroki too.

 

But he opened the folder anyway.

 

Inside: an offer letter.

 

From a legit modeling agency. Photoshoots, fashion campaigns, print ads.

 

No nudity. No scripts. Just modeling. For both of them.

 

“Wait,” Bakugo said. “Both of us?”

 

Todoroki nodded. “I said I wouldn’t go without you.”

 

Bakugo stared at the pages.

 

The salary. The benefits.

 

The job title: Dual Talent Portfolio; Bakugo Katsuki & Todoroki Shoto.

 

“You got us a job.” Bakugo repeated.

 

“You are just... Too talented, too handsome and too underappreciated to stay in porn your whole life,” Todoroki said softly. “I just wanted to help.”

 

Bakugo looked up, heart slamming in his chest. “You really love me, huh.”

 

Todoroki smiled. “Yeah. I really do.”

 

And Bakugo launched himself forward to kiss him.

 

***

Notes:

I'm getting so close to the end of this one y'all, only a few more chapters to go.

Thank you all for reading, I can't wait to share the ending with y'all <3

Chapter 40

Notes:

Buckle up yall - its smut time (this is like the slow burn BEFORE the smut lol)

The folder hit the coffee table with a soft thud.

 

Bakugo barely looked at where it landed.

 

His hands were already on Todoroki’s shoulders, climbing into his lap like he’d just made a decision he couldn’t undo even if he tried.

 

Todoroki blinked, startled for only a second—before his arms wrapped tight around Bakugo’s waist.

 

And then Bakugo kissed him.

 

Hard, hungry, messy in the way you get when there’s too much to feel and not enough time to say it.

 

Todoroki laughed into it, just a little breath of joy against Bakugo’s mouth. “Are you—” he murmured between kisses, “—thanking me?”

 

Bakugo pulled back half a second, cheeks flushed, hands in Todoroki’s hair. “Shut up.”

 

Todoroki grinned. “Is this gratitude? It’s a good look on you.”

 

Bakugo kissed him again.

 

And again.

 

And again.

 

Todoroki stopped laughing eventually. But the smile never left his face.

 

He let himself fall backward on the couch, bringing Bakugo with him, their legs tangled, the world gone quiet except for the soft sound of lips meeting lips, the occasional shared breath.

 

Bakugo nuzzled into his jaw between kisses, then back to his mouth like he couldn’t stand to be apart for more than a second.

 

His hands never stopped moving—cupping Todoroki’s face, then his chest, then gripping his sides like he didn’t quite believe this was real.

 

“You’re incredible,” Bakugo whispered, voice rough and thick.

 

Todoroki kissed him softly this time. “You deserve incredible things.”

 

Bakugo’s eyes fluttered shut.

 

He kissed him again, just to make sure he was still there.

 

And again, because he didn’t want to stop.

 

And again, because this was love.

 

Raw and real and endless.

 

And right now—it was enough just to stay here.

 

Pressed together. Lips brushing. Hands soft. Hearts full.

 

Bakugo didn’t need anything else in the world.

 

“You’re ridiculous,” Bakugo muttered. “You do all this for me and expect me not to jump your bones?”

 

“I was hoping you’d jump my bones,” Todoroki said mildly.

 

Bakugo barked a laugh. “You kinky brat.”

 

Todoroki blinked at him. Innocently. “You say that like it’s new information.”

 

Bakugo grinned. “Fine. One thing. You get one freaky request tonight as a reward. So make it count.”

 

Todoroki’s eyes lit up. “Actually,” he said, leaning in with a mischievous tilt to his mouth, “what if we both pick something?”

 

Bakugo raised an eyebrow. “Like a kinky coupon exchange? Sounds lame.”

 

“Exactly like that,” Todoroki said. “No judgment. One request each.”

 

Bakugo squinted at him. “This some trap where you ask me to dress up like a penguin or some shit?”

 

“Would you?”

 

“No.”

 

Todoroki looked thoughtful, then smiled like he already had something in mind.

 

Bakugo stared at him suspiciously. “You already picked yours, didn’t you.”

 

Todoroki nodded, smug.

 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Bakugo muttered, but he was already getting up. “Give me twenty minutes. I gotta find a store.”

 

*

 

Bakugo returned holding a sleek, black shopping bag from one of the very expensive lingerie boutiques downtown.

 

Todoroki raised an eyebrow. “Already abusing the joint credit card in our hypothetical marriage?”

 

“Damn right,” Bakugo said, tossing it onto the bed. “You better model that shit like it’s for Paris Fashion Week.”

 

Todoroki peeked in the bag — and his ears turned red.

 

Before Bakugo could enjoy the sight too much, Todoroki turned and handed him a small black box.

 

Bakugo opened it.

 

Handcuffs. Real ones.

 

Silver, heavy, gleaming.

 

Bakugo’s eyes shot up to meet Todoroki’s. “This your idea of a joke?”

 

Todoroki tilted his head. “Borrowed them from work. Cleaned them. You said I could ask for anything.”

 

“Yeah, but—” Bakugo faltered. “You want me to wear these?”

 

Todoroki nodded, eyes warm but firm. “You trust me?”

 

Bakugo swallowed hard. “Damn you... Yeah.”

 

Todoroki paused for a second, then added, “Do you want me to set up the camera?”

 

Bakugo blinked. Then snorted. “Hell no.”

 

Todoroki raised a brow.

 

Bakugo shook his head. “This one’s just for me, baby. Nobody else gets to see you like this. Not anymore.”

 

Todoroki’s face softened—something deep and slow behind his eyes.

 

“All yours, then,” he said quietly.

 

And Bakugo felt it in his chest like gravity.

 

*

 

Todoroki lectured Bakugo about the safeword for almost the entire duration of his shower.

 

“If you say ‘Red’ to me one more time, I’m gonna use it just to make you shut up.” Bakugo finally came out, skin damp, towel around his waist. “...But yeah, I remember it. I’m not an idiot.”

 

“I talk about it because I care.” Todoroki looked down, then back at him. “I love you too much not to.”

 

Bakugo raised an eyebrow. “You sayin’ shit like that to me? While I’m the one getting tied up?”

 

He walked toward the bed, cocky as hell. Todoroki watched him.

 

“Romantic and reckless. That’s my type. Now make a mess outta me, sweetheart.” Bakugo mused.

 

Todoroki caught him and kissed him, slow and deep, as he gently nudged Bakugo back onto the bed.

 

His hands were soft but sure, guiding Bakugo’s arms above his head.

 

The click of the cuffs locking was sharp and final — and so fucking hot.

 

Bakugo tested the restraints, hips twitching with anticipation. “Shit,” he whispered. “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this.”

 

Todoroki just smiled and kissed down his chest, down his stomach, until he was kneeling between Bakugo’s legs.

 

Then, with maddening calm, he reached for the towel wrapped around Bakugo’s waist.

 

He tugged it free.

 

Bakugo gasped — exposed, already flushed and slightly hard.

 

And Todoroki just said, “Be right back,” before grabbing the shopping bag and heading toward the bathroom.

 

“Wait—”

 

Too late. The door shut with a quiet click.

 

Leaving Bakugo cuffed, naked, and completely at Todoroki’s mercy.

 

He groaned, shifting helplessly. “Fuckin’ tease.”

 

But his heart was racing. And his grin was feral.

 

*

 

The bathroom door clicked.

 

Bakugo’s eyes snapped up like a trigger had been pulled—shoulders tense, pupils blown, breath catching in his throat before he’d even seen anything.

 

And then—

 

Todoroki stepped into the doorway.

 

Not walked. Not shuffled in like a normal person.

 

He appeared.

 

Leaning against the frame like a goddamn painting come to life.

 

One arm lifted lazily above his head, resting against the doorjamb, the other hand loose at his hip like he hadn’t just brought Bakugo’s world to a full-stop.

 

The light behind him was golden and warm—haloing his figure, making his pale skin glow, casting shadows down the curve of his collarbone, his thighs, his ridiculous, unfair, perfect everything.

 

And the lingerie.

 

Holy shit, the lace.

 

Bakugo’s jaw actually dropped.

 

He’d picked that outfit—he remembered standing in the shop, snickering to himself about how Todoroki would look in it.

 

How hot he’d be.

 

How dead Bakugo would be.

 

He’d had no idea.

 

The straps sat delicate over broad shoulders.

 

The black lace kissed over his chest like it wanted him, dipping low between the ridges of his abs, clinging like it was painted on.

 

The bottom half was strappy, teasing, all sharp lines and wicked curves.

 

Sheer where it counted. Tight where it didn’t.

 

And those slim, powerful hips were framed so perfectly, Bakugo could cry.

 

His brain blue-screened.

 

His soul left his body and filed a complaint.

 

Todoroki tilted his head slightly.

 

Cool. Composed. And yet his eyes burned.

 

“Like it?” he asked, voice so casual it felt illegal.

 

Bakugo choked on air. “Fuckin’ Christ, Sho... You could spit in my mouth and I’d say thank you. That’s where I’m at.”

 

A smile curved Todoroki’s mouth—slow and indulgent, like he knew.

 

Like this was a trap Bakugo had built with his own hands and then walked into blindfolded.

 

And then Todoroki started walking.

 

One step. Another.

 

Slow and intentional, like he’d studied the concept of seduction and decided to rewrite the book.

 

His gaze stayed locked on Bakugo's, every inch of him moving like silk, like power, like he knew exactly how badly Bakugo wanted to fall to his knees and worship him.

 

The lace shifted with each movement.

 

Shadows flickered over muscle, over skin.

 

Every step carved another notch into Bakugo’s sanity.

 

Bakugo’s hands twitched where they were cuffed to the headboard.

 

His pulse was hammering like he was about to go twelve rounds with villain.

 

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

 

Todoroki reached the edge of the bed and—because apparently Bakugo had committed crimes in a past life—gave him a twirl.

 

A little spin. A fucking flourish.

 

The lace flared out around his thighs, then settled right back into place like it belonged there.

 

Bakugo let out a broken sound, somewhere between a growl and a prayer.

 

“Shit.” His wrists strained at the cuffs. “Shoto, you—fucking hell, let me touch you.”

 

But Todoroki only raised an eyebrow. Merciless. Smug. “Not yet.”

 

Bakugo’s whole body twitched, hips rolling up instinctively.

 

His mouth was dry. His skin was burning. He was so far gone, he might as well have been in orbit.

 

Todoroki crawled onto the bed like it was his throne.

 

Each movement was grace.

 

And as he moved, dragging himself slowly over Bakugo’s thighs, his expression softened—just a little.

 

Still unreadable. Still infuriating.

 

But behind the ice was heat. And behind the heat was want.

 

“You said I could pick anything,” Todoroki murmured, hands gliding over Bakugo’s hips. “This is what I picked.”

 

Bakugo's throat bobbed. His words were barely coherent. “You’re killing me.”

 

“Mm,” Todoroki said, like that was interesting information.

 

Then he leaned down.

 

Lace brushed over Bakugo’s stomach, and Bakugo gasped—honestly gasped—at the feel of it.

 

A whisper of sensation, light and cruel and perfect.

 

Todoroki’s lips found his, and the kiss was slow. Like a reward and a punishment all at once.

 

Bakugo groaned into it, everything in him straining forward.

 

He kissed back like a man starving, because he was.

 

Because Todoroki tasted like everything Bakugo had ever wanted.

 

When Todoroki pulled away, his lips were flushed. His eyes sparkled with something dangerous.

 

He didn’t speak.

 

He just started trailing his fingers down Bakugo’s chest.

 

One inch at a time.

 

Over his ribs. Over the tight muscle of his stomach. Nails scraping just slightly.

 

Like he was memorizing him. Like he was playing him like an instrument.

 

Bakugo moaned again, low and desperate.

 

Todoroki was a brat.

 

A vision.

 

A fucking miracle in lace.

 

And Bakugo—

 

Bakugo was so stupidly, hopelessly in love with him it hurt.

 

Every breath, every heartbeat, every goddamn drop of blood in his body pulsed for him.

 

He watched Todoroki move, and he didn’t just see someone beautiful. He saw someone he trusted.

 

Someone who knew every part of him, every edge and every bruise, and still chose to stay.

 

Chose to tease and love and ruin him all at once.

 

And Bakugo would let him.

 

Gladly.

 

*

 

Todoroki leaned in again.

 

Bakugo's breath caught—already ruined from the kiss, already too close to begging—and then his eyes snagged on something new.

 

A shimmer.

 

Just under the bedroom light.

 

Dark lashes, slightly thicker than usual.

 

A faint dusting of shimmer along Todoroki’s cheeks.

 

His lips had that soft, flushed pink look—subtle, but unmistakable.

 

He’d put on makeup.

 

Not for a camera. Not for a crowd.

 

But for him.

 

“Fuck,” Bakugo rasped. His voice broke on it. “You got makeup and shit? You did all that… for me?”

 

Todoroki tilted his head, lashes fluttering slowly. “Of course.”

 

Bakugo swallowed hard, his wrists jerking again against the cuffs. “You look…”

 

He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

 

The words didn’t exist. Beautiful wasn’t enough.

 

Gorgeous was too soft. Sexy felt like a sin for even trying to sum it up.

 

And worse—

 

He wanted to watch it fall apart.

 

He wanted those perfect lashes streaked with tears, that powder smudged by sweat and spit, those pretty pink lips swollen from too many kisses.

 

He wanted Todoroki to break for him. Slowly. Loudly.

 

But he was the one laid out.

 

He was the one trapped, trembling, helpless, while Todoroki worshipped him instead.

 

And Todoroki took his damn time.

 

Starting at Bakugo’s wrists—brushing his fingertips over the cuffs like he loved seeing him tied up—then down his arms.

 

Palms warm. Touch gentle.

 

He traced every muscle, every scar, every inch of skin like he’d never touched him before.

 

Like he wanted to learn him from scratch.

 

Memorize the slope of his shoulder, the dip of his ribs, the tight curl of muscle that twitched under every drag of Todoroki’s nails.

 

He didn’t skip anything.

 

Over Bakugo’s chest, he paused—dragging his fingers down one pec, circling a nipple with maddening slowness.

 

Bakugo gasped, his back arching instinctively, already breathless.

 

Todoroki leaned in to kiss it. Lips soft, tongue just barely flicking out.

 

“Fuuuck—” Is all Bakugo could manage.

 

Then Todoroki kept going.

 

Stomach. Abs. Hips. Lower.

 

He mapped it all with his hands. His mouth.

 

Touches that set every nerve ending on fire.

 

Lingered in places that made Bakugo groan, made him twitch and shake, made him curse and beg without ever quite meaning to.

 

“God, please,” Bakugo hissed, voice ragged. “Sho, fuck, you’re driving me insane—”

 

“You’re still breathing,” Todoroki murmured against his skin. “So I think you’re fine.”

 

“Barely—!”

 

Todoroki smiled again.

 

That fucking smile.

 

The one that said he was in total control and he knew it.

 

It made Bakugo’s cock throb painfully. Made his whole body ache with want.

 

“You’re shaking,” Todoroki whispered.

 

Bakugo was.

 

Shaking under him, twitching with every touch. He was hot, slick with sweat already, so hard it hurt.

 

And Todoroki hadn’t even undressed yet.

 

He still wore the lingerie.

 

Still wore that perfect, smug expression.

 

Still had that mascara on, flawless and wicked, like he wasn’t the one being obscene.

 

He was calm. Focused.

 

Dragging his hands lower.

 

Lower.

 

Fingers teasing the inside of Bakugo’s thighs now, spreading them open gently, firmly, until Bakugo had no modesty left.

 

No defenses.

 

Just raw need, trembling breath, and eyes locked on the most beautiful fucking person he’d ever seen in his life.

 

“You’re too good to me,” Bakugo whispered, delirious with it.

 

Todoroki looked up, the warmest thing in the world, and said, “Oh sweetheart. I haven’t even started yet.”

 

***

Notes:

Omg??

“You’re incredible,” Bakugo whispered.

Todoroki kissed him softly this time. “You deserve incredible things.”

 

What a crime to put such a banger of a line in SMUT? Or do we love it? Idk.

Anyway. More smut to come next chapter too, just a warning lol

Chapter 41

Todoroki’s hands moved like they had all the time in the world.

 

And maybe they did.

 

Because Bakugo couldn’t remember what day it was. What time. What breath.

 

His world had shrunk to lace and warm hands and the slow, devastating way Todoroki looked at him—like he was something to be cherished. Like he was something to be ruined with care.

 

“Shoto—”

 

He didn’t even know what he was asking for anymore.

 

Release? Mercy?

 

More?

 

Probably more.

 

Definitely more.

 

Todoroki’s fingers slipped lower.

 

Grazed the place that made Bakugo gasp, then retreated.

 

Again. Like a tease. Like a lesson. Like a game he was losing hard.

 

Bakugo tugged at the cuffs again, helpless. “Fuck—please—I swear, I’m gonna—”

 

Todoroki climbed up and straddled his hips, lace brushing lightly over sensitive skin, dragging a guttural moan out of Bakugo’s throat.

 

His hands planted on Bakugo’s chest, and his face—god, his face—

 

Still perfect.

 

Mascara still neat. Cheeks still flushed. Lips swollen just a little now, but not nearly enough.

 

And his eyes.

 

They glowed with something dark and possessive.

 

“You never beg for anyone,” Todoroki said, voice calm. Observant. “But you’ll beg for me, huh?”

 

Bakugo looked up at him—wrists stretched above his head, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon—and he grinned.

 

Wild. Unhinged.

 

“Fuckin’ right I will.”

 

Because he would.

 

He’d let Todoroki crawl over him, hold him down, keep him pinned and panting and desperate, because Todoroki wasn’t like anyone else.

 

Todoroki didn’t take control. He earned it.

 

He made Bakugo want to give it. Every last scrap of it. He trusted him with it.

 

Todoroki leaned down, their foreheads brushing. “I could keep you like this for hours,” he murmured.

 

Bakugo groaned, deep in his chest. “Fucking do it.”

 

Todoroki smiled. Not smug now—something softer. Something dangerous.

 

Then he kissed him again. Messier this time. Greedy. Less of a tease, more of a claim.

 

His hands started roaming again—no longer featherlight, but firm. Confident. Touching everywhere.

 

Fingers digging into Bakugo’s thighs. Palms sliding under his ass.

 

Nails dragging up his sides hard enough to leave red behind.

 

Bakugo’s body bucked, every nerve lit.

 

He moaned into Todoroki’s mouth.

 

Didn’t care how loud. Didn’t care how needy he sounded.

 

Todoroki pulled back—just barely—so he could watch him.

 

His thumbs stroked over Bakugo’s hips, then up his ribs, holding him like something precious and twitching and wild.

 

“Still breathing?” Todoroki asked.

 

Bakugo laughed—shaky. “Barely.”

 

And Todoroki beamed.

 

He sat up again, knees framing Bakugo’s hips, hands splayed across his chest like he owned him.

 

He shifted his weight slightly—just enough friction to make Bakugo’s breath catch and stay caught.

 

Todoroki rolled his hips. Once.

 

“Fuck, Shoto—!”

 

His eyes screwed shut. Head tossed back.

 

Body arching off the mattress like he could chase that feeling forever.

 

His restraints kept him grounded, but only just.

 

His whole body burned. Begged.

 

And Todoroki leaned back again, giving Bakugo the full view.

 

The lace. The long lines of his body.

 

The flush on his skin.

 

The faintest smudge of eyeliner now beginning to streak under one eye.

 

And Bakugo saw it.

 

Saw the mascara shift.

 

Saw the crack in perfection.

 

And it was the hottest fucking thing in the world.

 

Todoroki was still composed. Still controlled.

 

But he was getting close too.

 

He felt it. Every breath a little heavier.

 

Every movement more deliberate.

 

Every drag of his hips against Bakugo’s so perfectly timed it hurt.

 

Bakugo growled, teeth bared. “You bastard, you’re doing this on purpose—”

 

“Obviously.” Todoroki shifted.

 

Lifted himself off Bakugo’s hips with the kind of slow grace that should’ve been illegal—back arching, thighs flexing, lace stretching over skin like it was trying to kill him.

 

Bakugo whined. Actually fucking whined.

 

And Todoroki—without a word—turned around.

 

He turned around.

 

Straddling Bakugo in reverse now, perfectly framed in soft light, his back long and lean and flawless.

 

The black lace dipped down the smooth curve of his spine, hugging him.

 

Thin straps crossed low over his hips, just enough fabric to make Bakugo insane with curiosity and denial.

 

Todoroki didn’t look back.

 

Didn’t say a thing.

 

He just... reached back.

 

Fingers gliding down his own thighs, slow and practiced.

 

Down between his legs.

 

And Bakugo nearly blacked out. “Oh my god—”

 

He couldn’t even move. Couldn’t lunge. Couldn’t reach.

 

His hands yanked at the cuffs like a wild animal, but the metal held, cruel and tight, keeping him flat on his back while Todoroki touched himself just inches away.

 

And he was so goddamn beautiful doing it.

 

The muscles in his arms flexed gently as he moved. His back shifted, subtle and hypnotic.

 

Lace whispered against skin as he adjusted his knees on either side of Bakugo’s hips.

 

And that flush—God, the flush was rising.

 

A bloom of pink climbing up his neck, over his cheeks, mixing with the faint shimmer of sweat and powder.

 

He still had that fucking mascara on.

 

Still had those lashes fluttering down as he breathed harder, deeper, never breaking rhythm.

 

Bakugo watched the flex of his fingers, the slow push, the tension in his thighs, the soft sound of his breath catching, and—

 

Bakugo whimpered again. “Sho—fucking hell, baby, let me—please, let me help—fuck, I’ll be so good—”

 

Todoroki’s hips rocked forward once, subtle but unmistakable.

 

And then again.

 

And again.

 

Bakugo’s eyes went wide, drinking in every detail like it might be his last living moment.

 

He saw the lace stretch over Todoroki’s ass, the faint tremble in his legs, the soft hitch in his breath.

 

Every move was calculated. Designed.

 

A performance built just for him—and it was working.

 

“Do you know,” Todoroki said, voice low and steady, “how many times I imagined this?”

 

Bakugo's mouth dropped open.

 

His brain gave up.

 

Todoroki’s voice was velvet and smoke. “Being over you like this. Touching myself while you watched. Knowing you couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”

 

He rolled his hips again, slow and smooth.

 

“I thought about it in the shower. In the car. Every time you got cocky and I had to pretend I wasn’t already undressing you in my head.”

 

Bakugo let out a strangled sound. “Fucking please—”

 

But Todoroki wasn’t done.

 

His hands were slick now.

 

Working himself with ease, rhythm building as his back bowed slightly.

 

He braced a hand on Bakugo’s thigh—just a little weight, just enough pressure to remind Bakugo he was there, and not touching, and helpless.

 

“Now I’m doing it right here,” Todoroki said softly. “Right on top of you.”

 

Bakugo was shaking.

 

Shaking with need. With awe.

 

Todoroki was gorgeous.

 

Not just beautiful. Not just hot.

 

He was divine.

 

A vision in black lace, riding his own fingers with slow, brutal grace.

 

Every muscle shifting. His hair was starting to stick to his cheeks. His lashes were heavy.

 

A little smudge. Just under one eye. Mascara beginning to blur.

 

“Oh fuck,” Bakugo gasped. “Please, let me touch you, let me taste you, let me—”

 

Todoroki finally looked back over his shoulder.

 

His eyes were dark and wicked. Just a little glassy now. Flushed lips parted.

 

And he smirked. “You will.”

 

He pulled his fingers out slowly, too slowly, and gave a soft hiss of breath.

 

Then he turned around again. Crawled forward over Bakugo’s trembling body, that damn lace brushing over every twitching nerve, every overstimulated muscle.

 

His fingers—those fingers—slid over Bakugo’s stomach as he moved, slick and warm and taunting.

 

And Todoroki’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But not until I’ve made you fall apart completely.”

 

*

 

Todoroki’s fingers trailed back down Bakugo’s chest—featherlight, teasing—and then he moved.

 

Shifted up slowly, sensually, sliding his knees along the mattress until he was straddling Bakugo’s shoulders.

 

Lace brushing over Bakugo’s chest with every inch.

 

His thighs warm on either side of Bakugo’s neck.

 

He planted one hand, then the other, just above Bakugo’s head—gripping the headboard, fingers curling right next to Bakugo’s cuffed wrists.

 

Caging him in.

 

Ownable. Untouchable.

 

Bakugo’s breath stuttered, head tilted up, eyes locked on the absolute vision looming over him.

 

Todoroki.

 

Flushed. Glistening. Still perfect.

 

That little smear of mascara made him look like a fallen angel.

 

A little wild. A little wrecked. Still in control.

 

Always in control.

 

"You wanna touch me?" Todoroki asked softly, head tilting. The calm of it was obscene. "Go ahead."

 

Bakugo blinked up at him, already breathless. “What?”

 

Todoroki leaned in a little—just a little—hips hovering over Bakugo’s face, lace and skin right there, scent dizzying, overwhelming.

 

“With your mouth.” Todoroki clarified.

 

Bakugo let out another soft sound.

 

His hands clenched at the cuffs.

 

His tongue darted out, tentative, desperate, his whole body arching up in search of contact.

 

He strained, neck tight, jaw clenched, trying—god, trying—to reach.

 

And when he did, when his tongue found lingerie, found heat, he moaned like it was relief.

 

Todoroki shivered. Just slightly.

 

But he didn’t move. Didn’t help.

 

Didn’t release those handcuffs.

 

Just stayed poised above him, thighs flexed, back straight, eyes half-lidded and hungry. Watching.

 

Bakugo mouthed over the fabric, soft and slow at first.

 

His tongue licked a stripe just beneath where the lace dipped down, mouthing greedily at every patch of skin he could reach.

 

Lips pressed to the fabric, tongue curling the outline of Todoroki’s cock, teeth dragging ever so gently.

 

Worship. Pure and simple.

 

And Todoroki took it.

 

Let him struggle. Let him work.

 

His grip on the headboard tightened as Bakugo sucked softly, licking at the fabric like it might earn him his freedom.

 

His noises turned to desperate, breathy pleas—muffled and raw.

 

“Shoto, I’ll be so good—please—”

 

Todoroki’s head dropped slightly, a breath shuddering out of him. His eyes closed for a second.

 

Then reopened. Glinting.

 

“Still breathing,” he murmured, echoing himself from earlier.

 

Bakugo growled.

 

He was panting now, half in frustration, half in awe.

 

His neck ached from the strain, his mouth slick and flushed, but he didn’t stop. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

 

His tongue flicked again, desperate for more, mouthing over Todoroki’s inner thigh now, dragging kisses along the edge of the lace like it might save his life.

 

Todoroki watched. Controlled. Drunk on power.

 

“God, you look good like this,” Todoroki said, quiet and slow. “Begging. Needy.”

 

Bakugo made a wrecked sound deep in his throat.

 

“You’d let me keep you like this, wouldn’t you?” Todoroki asked. “Pinned. Just mine.”

 

Bakugo’s whole body twitched. “Yes—fuck, yes, I’d let you do anything—”

 

Todoroki smirked.

 

Then—cruelly—he lifted himself just an inch higher, out of reach.

 

Bakugo leaned up, back arching, tongue straining, nearly there again—

 

“Not yet,” Todoroki said, breath thick now, voice low. “You haven’t earned it.”

 

Bakugo stared up at him, eyes wide. Waiting for anything.

 

He was undone. Destroyed. And so in love he could hardly stand it.

 

Todoroki’s thighs trembled just slightly where they framed Bakugo’s flushed face, his knuckles white against the headboard.

 

But he didn’t break. He didn’t cave. He just looked down at the man he owned and smiled—

 

Slow, sweet, and dangerous.

 

***

Notes:

Idk who im more jealous of hahaha

Anyway this time im serious, they be fuckin for real next chapter haha

Chapter 42

Notes:

More smutttttt and the next chapter should wrap this whole scene up. I'm getting closer to the end of the book, so I really wanted to take my time with this section lol.

Whatever who cares just enjoy haha

Todoroki didn’t move at first.

 

Still straddling Bakugo’s shoulders, hands gripping the headboard beside his wrists, body a slow, simmering line of power.

 

The lingerie stretched across his thighs glistened faintly in the warm light—damp in places, tight in others. His breath had turned heavier now, but his face remained calm. Focused.

 

And then— He shifted again.

 

Lifted himself just slightly—then twisted at the waist, moving slowly as he turned around on Bakugo’s chest, knees carefully placed, hips dragging softly across Bakugo’s collarbones until he was facing away from him.

 

Almost like he wanted to show off the view.

 

And Bakugo lost it. “Holy fuck—”

 

Because the view? Was in fact, devastating.

 

All strong back and broad shoulders and that pretty, evil lace wrapping around the most perfect ass Bakugo had ever seen.

 

The straps sat high on Todoroki’s hips now, the fabric clinging to the heat between his thighs, wet enough to make Bakugo whimper.

 

Bakugo arched up immediately. Mouth open, breath wild. Tongue already reaching for him.

 

And still, Todoroki didn’t free Bakugo.

 

Didn’t even acknowledge how cruel he was being.

 

Just exhaled slowly. Pressed his hands a little harder into Bakugo’s chest. Let his hips tilt back just enough to offer everything.

 

Bakugo surged up again—neck tight, lips parted, tongue darting out—and finally made contact.

 

The first touch was gentle. A kiss to the curve of Todoroki’s ass, right at the edge of the lace. Then another. And another.

 

Todoroki shuddered.

 

Bakugo licked a stripe higher, then down again, tongue tracing the lines of the lingerie.

 

Mouthing at the sheer panel, sucking softly, dragging his teeth just enough to hear Todoroki gasp.

 

The sound made Bakugo groan into him, ravenous.

 

He pressed in again, hungrier now, licking through the fabric with a growl.

 

Tongue firm. Intentional. Working any patch of skin he could reach.

 

It wasn’t about teasing anymore—it was about control. Or clawing some back.

 

He wanted Todoroki to feel it. To lose that composure. To break just a little.

 

And God, he did.

 

Todoroki let out a sound that knocked the wind from Bakugo’s lungs.

 

A moan—low, ragged, dragged from the edge of him. The kind of sound that didn’t belong to someone quiet or in charge. The kind that was honest.

 

Bakugo latched on like it was gospel.

 

Tongue sliding deeper between the straps. Working him through the lace. His nose bumped against soft skin. His breath was hot. His groans vibrated straight through.

 

Todoroki’s fingers curled against his ribs.

 

His arms trembled, just slightly.

 

And still, he didn’t stop him.

 

Didn’t encourage him either.

 

Just let it happen.

 

Let Bakugo mouth at him, chase him, worship him—while Todoroki stayed poised above him like he could take this forever.

 

Bakugo gasped, pulling back just an inch to speak. “Let me out, and I’ll make you come so hard you’ll see fucking stars—”

 

Todoroki just made another noise. Softer this time. Like he was trying not to.

 

Bakugo leaned in again, tongue flicking over the base of the lace, then up, following the shape of Todoroki’s body between his legs.

 

“You hear that?” Bakugo asked, breath heavy, lips brushing over flushed skin. “You’re not so calm now, huh?”

 

Todoroki’s answer was just to push his hips back slightly.

 

Just enough to grind down. Just enough for friction.

 

Just enough to make Bakugo gasp and buck up beneath him.

 

“Shut up,” Todoroki muttered, voice thick with heat.

 

Bakugo huffed a breath, grinning, eyes bright and unhinged. “Make me.”

 

And Todoroki — he didn’t hesitate.

 

Didn’t flinch.

 

He backed up.

 

Slowly. Intentionally.

 

Sinking his weight down, hips rolling back until his full heat pressed flush against Bakugo’s mouth. The lace ground against his lips, soft and soaked and taunting.

 

Not cruel. Not rough.

 

But with purpose.

 

He settled there, heavy and warm and waiting.

 

And Bakugo surged forward like it was a dare he’d been born to take.

 

Neck straining, jaw flexing, tongue darting out instantly, greedily—mouthing at the lace, licking through it, sucking until Todoroki’s hips twitched.

 

Bakugo didn’t start slow this time. Oh no.

 

He was on a mission.

 

Tongue hot and slick, he pushed back against every grind. He pressed kisses into every curve.

 

He licked up the fabric, sucked the edge between his teeth, and then groaned, the sound vibrating straight through Todoroki’s core.

 

Todoroki gasped. A sharp, involuntary inhale.

 

Bakugo smirked into him.

 

He angled his tongue deeper, finding the tenderest spots, the slickest places, nose pressed up tight, mouth moving like he meant business.

 

Because he did.

 

This wasn’t begging anymore.

 

This was warfare.

 

This was: You can keep my hands. I’ll still make you come.

 

Todoroki was shaking now—just slightly. His arms trembled where they braced over Bakugo’s chest, and a low, choked noise caught in his throat. “Katsuki—”

 

Bakugo moaned in reply.

 

On purpose.

 

Mouth wide open, tongue fucking into him, lips slick, chin wet, working hard and messy and fierce.

 

Every sound Todoroki made only pushed him harder—each gasp, each trembling breath, each tiny hitch in his hips.

 

And then Todoroki rolled his hips, slow and desperate. “Fuck—fuck—” he gasped, teeth clenched, voice breaking now.

 

Bakugo grinned beneath him, wild and victorious, lips dragging up over soft skin as he growled, “That’s it, baby. Come on. You’re the one who climbed up here. Let me fucking take you apart.”

 

And Todoroki felt it.

 

He rocked again. Hands gripping Bakugo’s chest, nails digging in.

 

His breath turned ragged. His thighs trembled. The lace was soaked now—wet and clinging and obscene.

 

“God, you—you’re—” Todoroki didn’t finish. Couldn’t.

 

Todoroki reached down to wrap a hand around his own cock, in a completely desperate act.

 

He freed his cock of the underwear, just to give himself some relief from the tight elastic bands as he slowly stroked himself to full hardness.

 

Bakugo couldn’t see him doing it, but he could feel the way Todoroki’s body was moving, and he knew.

 

Bakugo licked harder, tongue relentless, tasting everything he could reach.

 

He nipped lightly, then soothed with soft licks, alternating until Todoroki made a sound that was pure broken music.

 

The moans coming out of Todoroki were intense and gorgeous all at the same time.

 

And they were wrecking Bakugo.

 

Bakugo whined into him, hips jerking beneath, hands still trapped above his head—but it didn’t matter. Not anymore.

 

He was winning.

 

Even like this—especially like this—he had Todoroki unraveling above him.

 

“Come on, baby,” Bakugo rasped between licks. “Touching yourself for me? Gonna come for me too?”

 

And Todoroki did.

 

He pushed back, grinding down as his head dropped low between his arms, back bowed, breath hitching high in his throat—

 

And then he shuddered. A full-body quake.

 

Tense thighs. Clenched jaw.

 

And the most sinful sound Bakugo had ever heard in his life—Todoroki’s moan, cracked and wet and guttural, shaking through his entire frame as he came.

 

Right there.

 

Over Bakugo’s mouth.

 

Still in lingerie.

 

Still impossibly, devastatingly beautiful.

 

*

 

Todoroki was still trembling, just faintly.

 

Breath ragged. Lips parted. Arms braced and shaking from the sheer force of it—but his eyes? Still sharp. Still hungry.

 

Still in control.

 

Bakugo was panting beneath him, mouth wet, chin slick, jaw slack with shock and lust and pride.

 

Because he’d done that. He’d made Todoroki fall apart with nothing but his mouth.

 

No hands. No leverage. No mercy.

 

But Todoroki wasn’t done.

 

He shifted again—graceful as ever—and climbed forward.

 

Slid off Bakugo’s chest, moving with that same slow confidence, until he straddled Bakugo’s hips once more, facing forward this time.

 

The heat of him was immediate. Pressed tight against Bakugo’s cock through the thin barrier of that damn lace, which was now completely soaked through and sticky with Todoroki’s come.

 

Bakugo’s back arched. His whole body jolted like he’d been struck by lightning. “Shoto—fuck, please—” His voice cracked like glass. “Take these goddamn things off.”

 

But Todoroki just smiled.

 

Didn’t reach to pull off the fabric. Or the cuffs.

 

Didn’t answer.

 

Just shifted his weight to hook a finger in his underwear to pull it aside, lined himself up, and then gently sank himself down on Bakugo's cock.

 

Bakugo mouth dropped open, muscles tensing immediately.

 

A raw, feral sound fell out of his mouth—bitten off and snarled through gritted teeth as his hands wrenched against the cuffs again, desperate and useless.

 

His hips tried to thrust up instinctively, but Todoroki’s weight held him down, working him in inch by inch.

 

It was torture.

 

It was heaven.

 

“Oh fuck, oh my—fuck, baby, you’re gonna kill me—” Bakugo gasped, thighs trembling beneath him.

 

Todoroki exhaled slow, head tipping back, eyes fluttering closed.

 

He was gorgeous.

 

Still glowing. Still flushed. The lingerie clung to him now, damp and dark and ruined in the best way.

 

His hair stuck to his forehead in soft, wild strands. His mascara was smeared just slightly now—finally—and his lips were parted, full and pink and glistening from gasping and moaning.

 

And he wasn’t even touching Bakugo. Not yet.

 

Instead, he touched himself.

 

Hands trailing up over his own stomach, over the curve of his chest, fingers sliding beneath the lingerie shirt to tease at his nipples—rubbing slow circles while he rocked his hips in a lazy grind.

 

Bakugo choked on his own breath. “You—fuck, Sho, you’re so—goddamn perfect—”

 

Todoroki moaned softly, biting his lip. “You picked this outfit, remember.”

 

Bakugo growled. “Didn’t mean for you to weaponize it.”

 

“Too bad,” Todoroki murmured, grinding down again.

 

And then he moved. Started a slow rhythm—hips rising, then sinking again, thighs flexing as he fucked down against Bakugo’s cock with devastating precision.

 

Bakugo’s head slammed back into the pillow. “Holy shit.”

 

Todoroki was riding him like it was a performance. A power demonstration.

 

Every roll of his hips was smooth, every breath steady, every drag of lace like another nail in Bakugo’s fucking coffin.

 

He looked incredible—hands still moving over himself, rolling his hips like he knew just how hot he was.

 

Because he did.

 

He looked down at Bakugo—panting, red-faced, trembling beneath him—and smiled.

 

Like this was everything he’d ever wanted.

 

Like fucking him felt better than coming.

 

Bakugo couldn’t breathe.

 

Couldn’t think.

 

His hips bucked instinctively, but it wasn’t enough.

 

His hands were still trapped above his head. He needed more, needed to touch, to grab, to devour—

 

“You look like you’re suffering,” Todoroki said gently.

 

Bakugo barked a laugh. “You think?”

 

Todoroki slowed for a beat, grinding down with one, smooth roll of his hips that made Bakugo shudder and whine.

 

“Good,” Todoroki whispered.

 

And then he picked up the pace.

 

Faster now. Still controlled. Still perfectly, fucking, gorgeous.

 

Lace dragging over skin. Hands in his hair. Muscles flexing. Sweat glistening. The damn mascara smudged and sexy and ruinous.

 

And Bakugo?

 

Bakugo was right on the fucking edge.

 

Watching the man he loved show off everything—his power, his stamina, his strength, his beauty—in the very outfit Bakugo had picked out to tease him, and now desperately wanted to rip off with his teeth.

 

He was doomed.

 

And he wouldn’t trade places with a single person on earth.

 

*

 

Todoroki was moving faster now.

 

That slow, teasing rhythm had shifted—hips rolling with more urgency, more hunger, like even he couldn’t hold back anymore.

 

His breath was coming quick, shallow, chest heaving beneath the lace, damp now from sweat and effort.

 

He leaned back on Bakugo’s thighs, hands braced on his own hips, riding harder, smoother, grinding down in slick, perfect strokes that made wet sounds echo off the walls.

 

Bakugo’s arms were shaking from the tension in his body, wrists yanked tight against the cuffs, desperate for contact.

 

But all he could do was watch.

 

And holy fuck—

 

Todoroki was breathtaking.

 

His thighs flexed with every movement, pale and strong and trembling just faintly now.

 

The lace was clinging to him, soaked through, practically translucent where it stuck against his skin.

 

The straps dug into his hips in a way that was obscene—framing him like a work of art carved out of heat and torment.

 

And above all that?

 

His face.

 

Fuck.

 

His head was tipped back again, neck exposed, throat moving as he panted.

 

His lips were swollen and parted, a faint blush high on his cheeks.

 

A single lock of hair clung to his temple, and the mascara was running just slightly.

 

Smudged under his eyes, dark streaks forming at the edges, glistening from the sweat on his face.

 

Bakugo groaned, hips twitching beneath him. His whole body was on fire. “Shoto—baby, please, fuck—”

 

Todoroki didn’t even look at him.

 

Didn’t acknowledge him.

 

He just kept moving, faster now, grinding harder, chasing it—his own hands sliding up his stomach again, over his chest, into his hair.

 

Todoroki grabbed a handful of it, head falling back, mouth open in a low, cracked moan.

 

His other hand slid back down to palm himself through the underwear that his cock was hanging out of, his length barely contained in that lace.

 

Bakugo gasped like he’d been stabbed.

 

Bakugo’s stomach was slick now—Todoroki’s arousal dripping down over him as Todoroki bounced on his cock, hot and filthy and fucking perfect.

 

“Please—” Bakugo begged, voice raw. “Shoto, I swear to god, I can’t take it—”

 

And then Todoroki looked down.

 

Eyes half-lidded. Lips red and swollen. Mascara bleeding at the corners. He looked down, right at Bakugo—

 

And smiled.

 

Not cruel.

 

Not smug.

 

Hot.

 

Powerful.

 

Unfathomably beautiful.

 

Bakugo let out a noise that wasn’t even a word. A sound torn from the core of him.

 

“Let me out,” he choked. “Please. Baby, I’ll be so good, I’ll do anything, just let me touch you, I need—fuck, I need you—”

 

Todoroki moaned again. Low. Guttural. And kept going.

 

He didn’t answer.

 

Didn’t stop.

 

Didn’t care.

 

He was riding Bakugo like he was built for it—hips snapping now, thighs shaking, head dropping forward with a breathless whimper.

 

He braced one hand on Bakugo’s chest again, the other still tangled in his own hair, and fucked himself down onto him over and over, soaking the underwear, slicking up Bakugo’s entire abdomen as he got closer and closer to falling apart all over again.

 

Bakugo was begging now. Rambling.

 

“Shoto, please, please, fuck, you feel so good, I love you, I fucking love you so much, baby, you’re killing me, please let me fuck you, let me make you come, I can’t—”

 

Todoroki’s body jolted again as he touched himself to Bakugo’s words. Stroking his own cock at the sound of Bakugo’s desperation.

 

Another moan.

 

Another wave of heat grinding into Bakugo’s core.

 

Todoroki was glowing.

 

Glowing and gorgeous and completely gone in the rhythm, caught in the wave of pleasure as his hands finally slammed down on either side of Bakugo’s chest again, riding harder, faster, mascara streaked, cheeks pink, mouth parted and—

 

Bakugo yanked at the handcuffs again. “Fuck baby, I can’t—I’m gonna—”

 

But Todoroki didn’t let him.

 

Didn’t unlock the cuffs.

 

Didn’t slow down.

 

Didn’t even blink.

 

He just kept going.

 

Riding him into madness.

 

***

Chapter 43

Notes:

Like I said, here's the end of the smut <3

Todoroki was spiraling.

 

Panting. Grinding. His chest slick with sweat, causing the lace shirt to create unrelenting friction against his nipples, and the fabric of his underwear to stick to him uncomfortably.

 

His thighs trembled with each thrust, his fingers digging into Bakugo’s chest like he needed something to hold onto.

 

He was close again. So fucking close.

 

And still, Bakugo was begging.

 

Ragged and shaking and drenched in everything Todoroki had given him, but still desperate. Still calling his name like a prayer turned curse.

 

Todoroki’s heart pounded in his ears.

 

And then—finally—he reached out.

 

Only one hand left Bakugo’s chest. It slid up to the headboard, fingers brushing over the metal, finding the latch on the cuffs.

 

He didn’t free him completely.

 

But he unlocked the chain, and let the cuffs slide loose from the post, before clamping them back down around Bakugo’s wrists. 

 

Which left Bakugo’s arms still bound close together, but now free from the headboard.

 

A compromise.

 

Mercy with conditions.

 

Bakugo stilled.

 

For half a second, the room went silent—except for the sound of panting, and skin on skin, and the echo of that tiny click as the cuffs dropped away from the wood.

 

Then Bakugo practically lunged at him, wrapping both arms around Todoroki’s waist so fast it knocked the air out of them both.

 

The chain clattered as he swung it up and over, dragging it behind Todoroki’s shoulders so he could hold him tight.

 

The metal cuffs dug into Todoroki’s lower back, cold and biting, as Bakugo yanked him down, flattening him against his chest, and then—

 

Bakugo kissed him.

 

Open-mouthed and ravenous, tongue thrusting between Todoroki’s lips, groaning into him like it was the first taste of water after a week in hell.

 

Todoroki gasped, hands flailing for a second—surprised, overwhelmed—and Bakugo took control.

 

Still cuffed.

 

Still flat on his back.

 

And somehow the one in charge.

 

Bakugo planted his feet on the mattress, bent his knees, and started to move—hips snapping up over and over against Todoroki’s ass, grinding into that perfect heat like he was trying to merge with him.

 

Todoroki cried out into his mouth.

 

The cuffs scraped against his skin, biting harder as Bakugo held him close, the chain pressing deep enough that Todoroki knew he’d feel the marks later.

 

“Fuck, you think I was just gonna lie here?” Bakugo growled between kisses. “You think I wouldn’t take back control the second you let me?”

 

Todoroki gasped, hips twitching, already moaning as Bakugo thrust up again, hard enough to make the bed jolt. “God, baby—”

 

“Shut up,” Bakugo hissed. “You had your fun.”

 

Todoroki didn’t fight it.

 

Didn’t argue.

 

He moaned again—high and sharp—and dropped his forehead to Bakugo’s shoulder, whimpering into his neck as Bakugo fucked up into him with perfect precision.

 

The bedframe squealed with every slam of Bakugo’s hips, sharp creaks punctuating Todoroki’s cries.

 

Even straddling him, Todoroki felt weak—his knees sliding on the sheets, his hips bucking helplessly in time with Bakugo’s brutal pace.

 

He was still on top.

 

Still in that powerful lingerie.

 

Still technically riding.

 

But he wasn’t in charge anymore.

 

Not even close.

 

Bakugo’s arms were locked around him, iron-strong, cuffed and relentless.

 

Every upward thrust drove Todoroki wild, made his breath stutter, made his fingers claw at Bakugo’s shoulders.

 

The cuffs left red lines in his skin with every movement, metal dragging as Bakugo used them to hold him closer, tighter, harder.

 

Todoroki moaned again. Dizzy. Drunk on sensation. “Fuuuck—”

 

“Yeah?” Bakugo grunted, sweat dripping down his temples. “You like that? Like getting fucked into like this? You looked so cocky—so fucking smug—but now you’re just falling apart.”

 

Todoroki was falling apart.

 

Moaning uncontrollably into Bakugo’s neck, lips brushing over skin, hot and trembling and gasping with each punishing thrust. “Don’t stop—fuck, please don’t—”

 

Bakugo growled, holding him tighter, lips dragging up his jaw. “You’re not done ‘til I say you’re done.”

 

Todoroki’s breath caught, head thrown back.

 

He was a goner.

 

A mess of sweat and lace and sound and pleasure—grinding down as Bakugo fucked up into him, giving him everything, all of it, all at once.

 

There was no rhythm anymore. Just chaos. Just hips and hands and cuffs and skin.

 

“Kat,” Todoroki choked, “I’m—fuck, I’m—”

 

Bakugo kissed him again—deep and claiming, breathless and hard. “Bite it back. I’m not done with you.”

 

Bakugo was in it now.

 

Thrusting hard, rhythm brutal and unrelenting, hips slamming up into Todoroki with the force of days of built-up tension, lust, love. Every movement jolted Todoroki’s body, made him cry out louder, made the whole bed rock in time with his unraveling.

 

And then Bakugo did something wicked.

 

He let one hand slide down Todoroki’s back—cuffs still clinking faintly as he moved—and grabbed a fistful of the lace.

 

Right at the base of Todoroki’s spine.

 

He yanked.

 

Not enough to tear it—though god did he want to—but just enough to pull it tight.

 

To make the straps bite into Todoroki’s skin. To remind him that Bakugo had picked this outfit and now Bakugo was going to make him feel it.

 

Todoroki reacted like he’d been shocked.

 

His hands clawed at Bakugo’s shoulders, trembling, desperate for something to hold. His nails raked through sweat and skin, searching for purchase as Bakugo kept moving, grinding up into him, that lace scraping against him with every bounce.

 

“Fuck—baby, I—!”

 

But Bakugo wasn’t done.

 

Not nearly.

 

He slowed, just enough to make Todoroki whimper at the sudden loss of rhythm, his thrusts grinding instead of slamming.

 

“Put your arms behind your back,” Bakugo ordered, voice rough and unyielding.

 

Todoroki froze, fingers still digging into his shoulders. “Baby—” His voice cracked on a needy whine. “I… I want to touch—”

 

“No.” Bakugo cut him off sharp, teeth grazing his jaw. “Behind your back. Now.”

 

Shuddering, Todoroki finally obeyed—dragging his trembling hands back, slipping them behind his spine, his body twitching with the effort to keep steady.

 

Bakugo didn’t waste a second. He slid his cuffed arms up around Todoroki’s torso, caught his wrists, and yanked them down tight—pinning them flush against Todoroki’s own body with his bound grip.

 

Todoroki held his breath, testing the restraint instinctively, but there was no give. None.

 

Bakugo had him locked in place, every twitch of resistance only pulling him closer.

 

Trapping him.

 

Completely.

 

Nowhere to run.

 

Nothing to hold.

 

Just wrapped up in Bakugo’s arms like a gift and getting fucked from underneath.

 

“Oh god—” Todoroki choked, head tossing back, hips stuttering as he shuddered.

 

“That’s right,” Bakugo growled. “Don’t fight it. Just fucking take it.”

 

He bucked up harder—rougher—grinding into him, snapping his hips so deep that Todoroki cried out, high and loud and honest.

 

His body convulsed above Bakugo, unable to move, completely pinned by Bakugo’s strength, arms locked tight against his sides by the unyielding press of the cuffs.

 

The metal dragged over the back of his ribs with every snap of Bakugo’s hips, hot and sharp, pinning him closer, keeping him exactly where Bakugo wanted him.

 

He couldn’t push away. Couldn’t touch. His chest was crushed flat to Bakugo’s, every whine muffled against sweat-slick skin, every breath caught and stolen the second it left his mouth.

 

The chain rattled with each thrust, each violent jolt that bounced him higher only to slam him back down.

 

The lingerie dug deep into his hips, his thighs, scraping with every movement, a constant reminder of how Bakugo had dressed him, chosen him, marked him.

 

And he could feel it—his cock rutting against Bakugo’s stomach with every grind, slick with sweat, friction sharp and maddening.

 

His body wanted to give in, to break apart, but Bakugo’s order still echoed in his skull: bite it back.

 

So he held it. Tried to.

 

His thighs trembled, his whole body twitching with the effort to resist.

 

His mouth hung open, dragging desperate sounds against Bakugo’s throat, too far gone to form words. His mind was blank, obliterated by rhythm, by sensation, by Bakugo.

 

And that was it.

 

The breaking point.

 

Bakugo saw it the second it happened.

 

The mascara—

 

Finally—

 

Ran.

 

Dark streaks cut through the shimmer on Todoroki’s cheeks, his eyes wide and glassy, lips parted in shock and bliss as he sobbed through it, moaning now with every thrust.

 

“Baby, please—please—I’m gonna—please, I—”

 

“You look so pretty,” Bakugo growled against his ear. “All fucked out and crying in my arms.”

 

Todoroki whined. A high, helpless sound—completely destroyed.

 

“You were such a little tease,” Bakugo panted. “All smug in your pretty panties—and now you’re just falling apart.”

 

He bit down on Todoroki’s neck. Hard.

 

Todoroki whimpered.

 

His body jolted violently, cock leaking across Bakugo’s stomach, thighs quaking.

 

“Look at you,” Bakugo rasped. “Can’t even touch me. Can’t stop shaking. You gonna come again, baby?”

 

Todoroki nodded, frantically.

 

Bakugo smirked, his hips grinding just enough to make Todoroki gasp. “Without your hands? You think you can do it like this? Just rutting against me?”

 

Todoroki whimpered, thighs trembling, cock dragging slick and messy against Bakugo’s stomach. He wanted to say yes, needed to, but the words caught on his tongue.

 

Bakugo growled, low and sharp against his ear. “Say it. Say you’ll come just like this.”

 

Todoroki sobbed, broken, the plea spilling out. “I—I can. Please let me—”

 

Bakugo snapped his hips up hard, fucking the air from his lungs. “Go on, baby. Show me.”

 

Bakugo felt it the second Todoroki gave in.

 

The way his thighs locked tight around Bakugo’s hips, trembling like they couldn’t decide whether to hold on or give out.

 

The way his cock dragged against Bakugo’s stomach, wet and messy, desperate friction smearing heat between them.

 

Todoroki couldn’t stop if he wanted to. He was grinding down frantic, chasing it, every bounce of his body jolting another ragged sob out of him.

 

Mascara streaked down his cheeks, dark and ruined, mouth hanging open as nothing but broken moans spilled free.

 

Bakugo held him tighter, cuffs biting into their skin, forcing Todoroki flat against his chest. Felt every gasp rattle through him, every violent twitch as his body begged to break.

 

Bakugo whispered directly into his ear. “Do it. Come in your panties, baby.”

 

Todoroki’s muscles went slack all at once, thighs shaking, chest heaving.

 

He moaned high and helpless, head dropping to Bakugo’s shoulder as he kept rutting through it, cock spilling hot into the lace, soaking through until it smeared across Bakugo’s stomach.

 

His body shook with every pulse, grinding down against him until he couldn’t anymore, until all that was left was a trembling, ruined mess draped over Bakugo’s chest.

 

Bakugo didn’t stop. Kept driving up into him, hips relentless, watching him come apart, holding him down through it, through every sob and gasp and streak of black tears running down his face.

 

God, he was gorgeous like this.

 

But Bakugo didn’t stop.

 

Not for a second.

 

He just held him tighter—arms still locked around Todoroki’s sides, wrists straining in the cuffs, muscles flexing as he kept thrusting up, deep and smooth and purposeful.

 

The fabric of Todoroki’s top was starting to irritate the skin of Bakugo’s chest, but he didn’t care.

 

“Shh,” Bakugo whispered, his voice gritty, hoarse with control. “It’s okay. I got you.”

 

Todoroki whined, forehead pressed into Bakugo’s shoulder, jaw slack and useless. He was gone—his whole body limp except for the way he kept twitching, kept responding, still moaning with every thrust as if his nerves had been supercharged.

 

Bakugo kissed the side of his face—wet with sweat and tears and streaked mascara—and thrust up again, hard enough to make Todoroki yelp. “That’s it,” he growled. “Let me take care of you.”

 

Todoroki nodded, or maybe just fell into it, barely coherent anymore.

 

“You feel good, baby?”

 

Todoroki let out a mangled sound that might’ve been a yes.

 

Bakugo grinned against his skin. “C’mon,” he coaxed, hips grinding up. “Tell me.”

 

Todoroki gasped, voice small and cracked. “Feels—feels so good, sir—”

 

Bakugo froze for half a heartbeat, the last word sinking in, hitting him low and sharp like a match strike in his chest.

 

His cock twitched, his jaw clenched.

 

God fucking damn.

 

A groan tore out of him, deep and raw, before he shoved up hard again, dragging another broken cry from Todoroki’s throat.

 

“Yeah?” Bakugo hissed, voice wrecked now, rough with triumph. “That’s what you needed? To be pinned down? To call me sir while I fuck you stupid?”

 

Todoroki moaned, wordless and wanton, grinding down without even meaning to. His whole body trembled, but his hips kept moving—reflexive, needy, sensitive.

 

“You like bein’ my pretty little mess?” Bakugo asked. “All that attitude, and now look at you. So fuckin’ obedient.”

 

Todoroki whimpered, voice ragged. “Yes sir, please—”

 

Bakugo kissed under his jaw, slow and hot. “You want more?”

 

Todoroki nodded, still gasping. “More.”

 

“Yeah?” Bakugo’s hands slid lower, still bound but precise, dragging down Todoroki’s spine, gripping his hips to drive him down harder on every thrust. “You gonna take everything I give you, baby?”

 

“Y-Yes,” Todoroki moaned, breath hitching. “Please.”

 

“You’re doin’ so good,” Bakugo whispered, hips pounding up. “So fuckin’ good for me. Look at you. So damn perfect.”

 

Bakugo kissed him. Deeply. Filthy. Possessive.

 

He swallowed every noise, every whimper, his lips devouring Todoroki’s while he kept fucking him through the aftershocks—hard and unrelenting, never letting up.

 

Because he couldn’t.

 

Because Todoroki was his—and in this moment, completely surrendered.

 

*

 

Bakugo’s control snapped.

 

Todoroki was barely holding together—collapsed over him, chest heaving, skin flushed, eyes glassy with oversensitivity and wet lashes.

 

His thighs trembled with every aftershock, and the sounds coming out of his mouth? Fucking nonsense.

 

“I—hah—please, yes, Kat, I can—I still—fuck, I want—”

 

Completely gone.

 

Bakugo kissed him hard—cut him off with a moan deep in his throat—and then moved.

 

Fast.

 

He gripped Todoroki’s hips, but first he had to swing the chain up and over Todoroki’s head, metal clattering as it dragged across the sheets.

 

Then he shoved—explosive, fluid—rolling them until Todoroki was pinned flat to the mattress.

 

The bedframe squealed, cuffs clinked as the chain went taut again, and Todoroki gasped, mascara streaking darker, head hitting the pillow as his legs fell open, spreading wide without a thought.

 

“Holy shit—” Todoroki breathed, eyes wide.

 

Bakugo was glowing.

 

His cuffs were still locked tight, but now they were in front of him—hands wrapped around Todoroki’s hips, gripping hard, controlling every angle.

 

And when he pulled Todoroki down into place, the metal chain stretched tight across Todoroki’s stomach.

 

Holding him down with the very thing that was meant to hold Bakugo still.

 

*

 

“Oh my god,” Todoroki whimpered, eyes rolling back. “Fuck—”

 

“Yeah?” Bakugo snarled, sweat dripping from his temples. “How’s it feel now, baby?”

 

Todoroki was moaning high and broken and beautiful, his whole body lurching beneath Bakugo like he was being electrocuted with pleasure. His arms flailed out once, but Bakugo was already on him—mouth at his throat, hips driving hard and fast, hands gripping tight.

 

That chain bit into his skin with every thrust.

 

Todoroki couldn’t move. Could only feel. “Baby—fuck—I—it’s—” he sobbed, words failing completely, mouth moving around broken syllables, legs trembling violently around Bakugo’s waist.

 

“That’s it,” Bakugo growled, voice shaking with restraint. “C’mon, pretty boy. Tell me what you need.”

 

“I don’t—fuck, I can’t—”

 

Bakugo was losing it. This—this—was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

 

Todoroki spread out beneath him, cheeks streaked, mouth open, babbling incoherently while Bakugo fucked him.

 

And he loved it.

 

Every fucking second.

 

Bakugo slammed forward again, and again, the chain digging into Todoroki’s abs as he pounded into him, his own orgasm building fast and hard, every sound Todoroki made pushing him closer.

 

Bakugo was muttering too. “Fuck—you feel so good—so fucking good, baby.”

 

And Todoroki couldn’t stop staring at him.

 

Bakugo was everywhere—inside him, around him, holding him down, breaking him apart and putting him back together in the same breath. Nothing else existed. Just this. Just him.

 

“Fuck, I love you,” Todoroki gasped, voice cracked but certain, eyes wide and glassy like it was the only thing he had left.

 

Bakugo’s rhythm faltered for a heartbeat, the words slamming into him harder than any thrust. His chest seized, heat surging through every vein.

 

He yanked out fast, cock slick and throbbing in his fist, then fisted the lace top at Todoroki’s chest and yanked it up rough, baring his flushed skin.

 

“Hold it,” he barked, shoving the fabric into Todoroki’s trembling hands.

 

Todoroki gasped, but obeyed—arms shaking as he kept the ruined lace pulled high, chest exposed for him.

 

Bakugo bit down a groan and used it. He stroked himself hard, grinding the head of his cock against Todoroki’s stomach, then spilled across bare skin in thick, hot streaks.

 

It splattered up Todoroki’s chest, smeared over his abs, dripping down toward the underwear already soaked and clinging.

 

He kept going, pumping through the release, rubbing it into skin and lace both, watching every drop mark Todoroki deeper.

 

And Todoroki just lay there, panting, lips parted, lace trembling in his grip as he held it up like Bakugo told him to—staring up at him with glassy, wrecked eyes, nothing but love shining through the ruin.

 

***

Chapter 44

A few weeks later, Rei was released from the hospital.

 

She made the decision not to return to Enji, and instead went looking for a place of her own.

 

Bakugo took the time to help her find an apartment, and even helped her apply.

 

And when it was time for her to move in, you bet your ass he was there too.

 

That day, the bookshelf was heavier than it looked.

 

Bakugo and Todoroki had been inching it across Rei’s living room for the better part of ten minutes, trying not to scuff the fresh floors or slam into the corners.

 

There was music playing softly from Bakugo’s phone on the kitchen counter, like a soundtrack for Rei’s move-in day.

 

“Just a little more to the left,” Rei called, standing barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up and hair tied back. A section of her hair was still shaved from the brain surgery, but it was hardly noticeable behind her ponytail.

 

Todoroki looked at Bakugo. Bakugo grunted. Together, they shifted the shelf another two inches.

 

Rei tilted her head. “Perfect.”

 

They set it down carefully.

 

Bakugo stretched out his shoulders with a dramatic sigh and walked over to her, tossing an arm around her shoulders as they looked at the room together.

 

“You sure this is it?” he asked. “I’ll move anything you want, anywhere you want. Make sure it’s perfect.”

 

Rei smiled, quiet and soft. “It already feels like home.”

 

Todoroki stepped up beside them, brushing dust off his hands.

 

The apartment was small — bright, warm, clean. Second floor. Quiet street. Sunlight poured in through the windows and pooled across the hardwood like honey.

 

They’d spent the last week getting everything ready. Installing shelves. Hanging curtains. Stocking the fridge. Making sure everything — everything — was perfect.

 

Rei looked around, and then up at Bakugo. “You know,” she said gently, “the apartment doesn’t matter as much as you think.”

 

Bakugo blinked at her.

 

She reached up and patted his hand on her shoulder.

 

“Just take care of my son,” she said, voice full of something heavier than gratitude. “Keep doing what you’re doing. That means more to me than any bookshelf ever could.”

 

Todoroki didn’t say anything. But his throat tightened. He looked away.

 

He wanted to lean into that. He wanted to appreciate that. But he still struggled to accept that level of affection.

 

Bakugo stood still for a moment, not sure what to do with that much praise. Then he cleared his throat, face turning just slightly pink, and muttered, “Yeah, well. He takes care of me too.”

 

Rei smiled again, this time a little wider. “Good.”

 

There was a long pause, warm and quiet.

 

Then she turned. “Now who wants tea?”

 

*

 

They all sat around the small dining table with fresh mugs of tea. Steam curled up between them.

 

Rei’s kitchen smelled like wood polish and chamomile, and the music continued playing from Bakugo’s phone to lighten the atmosphere.

 

Bakugo set the mugs down in front of them with care, then leaned over to press a kiss to Todoroki’s temple before heading back into the living room.

 

“I’m gonna check the vents,” he muttered. “Some of these old units can be annoying.”

 

“You don’t have to—” Todoroki started, but Bakugo was already flipping open the vent covers, squinting like he was on a mission.

 

Rei chuckled under her breath.

 

“He’s been like this all week,” Todoroki said, watching Bakugo wiggle a loose smoke detector battery back into place. “Keeps acting like something’s gonna explode.”

 

“He just wants to make it perfect,” Rei said, hands wrapped around her tea.

 

Todoroki hummed in agreement, sipping from his mug.

 

There was a comfortable silence for a moment.

 

Then Rei glanced at him, eyes gentle. “It’s good to see you like this.”

 

Todoroki turned to look at her. “Like what?”

 

She smiled slightly. “Happy.”

 

Todoroki blinked.

 

“I’ve seen you calm before,” she said. “I’ve seen you proud. I’ve seen you strong. But this is the first time I’ve seen you in love.”

 

Todoroki froze, mug halfway to his lips.

 

He hadn’t told her.

 

Not about the bathroom. Not about the kiss. Not about the way he’d blurted it out and then nearly melted under Bakugo’s stunned silence.

 

But she knew.

 

Of course she knew.

 

“I didn’t…” he started, then shook his head. “I didn’t say anything.”

 

Rei reached out, laying her fingers over his knuckles on the table. “You didn’t have to,” she said.

 

Todoroki’s throat felt thick.

 

“I can see it in your eyes,” she added, quietly. “And in the way he looks at you when you’re not watching.”

 

Across the room, Bakugo was kneeling under the sink, muttering something about pipes and shaking a wrench.

 

Todoroki glanced at him, heart kicking up behind his ribs.

 

“I’m proud of you,” Rei said softly.

 

He swallowed hard. “For what?”

 

“For surviving,” she said. “And for still being open to love, even after everything.”

 

Todoroki blinked rapidly.

 

She squeezed his hand. “And for picking someone who looks at you like the world would stop spinning without you.”

 

Todoroki’s breath caught.

 

Bakugo poked his head up. “Did you say something?”

 

Rei smiled. “Just thanking Shoto for the tea.”

 

Bakugo nodded, satisfied, and disappeared back under the sink.

 

Todoroki let out a slow, shaky exhale.

 

And then he whispered, “Thanks, Mom.”

 

*

 

Around the same time, Midoriya received a promotion.

 

He would no longer be an actor or a performer, but rather, a director.

 

A position in which he could keep his clothes on. Which he appreciated.

 

Midoriya’s apartment was barely big enough for a dinner party, let alone a celebration, but somehow the whole crew had crammed inside anyway — shoes kicked off, bodies sprawled over every couch, stool, and patch of carpet like they lived there.

 

A half-empty bottle of champagne fizzed on the kitchen counter, alongside some beer and hard liquor that Kirishima brought with him.

 

Someone’s Spotify playlist had devolved into a chaotic mix of early 2000s hits and sad girl pop. Nobody minded.

 

“I’m just saying,” Sero said, leaning over Midoriya’s shoulder, squinting at his phone, “no woman in history has ever responded positively to the phrase ‘hey, I had a really great time digesting dinner with you.’”

 

Midoriya’s face flushed red. “It was supposed to be quirky!”

 

Todoroki took a sip of his drink beside them and deadpanned, “It’s kinda sweet.”

 

Midoriya looked at him, grateful. “See?”

 

Todoroki shrugged. “Only sort of awkward. Maybe... Don’t say that again.”

 

Sero cackled, falling dramatically onto the back of the couch. “Director Midoriya, leader of men, slayer of romantic opportunity.”

 

“I’m new at this!” Midoriya groaned.

 

“And she still texted back,” Todoroki offered. “So... Not a total failure.”

 

In the kitchen, Kirishima and Kaminari were shoulder-to-shoulder pouring drinks, laughing as they spilled a bit of something sugary and red across the counter.

 

“That's coming out of your deposit,” Kirishima said, nudging him.

 

“You’re the one who elbowed me!” Kaminari retorted, bumping his hip back. “I should sue.”

 

“Only if I get visitation rights to your dumbass,” Kirishima grinned.

 

“Conjugal visits only.”

 

Bakugo leaned against the fridge, drink in hand, watching the two of them flirt like sexually repressed teenagers, like they hadn’t just been making out on a dance floor a few weeks ago.

 

He was two seconds from yelling just kiss already, when Todoroki’s phone rang.

 

Todoroki frowned, stepped away from the group, and slid out the back door onto the porch to take it.

 

Bakugo’s eyes followed him.

 

Apparently too closely.

 

Because suddenly—

 

“Oh my god you’re whipped,” Kaminari whispered.

 

“Don’t you dare —” Bakugo started.

 

Kirishima pointed. “You’ve got that face.”

 

“What face,” Bakugo grunted, sipping his drink.

 

“The ‘I’m in love and helpless about it’ face,” Kaminari said gleefully.

 

“Put a ring on it already,” Kirishima added. “Before we have to carry your heartbroken ass out of here like some Victorian novel.”

 

“I will throw this drink at you,” Bakugo warned.

 

Sero popped his head out from behind the couch. “What kind of ring are we thinking, though? Like black tungsten? Classy?”

 

Bakugo rolled his eyes. “You’re all insufferable.”

 

Midoriya, flushed and giggling, raised his cup. “To insufferable idiots, then.”

 

*

 

Bakugo didn’t laugh with them.

 

Not this time.

 

While the rest of the group kept joking and chirping and slinging insults across Midoriya’s apartment, Bakugo’s eyes stayed locked on the glass door.

 

Todoroki stood outside, just barely visible through the reflection and porch light glow. His back was to the room, shoulders square, phone still in one hand.

 

And then—

 

He slipped the phone into his back pocket.

 

Hunched forward.

 

And dragged both hands over his face like the weight of the world had suddenly dropped down on him again.

 

Bakugo didn’t think.

 

He just moved.

 

The sliding door clicked open and shut behind him, cutting off the sound of the apartment.

 

He crossed the porch in two quick steps, heart already climbing.

 

“Shoto,” he said, low and urgent. “What happened? Are you okay?”

 

No answer.

 

Todoroki kept his head down.

 

Bakugo’s chest tightened. “Is it your mom?”

 

He reached out, hand gentle on Todoroki’s forearm, trying not to panic.

 

Todoroki’s shoulders shook.

 

But then he turned—

 

And he wasn’t crying.

 

He was laughing.

 

Soft, breathless laughter, barely audible over the quiet hum of the city around them.

 

“Holy shit,” Todoroki whispered, blinking at Bakugo like he could hardly believe the words that had just left his own mouth. “My mom just called. She wanted me to hear it from her first.”

 

Bakugo’s heart thudded. “What? Hear what?”

 

Todoroki grinned—wide, stunned, absolutely glowing. “Enji just got fired,” he said.

 

Bakugo blinked. “What?”

 

“Fired. From his own studio,” Todoroki repeated, eyes shining. “Apparently he’s been under investigation for months. He hasn’t been paying business taxes, or payroll taxes. He’s been cooking the books. They pulled the plug on him this morning.”

 

There was a beat of stunned silence.

 

Then Bakugo burst out laughing.

 

Big, disbelieving, hands-on-his-knees kind of laughing. “You’re shitting me,” he said.

 

“I’m not,” Todoroki said, still grinning. “My mom’s friend saw him get escorted out. She called her, and—yeah. It’s real.”

 

Bakugo reached forward, grabbed him in both arms, and pulled him in. “You are kidding me.”

 

Todoroki let himself get pulled, laughing against Bakugo’s shoulder.

 

“Karma,” Bakugo said, holding him tight. “Karma’s real and she’s got a fuckin’ left hook.”

 

The door slid open behind them.

 

“Hey,” Kaminari called. “Everything okay out—”

 

“We’re good,” Bakugo called back, still grinning. “We’re great.”

 

Kaminari got that feeling that he was interrupting something, so he just smiled and went back inside.

 

Todoroki pulled back enough to look at Bakugo.

 

Bakugo cupped his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, still shaking his head in disbelief. “Can’t believe that bastard finally got what was comin’ for him.”

 

Todoroki hummed. “You wanna go back in?”

 

Bakugo tilted his head. “Or...”

 

Todoroki smiled.

 

“Yeah,” Bakugo muttered, brushing their noses together, “Thought so.”

 

And they kissed right there on the back porch—soft, slow, like something new had just started.

 

Because maybe it had.

 

***

Chapter 45

Notes:

ohh it's fluffy fluff time.

Two weeks later, Bakugo and Todoroki officially started their new jobs.

 

After work one day, Bakugo gripped the steering wheel loosely, thumb tapping against it in rhythm with the radio.

 

The sun was low in the sky, soft and golden, flooding through the windshield like it wanted to be kind.

 

It had been a long day.

 

A good one.

 

He was sore from holding too many poses for too long, jaw tight from hours of being told to “look more intense,” but it didn’t matter.

 

Not when he could say—honestly, finally—that he liked his job.

 

That he liked who he was in it.

 

No moaning on set. No sweat-slicked strangers. No fake orgasms. No pretending.

 

Just fabric. Cameras. Clean lighting.

 

And clothes that stayed on his body.

 

He pulled up to a red light, drumming his fingers on the console now.

 

The city lights flickered bright around him, advertisements playing like rotating murals across the sides of downtown buildings.

 

And then—

 

His foot hovered over the gas as his eyes snagged on one screen in particular.

 

It shifted to a sleek winter ad. Neutral tones. Tasteful framing.

 

And Todoroki, front and center, wearing a soft wool turtleneck and the smuggest expression Bakugo had ever seen.

 

He looked like money.

 

Like luxury.

 

Like he’d belonged on that screen all along.

 

Bakugo blinked—then barked a laugh under his breath.

 

That man. That ridiculously gorgeous man.

 

He grabbed his phone, snapped a picture—and immediately got honked at when the light turned green. “Yeah yeah,” he muttered, waving a hand as he hit the gas.

 

He cruised through familiar streets, down into his neighborhood, then slowed as he pulled up to the mailbox just outside the house.

 

He leaned out, grabbing the small stack of envelopes and flyers, flipping through them as he drove up the short driveway and parked.

 

Most of it was junk. One letter looked vaguely official, with Todoroki’s name on it.

 

He didn’t open any of it yet.

 

Just sat in the car a moment longer, staring at Todoroki’s photo on his phone one more time.

 

That face.

 

That man.

 

Bakugo shook his head, smiling to himself, then got out of the car.

 

The front door creaked open when he stepped inside, still rifling through the mail. “Hey, I—”

 

He froze.

 

Todoroki was standing in the hallway.

 

Hair a little messy.

 

Shirt half tucked.

 

Eyes absolutely gleaming.

 

And both hands behind his back.

 

Grinning like he’d just won the damn lottery.

 

Bakugo blinked at him, thrown completely off course. “...What the hell are you smiling about?”

 

Todoroki didn’t say a word.

 

Just tilted his head slightly.

 

And waited.

 

*

 

Bakugo kicked the door shut behind him, flipping through the last envelope. “You better not be hiding a cat back there,” he muttered, “because I swear to god—”

 

Todoroki didn’t answer.

 

He stepped forward instead, eyes locked on Bakugo with an expression so warm it stopped him in his tracks.

 

Then, wordlessly, Todoroki reached around him and set something on the kitchen counter.

 

A magazine.

 

Bakugo blinked down at it.

 

There—on the front cover, centered in clean bold font—was a photo of him.

 

Just him. Fully clothed. Face sharp, jaw set, hands in the pockets of a designer jacket.

 

It wasn’t Vogue. It wasn’t some massive international name.

 

But it was glossy.

 

It was real.

 

And it was Bakugo.

 

“I found it at the gas station,” Todoroki said, beaming. “I almost bought every copy.”

 

Bakugo snorted. “You’re such a dumbass.”

 

Todoroki didn’t disagree. Didn’t stop smiling, either.

 

Bakugo stepped closer, frowning at the image like it was a weird bug. “I could’ve gotten that shot for free. Hell, I’ve got the proofs in my email. You seriously paid for that?”

 

Todoroki shrugged. “I wanted it.”

 

Bakugo rolled his eyes, but Todoroki could see the corners of his mouth twitch.

 

“Besides,” Todoroki went on, voice softer now, “I’m proud of you.”

 

He stepped in close again, wrapping his arms around Bakugo’s neck, their bodies pressing together like puzzle pieces.

 

The stack of mail crumpled between them, but Bakugo didn’t let it go—just let one hand fall against Todoroki’s back, holding him close.

 

He just let one hand fall to Todoroki’s lower back, and held him there.

 

“I mean it,” Todoroki said. “You look—” He smiled down at the cover. “So good. Confident, and beautiful.”

 

Bakugo scoffed, ears betraying him in crimson. “Yeah, well. Helps when I’m not flashing my dick.”

 

Todoroki leaned in to kiss his cheek. Then his mouth. Then again, a little firmer this time.

 

“You’ve come a long way,” Todoroki murmured between kisses. “I’m glad everyone else gets to see what I already knew.”

 

Bakugo exhaled, like the affection was bruising him from the inside out. “You’re gonna make me emotional, you bastard.”

 

“That’s the idea,” Todoroki murmured, smiling against his lips.

 

The mail slipped from Bakugo’s hands, forgotten.

 

And finally, he wrapped both arms around Todoroki, kissed him back—slow, steady, like they had all the time in the world.

 

*

 

Todoroki didn’t stop at Bakugo’s lips.

 

He pressed kisses down his jaw, along the line of his throat, lingering against the warm skin there.

 

Each one punctuated by a quiet, smug murmur.

 

“My boyfriend,” kiss, “Bakugo Katsuki,” kiss, “cover star. Front page material.”

 

Bakugo huffed, head tipping back despite himself. “You sound like a fuckin’ groupie.”

 

Todoroki ignored him, teeth grazing his pulse before dropping another kiss just below his ear. “People bought this magazine with your face on it. Strangers. And I get to say you’re mine.”

 

Bakugo’s laugh was low, strained. “Keep talkin’, and I’ll start charging you for autographs.”

 

Todoroki smiled against his neck. “Worth it.”

 

Bakugo’s hand shot up, rough fingers curling along Todoroki’s jaw, guiding him back around. “Shut up already,” he muttered—right before their mouths met again.

 

This time, the kiss was deeper. Slower. No jokes, no interruptions. Just the press of mouths, and the weight of everything they’d clawed their way through to get here.

 

Minutes slipped by like that—like nothing else mattered.

 

Until Bakugo finally broke for air, forehead still pressed to Todoroki’s, thumb brushing over the sharp line of his cheek.

 

His voice was rough, shaky in a way that startled even him. “I love you,” he said. Unflinching. Like it had been waiting at the back of his throat for hours.

 

Todoroki’s breath caught.

 

Bakugo swallowed, forcing the rest out, quiet but steady. “I’m fuckin’ happy, Sho. With you. With all of it. Happier than I ever thought I’d get to be.”

 

The words hung between them—devastating in their honesty.

 

And Todoroki, for once, didn’t try to answer right away. He just held him tighter, kissed him again, and let Bakugo know he’d heard every word.

 

*

 

They both bent down to pick the mail up at the same time.

 

“Wait—” Bakugo muttered, but too late.

 

Their heads knocked with a soft thunk.

 

“Shit,” Bakugo hissed, grabbing his forehead. “You tryin’ to take me out?”

 

Todoroki winced, palm to his own temple. “I was just trying to help.”

 

Bakugo groaned dramatically and let himself drop flat onto the floor like he’d been shot. “This is it. This is how I die.”

 

That earned him a laugh—an honest, unguarded one.

 

Todoroki eased down beside him, curling an arm under his head. “I’m sorry,” he said between chuckles. “Want me to kiss it better?”

 

Bakugo cracked one eye open. “You better.”

 

Todoroki leaned in, kissed his forehead, then the tip of his nose. “You’re very brave.”

 

Bakugo smiled up at him, half amused, half smitten. “Damn right.”

 

Another kiss followed. Slower this time.

 

For a moment, the world was soft again.

 

Then Todoroki sat up, brushing dust from his pants and tugging the scattered envelopes toward him. “Guess we should finish sorting this.”

 

Bakugo stayed where he was, sprawled with one arm across his chest. “Mostly junk.”

 

Todoroki tore one open, eyes skimming the page. His brow knit. “Hospital bill.”

 

Bakugo groaned. “Jesus. Thought you and your mom were almost done with those.”

 

“Almost,” Todoroki murmured. “I just set up automatic payments and try not to think about it.”

 

He unfolded the statement. Read it once. Then again.

 

“Huh.”

 

Bakugo lifted his head. “What?”

 

“It says it’s paid off.”

 

Bakugo pushed himself upright, crawling closer. “Like… this one’s paid off?”

 

“No,” Todoroki said slowly, eyes narrowing. “All of it. Balance: zero.”

 

Bakugo snatched the paper, scanning every line. “You forget making a payment that big?”

 

“Pretty sure I’d remember.” He shrugged, though his frown lingered. “Maybe it’s a mistake.”

 

“You’re just gonna shrug it off?”

 

“I’ll call them tomorrow.”

 

Bakugo’s eyes flicked back to the page, jaw tight. “Says here it was cleared two weeks ago. One lump sum.”

 

Todoroki stared at him. “Weird.”

 

*

 

That night, the bedroom was dark except for the soft glow of Todoroki’s phone screen.

 

He lay on his stomach, bare back half-exposed where the sheets had slipped low, thumbs moving with steady precision.

 

His lip was caught between his teeth, eyes narrowed in concentration.

 

Bakugo, on the other hand, was restless.

 

He lay on his side, phone clenched in his hand, texts firing off one after another.

 

Deku: No clue. Wish i did

 

Shima: not me bro. but damn thats amazing!

 

Sero: nah sorry i dont make as much money as you guys do lol

 

Bakugo’s jaw ticked.

 

Part of him wanted to kick himself—why the hell hadn’t he done it first? Why hadn’t he just figured out a way to take care of it for Todoroki?

 

Instead he was sitting here, stewing, no closer to answers than when they’d opened the damn envelope.

 

He tossed the phone down on the nightstand, rolled onto his stomach, and flopped dramatically beside Todoroki. One hand slid under his shirt, palm warm against his skin.

 

“You’re glued to that thing,” Bakugo muttered.

 

Todoroki hummed, still staring at the screen. “Mm. Says the guy who’s been on his phone the entire night.”

 

Bakugo scowled. “That was different.”

 

“Oh?” Todoroki smirked, not looking up. “So now that you’re done, I have to be done too?”

 

“Exactly,” Bakugo grumbled, giving his side a little pinch.

 

Todoroki finally glanced over, smile tugging at his mouth. He leaned closer, pressing a kiss to Bakugo’s temple, then turned his screen toward him. “Want to play with me?”

 

Bakugo raised a brow. “What, that dumb game?”

 

“Yeah. I’ll teach you.”

 

Bakugo grunted like he didn’t care—but two minutes later he was clutching the phone like his life depended on it, tongue between his teeth, dead serious. “Tch—this level’s rigged. No way anyone beats this.”

 

“Try using the booster,” Todoroki suggested calmly.

 

“I was using the booster!” Bakugo snapped, but adjusted his strategy anyway.

 

Todoroki watched him with that soft, infuriatingly fond smile—the kind that said he could sit here forever, just watching Bakugo be himself.

 

“Shut up,” Bakugo muttered without looking.

 

“I didn’t say anything,” Todoroki replied, voice warm.

 

For all his growling and snapping, Bakugo never fooled Todoroki. Not when his warmth gave him away so easily.

 

***