Chapter Text
The stadium roared in waves, sound crashing against Todoroki’s ribs with every step he took onto the pitch.
It was a familiar feeling—cleats biting into grass, the weight of the Captain armband snug against his sleeve, the hum of anticipation settling into something calm and focused.
This was where he belonged. Where thinking quieted and instinct took over.
Where the pride of being on Japan’s national team gave him a sense of purpose.
From the first whistle, Todoroki was everywhere.
Dropping back to intercept a pass. Sprinting forward to support an attack. Switching the field with effortless precision, reading the game two moves ahead like it was written out for him somewhere only he could see.
His lungs burned. His legs ached.
He kept running anyway.
In the stands and along the sidelines, cameras tracked him relentlessly. Commentators praised his stamina, his vision, the way he seemed to glue the team together without ever demanding attention for it.
Across the field, on the opposite bench with his own team, Bakugo watched.
He told himself he was just tracking the game, analyzing both teams.
That he always studied strong midfielders. That Todoroki was simply effective, annoying in how cleanly he executed everything.
But his eyes followed him anyway.
Every run. Every sharp turn. Every perfect touch.
Todoroki scored late in the first half—ghosting into the box at just the right moment, finishing with clinical calm. The stadium erupted.
Bakugo’s jaw tightened.
“Damn,” Kaminari muttered from beside him. “He doesn’t ever get tired, does he?”
Bakugo didn’t answer.
Kirishima elbowed him lightly in the ribs, grinning. “You’re staring.”
Bakugo snapped his gaze forward. “I’m scouting.”
“Uh-huh,” Kirishima said, entirely unconvinced.
Japan closed out the match with controlled dominance.
When the final whistle blew, Todoroki bent forward with his hands on his knees, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his jaw.
Fuck, he looked perfect.
Bakugo looked away before he could pop a boner.
Later, the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the training complex as Enji Todoroki paced in front of his team.
His voice cut through the air. “We were sloppy in transition,” Enji snapped. “You cannot afford moments of hesitation at this level. International opponents will punish that.”
Todoroki stood still, hands clasped behind his back, posture immaculate.
He listened. He always listened.
Even though he knew it was all bullshit.
Except this time, his attention drifted.
Across the field, another match was underway.
South Korea versus Sweden.
The noise was different over there—louder, wilder, pulsing with momentum. Todoroki’s gaze shifted despite himself.
Bakugo was easy to find.
Number Nine. South Korea’s famous striker, Bakugo Katsuki.
He moved like controlled chaos—explosive bursts of speed, aggressive presses, fearless challenges. Where Todoroki flowed, Bakugo detonated.
Todoroki watched as Bakugo tore down the right side, forcing defenders back with sheer will.
Kaminari surged alongside him, drawing attention as Bakugo cut inside and struck.
The net rippled as he scored.
The crowd lost its mind.
Bakugo threw his head back, shouting something triumphant, arms spread wide as his teammates collided into him.
Kaminari laughed, shoving him, pointing back toward the midfield like the play had been inevitable.
Todoroki felt it then.
That familiar, dangerous warmth in his chest.
He smiled.
Just for a second.
Then he caught himself and looked away, expression settling back into calm neutrality as Enji’s voice continued to fill the space.
“Yes, sir,” Todoroki said when prompted, even as his heartbeat stayed a little too fast.
Across the field, Bakugo jogged back into position, eyes bright, grin sharp, entirely alive.
Todoroki kept his gaze forward.
But the image stayed with him anyway.
*
The hotel bar was dim and hushed, the kind of place designed to make people linger longer than they meant to.
Todoroki sat at the counter with a single beer in front of him, jacket draped over the stool beside him.
The knot in his shoulders had finally loosened now that the noise of the stadium was behind him, replaced by soft music and the low murmur of conversation.
Midoriya slid into the seat next to him, still flushed from the game, eyes bright. “You were incredible today,” he said easily. “Everywhere at once. I don’t know how you do it.”
Todoroki huffed a small, embarrassed breath. “It’s just positioning.”
Midoriya smiled like he knew better. He leaned over, pressed a quick kiss to Todoroki’s temple—entirely platonic. “Don’t stay up all night,” he added. “We’ve got recovery in the morning.”
“I won’t,” Todoroki promised.
Midoriya squeezed his shoulder once before hopping down from the stool and heading for the elevators, already pulling his phone out.
Todoroki watched him go, then turned back to his drink.
He took a slow sip.
He didn’t need to look to know who was suddenly standing behind him.
Bakugo dropped into a seat with the casual confidence of someone who’d never been told no. “Well shit,” he said, loud enough to make Todoroki’s eye twitch. “Didn’t think they let losers in here.”
Todoroki didn’t turn. “Didn’t think they served children.”
Bakugo grinned, completely smug. “Cute.”
Todoroki took a long sip of his beer. “Are you here to embarrass yourself or just killing time until someone else finds you tolerable?”
“Can’t a guy grab a drink?” Bakugo said, slouching like he owned the place. “Besides, I figured you’d be used to me breathing down your neck by now.”
“That implies you’re ever close enough to catch up.”
Bakugo laughed—short and low. “You talk big for someone who only plays clean because he can’t handle contact.”
“I play clean because I know how to win without swinging elbows like a toddler.”
“Mm. Personally, I like it when they bruise. Looks good on pretty skin like yours.”
Todoroki finally turned to look at him—flat, unimpressed. “Are you flirting with me?”
Bakugo smirked. “Dunno. Maybe I just like watching you get all stiff and defensive.”
Todoroki didn’t blink. “I think you like the sound of your own voice and assume everyone else does too.”
Bakugo’s grin widened. “Admit it. You’d miss it if I shut up.”
Todoroki exhaled. “I’d sleep better.”
Under the bar, something warm brushed his ankle.
He didn’t react.
Bakugo nudged him again, firmer this time, like a challenge. “You ran yourself ragged out there,” he said. “You ever stop moving, or do you just wait until someone pins you down?”
“I stop when I’m finished.”
Bakugo’s foot slid higher, shameless now, pressing against the back of Todoroki’s calf. “That right? ‘Cause you look like you haven’t been properly finished in a long time.”
Todoroki took another slow sip of his beer, eyes still forward. “You weren’t even watching my match.”
“Nah. I was watching you.” Bakugo’s voice dipped.
His hand hit the bar next, then slid off it—landing on Todoroki’s thigh like it belonged there. Confident. Hot. Possessive.
Todoroki’s breath hitched, barely.
They didn’t look at each other.
Instead, they shared a brief, subtle nod—an agreement without words.
Todoroki reached into his pocket, movements unhurried. He set something small and white on the bar between them, hidden beneath the edge of a napkin.
A key card, with a room number written on it.
Bakugo’s fingers stilled.
Todoroki finished his drink, set the glass down, and stood. He placed a bill on the counter, already turning away.
“Don’t make me wait,” Todoroki said quietly, not looking back.
Bakugo’s laugh followed him—low, and satisfied. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Todoroki walked toward the elevators with his spine straight and his pulse racing, trying to appear composed.
Behind him, Bakugo picked up his drink and finally allowed himself to smile.
*
The door clicked shut behind Bakugo, but neither of them said anything.
Todoroki was already reclining against the headboard in that same white shirt, legs sprawled, sleeves pushed to his elbows. Hair mussed, cheeks pink, like he hadn’t cooled off since the game.
Bakugo kicked his shoes off without ceremony and dragged his hoodie over his head.
His skin was flushed, with bruises on his torso from his game earlier that day.
Bakugo moved closer. Todoroki didn’t move, just watched him like a problem he was about to solve.
“What?” Bakugo said, climbing onto the bed.
“Nothing.”
Bakugo was on him in seconds. They kissed like they were still arguing—mouths rough, all teeth and heat.
Todoroki grabbed a fistful of blond hair and yanked hard enough to draw a groan.
Bakugo bit his bottom lip in return, just to prove he could.
Clothes shifted. Bakugo's sweats tugged low. Todoroki’s boxers pushed aside.
There wasn’t time, or maybe there was too much time. Either way, it was just hands.
Bakugo’s slipped down first. “You’re already hard?” he said, voice low, and entirely smug. “Damn. Was it the footsie?”
Todoroki exhaled slowly through his nose, steadying his grip as he returned the favor. His fingers curled around Bakugo’s cock, his movements slow and teasing.
“I’m just efficient,” Todoroki replied.
They moved together, matched pace without trying—like muscle memory, like syncopated violence. Neither gave ground.
Todoroki’s eyes stayed half-lidded, unreadable. Bakugo’s jaw was clenched tight, like he was trying not to make a sound.
“Fucking hate how good you are at this,” Bakugo muttered, breath catching.
“Liar,” Todoroki said flatly.
Bakugo leaned his forehead against Todoroki’s, both of them sweating now, breathing heavy.
Their hips moved of their own accord, chasing friction, heat, the finish line neither of them wanted to cross first.
“You gonna come from just this?” Bakugo dared, breath hot against Todoroki’s mouth.
“You wish,” Todoroki whispered back, and tightened his grip.
Bakugo made a choked sound that absolutely counted as a point.
Their bodies rocked in tandem. The only sounds were wet skin, the rustle of sheets, the sharp little gasps they both pretended weren’t happening.
Every stroke was a challenge. Every twitch was a tell.
Bakugo tried to speed up—so Todoroki slowed down, just to be infuriating.
“What’s wrong, Nine?” Todoroki asked, breathless but smug. “Losing focus?”
“Keep pushing me,” Bakugo growled, “and I’ll make you beg.”
*
Todoroki didn’t say anything when he slipped out of the bed.
He just grabbed a towel, shoulders loose, movements calm again—like he hadn’t been shaking apart under Bakugo’s hands five minutes ago.
Bakugo watched him go, jaw tight.
The shower started. Steam crept under the bathroom door.
Bakugo counted to ten.
Then he followed.
The bathroom was already fogging up, tiles slick, Todoroki standing under the spray with his head tipped forward, hands braced on the wall like he needed the support.
Water ran down his back in clean lines, catching in the slope of his shoulders, the dip of his spine.
Bakugo shut the door behind him.
Todoroki glanced over his shoulder. “You don’t—”
“Shut up,” Bakugo said, already stepping in. “You think I’m done with you?”
Bakugo crowded him into the wall without touching him at first. Chest to back. Breath hot against the shell of Todoroki’s ear.
“Hands,” Bakugo said. “Behind your back.”
Todoroki hesitated. Just barely.
Bakugo clicked his tongue. “Now.”
Todoroki obeyed, fingers lacing together behind him, posture going rigid like he was bracing for impact.
Bakugo exhaled, slow and satisfied.
God. That alone did something to him.
“Good,” Bakugo murmured. “Stay like that.”
His hands finally came down—firm, claiming. One slid over Todoroki’s ribs, thumb pressing into warm skin, the other catching his hip and pulling him back just enough to feel everything.
Todoroki sucked in a breath.
Bakugo smirked. “Oh no. You don’t get to be quiet.”
His hand dipped lower, water slicking the movement, fingers wrapping around Todoroki’s cock with ease.
Todoroki’s head dropped forward instantly, forehead pressing to the tile, hands sliding away from his back. “Bakugo—”
“Hands,” Bakugo warned, tightening his grip just a fraction. “You move them, I stop.”
Todoroki froze. Every muscle in his body went tight, breathing shallow and uneven. He tried to swallow the sound building in his throat—and failed.
A soft, broken noise slipped out instead.
Bakugo groaned. “Christ,” he muttered, voice roughening. “That’s so hot.”
He set a punishing rhythm—slow, relentless, impossible to ignore. Water beat down on them, steam making everything feel too close, too much.
Todoroki’s breaths started stuttering. His mouth opened, trying to drag air in quietly, but it wasn’t working.
Little sounds kept escaping—breathy, desperate, embarrassingly honest.
Bakugo was losing it. “Fuck, Todoroki,” he said, his hand jerking even faster. “You sound so fucking good.”
Todoroki shook his head, eyes squeezed shut. “I—I’m not—”
Bakugo slid his free hand up, thumb pressing gently but firmly between Todoroki’s lips. “Open,” he said.
Todoroki obeyed instantly, lips parting around Bakugo’s thumb. The sound that came out of him then—muffled, needy—went straight through Bakugo.
His hips jerked forward before he could stop himself, grinding against Todoroki’s ass. “Jesus,” Bakugo hissed.
He worked Todoroki harder, thumb still in his mouth, feeling every tremor, every desperate clench.
Todoroki’s knees started to shake, body arching back into Bakugo without even thinking about it.
“Gettin’ close,” Bakugo murmured. “Yeah? I can feel it.”
Todoroki nodded frantically, eyes glassy, drool mixing with the water running down his chin.
His hands stayed locked behind his back like it was the only thing holding him together.
“Come,” Bakugo said, low and commanding. “Don’t you dare hold back.”
Todoroki came almost immediately. His whole body jolted, a strangled sound spilling around Bakugo’s thumb as he came hard, muscles tensing, back bowing like he’d been struck.
Bakugo held him through it, grip firm, steady, not letting him slip or collapse.
Only when the shaking eased did Bakugo finally pull his thumb free.
*
Bakugo hadn’t touched himself.
Not even now, with Todoroki on his knees in front of him, soaked, flushed, mouth slightly parted like he was offering.
Bakugo was practically shaking with arousal. “I said, hands behind your back,” he barked.
Todoroki raised an eyebrow—but obeyed. Just like before. Hands tucked neatly behind him, spine straight, eyes locked on Bakugo’s.
God, he was beautiful. All composed, all obedient.
“Open your mouth,” Bakugo ordered.
Todoroki did.
Bakugo’s breath hitched—just for a second—and then he stepped forward, hand in Todoroki’s hair, leading him where he wanted.
He didn’t thrust, just guided his cock into Todoroki’s mouth.
Todoroki took him in slow, letting his lips stretch, his jaw go slack.
Bakugo watched, one hand behind his own back. “Fuck,” he breathed.
Todoroki blinked up at him, mouth full, not moving—just waiting.
“Go on,” Bakugo said. “Let’s see how much you can take.”
And Todoroki did. All of it.
His lips slid down slow, no hesitation, nose brushing Bakugo’s skin, throat working as he swallowed around him.
Perfect. Fucking perfect.
Bakugo groaned, head tipping back, hips twitching forward just once before he caught himself.
Todoroki sucked harder in response, and Bakugo whined—quiet, desperate, immediately furious with himself for it.
Bakugo grabbed a fistful of Todoroki’s wet hair and held him down for a beat—just to watch him breathe through it, calm and composed like he wasn’t driving Bakugo insane.
“Wanna see you make a mess,” Bakugo mumbled.
And oh, did Todoroki listen.
He hollowed his cheeks and went in, bobbing his head now, spit dripping down his chin, wet sounds echoing off the tile.
His eyes stayed locked on Bakugo’s, like a challenge. Like he knew what he was doing.
Bakugo was hanging on by a thread. “Look at you,” he groaned. “On your knees for me, so fucking pretty.”
He brought his hand to Todoroki’s cheek, thumb brushing wet skin as Todoroki moaned around him.
“Yeah,” Bakugo whispered. “That’s it. Let me hear you.”
Todoroki choked slightly, water and drool mixing at the corners of his mouth, but he didn’t stop.
Didn’t even slow down.
Bakugo lost it at the sight of him.
He came with a sharp curse, body tensing, hand tight in Todoroki’s hair. His hips stuttered forward, voice breaking on the last thrust as he spilled down Todoroki’s throat, panting like he’d just run the field twice over.
Todoroki swallowed everything. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
Bakugo stared down at him like he’d never seen anything so fucking hot in his life.
Todoroki finally pulled off, panting a little.
Bakugo stepped in closer.
His fingers brushed Todoroki’s jaw, and tapped once against his lips. “You swallow?”
Todoroki’s gaze flicked up, slow. “Yes.”
Bakugo’s thumb pushed against his mouth again, just enough to part it. “Open up. Show me.”
Todoroki’s breath hitched. His ears pinked just slightly, just enough to be noticed.
But he obeyed—of course he did.
He opened his mouth. Tongue flat. No hesitation, but not quite steady either.
Bakugo leaned in, eyes narrowing just slightly. Not because he doubted—just because he could.
Satisfied, he let his thumb drag slowly across Todoroki’s lip as he pulled back. “Good boy.”
***