Chapter Text
The restaurant was warm, loud, and dim—the kind of trendy spot Kaminari had probably found on social media, all exposed brick and artisanal cocktails.
The long table near the back was already cluttered with half finished appetizers, empty glasses, and a lopsided birthday hat that no one had successfully convinced Ashido to wear.
“I’m not putting that thing on unless someone takes a shot with me,” she declared, pointing at Kirishima, who was already three drinks in and dangerously agreeable.
“I just did one with Sero.” He pouted.
“That wasn’t for me, though. That was because you lost rock-paper-scissors.”
Kaminari snorted. “And because he loves you, and wants to impress you.”
Kirishima choked. Sero wheezed. Ashido preened.
The whole thing was chaotic and stupid and exactly the kind of night Bakugo didn’t hate.
He was nursing a whiskey, leaned back in his chair between Kirishima and Midoriya, letting the chatter blur around him in a comfortable buzz.
No missions, no Commission bullshit, no headlines.
Just food, drinks, and a table full of idiots he liked more than he’d ever admit out loud.
Until Iida’s voice cut through the noise, crisp and full of delight. “Shoto! Long time no see!”
Bakugo’s head turned, along with everyone else’s.
And in walked Todoroki.
Tall. Broad. Hero uniform still zipped halfway down and streaked with dirt, like he’d just walked off the battlefield. Which he probably had.
His hair was damp at the tips, either from sweat or the rain. His gloves were stuffed in one pocket.
And his arms—Bakugo’s eyes flicked, then locked—were thick with muscle now, corded and heavy, flexing slightly as he adjusted the strap of his utility belt.
A beat of silence passed before the whole table seemed to exhale at once.
“Holy shit,” Kaminari whispered, eyes wide. “When did that happen?”
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Todoroki said politely, bowing slightly as he approached. “I came straight from patrol. I didn’t have time to change.”
“Oh, no, by all means,” Jirou deadpanned, staring at his chest. “Stay exactly like that.”
“I—what?”
Midoriya got up to hug him, beaming. “Don’t mind them! We’re just really happy to see you. You’ve been so busy lately.”
Bakugo didn’t move. He didn’t say anything. Just sat there, drink in hand, letting the moment pass.
Todoroki glanced his way—quick, almost shy—and gave the smallest nod.
Bakugo returned it without thinking.
Their eyes met for half a second.
And Todoroki blushed.
Then he looked away.
Bakugo blinked. The fuck was that?
Before he could puzzle it out, Todoroki had moved past him, winding his way toward the other end of the table where Iida, Kaminari, and Jirou were waving him over.
He took the empty seat beside Iida, carefully peeling his gloves off the rest of the way.
Bakugo narrowed his eyes. Then took a slow sip of his drink.
“Someone got hot,” Sero muttered under his breath.
“He was always hot,” Kirishima said loyally.
“No, like. Hot. Hot-hot. Scary hot. Like ‘yes sir’ hot.”
“Jesus Christ,” Bakugo said.
Sero grinned. “I’m just saying, if he asked me to—”
“Don’t.”
On the other end of the table, Todoroki had managed to apologize to Ashido and offer her a gift bag he’d carried in like a slightly flustered six-foot soldier.
“I hope it’s okay,” he said. “I didn’t have time to wrap it. Or buy a card.”
Ashido peeked inside, then lit up. “Shoto. These are designer sunglasses. What the hell?”
“I asked Uraraka for advice. She said you really wanted them.”
“What the hell. I love you.”
“I also might still be under the influence of a Quirk,” Todoroki added, suddenly a little more serious. “So if I avoid looking at anyone, I promise I’m not trying to be rude.”
Kaminari’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, what? What kind of Quirk?”
“Telepathic,” Todoroki said. “Sort of. It triggers on eye contact. I get... flashes. Not thoughts, exactly. More like video clips. Whatever someone’s currently thinking about.”
“Oh my god, like a mind movie?” Jirou asked.
“Basically.”
“That’s insane. Does it hurt?”
“No. But it’s hard to focus sometimes. Especially when people are thinking really fast.”
“Dude. Look at me. I want to test it,” Kaminari grinned, leaning in dramatically.
Todoroki sighed, meeting his eyes for a brief second. “…You’re thinking about ramen.”
Kaminari gasped. “I am thinking about ramen! This is amazing.”
“That’s creepy,” Jirou said. “Do me next.”
Todoroki blinked. “You’re imagining kicking Kaminari in the shin.”
Kaminari yelped and scooted his chair away.
Meanwhile, Bakugo was only catching bits and pieces of the conversation—words like “mind reading” and “flashes”—but not enough to connect the dots.
The rest of the table was still joking around about Ashido’s failed attempt to get Todoroki to flex, which honestly sounded like something he’d expect from that side of the room anyway.
Bakugo stole another glance across the table.
Todoroki wasn’t looking his way.
Hadn’t been all night.
Bakugo clicked his tongue and turned back to his whiskey, firmly not staring at Todoroki’s neck, or the stretch of his thighs under the tactical pants, or the faint blush that was still creeping up his ears.
Not at all.
*
The party was in full swing now—drinks flowing, appetizers vanishing at record speed, someone (probably Kaminari) talking too loudly about thigh tattoos.
Todoroki had offered to go grab a second round from the bar, slipping away with all the grace of a man silently begging the world to stop looking at his arms.
He’d only meant to bring one beer back. For himself.
But Ashido had smiled at him and said, “God, you’re such a dilf now, Shoto. Can you get me one too? Just one of the fruity ones?”
He had no idea what dilf meant.
He didn’t ask.
Now he was navigating back toward the table with two drinks in hand, weaving past chairs and laughter, doing his best not to make eye contact with anyone.
So far, the Quirk hadn’t ruined his night. Not completely.
Kaminari’s thoughts had been harmless. Jirou’s had been violent, but fair. Even Iida’s had just been a mental checklist of paperwork and soup recipes.
Kirishima was just thinking about his dog waiting for him at home.
He could manage this.
He turned around—carefully, beers in hand—and promptly collided with someone solid.
“Tch—shit!” came the growl.
A calloused hand clamped down on his shoulder, steadying him before either beer could tip.
Bakugo.
Of course it was Bakugo.
Todoroki exhaled. “Sorry. I didn’t see you.”
Bakugo grunted. “Watch it, dumbass.”
His hand lingered—firm grip, warm through the fabric of Todoroki’s uniform.
Their bodies were close. Not touching, exactly, but—
Todoroki glanced up instinctively.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to make eye contact.
And everything tilted sideways.
The restaurant vanished.
Replaced by the bathroom—some public place, dim and tiled and echoing.
Todoroki was there, but not there.
Pressed against the wall, pants pushed halfway down his thighs, flushed to his ears and panting like he couldn’t breathe.
Bakugo’s hand was in Todoroki’s underwear, fisting his cock with deliberate, ruthless strokes, while the other arm pinned him in place.
“You like that?” Bakugo’s voice was low and filthy. “Bet you’ve been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ night.”
Todoroki moaned. Desperate.
“You’re lucky I even waited this long,” Bakugo growled in his ear. “Look at you. Fuckin’ soaked just from eye contact—”
“Shit!” Todoroki jerked back, the vision vanishing like it had been slapped out of his skull.
His breath caught—he staggered, hands twitching—
One of the beers slipped from his grasp.
It hit the floor with a wet crack, foam exploding across his boots and soaking into the ground.
The whole corner of the table turned to stare.
“Whoa, you good?” Kirishima asked, twisting around in his seat.
Bakugo had already let go of his shoulder, watching him with a mix of irritation and suspicion.
Todoroki cleared his throat, stiffly setting down the remaining drink. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
Ashido hopped up, grabbing napkins. “Don’t worry, don’t worry! It’s just beer. These floors have seen worse. Like when Kam spilled that one drink that was on fire—”
“That was an experiment,” Kaminari shouted from across the table.
Todoroki didn’t answer.
He wasn’t listening.
His pulse was in his throat. His ears.
His everything.
He had just seen Bakugo’s fantasy.
In high definition. In feeling.
And it had been him.
Pressed up against a wall, flushed, moaning...
Todoroki’s hands were shaking.
He needed a drink.
He needed seven drinks.
And more than anything, he needed to not look at Bakugo again ever.
*
Todoroki bent to pick up the shards of glass before anyone else could move.
Ashido said, “Oh, no, you don’t have to—”
“It’s okay,” he said quickly, voice soft and tight. “I’ve got it. I dropped it, it’s fine.”
He set the second beer down in front of her with one hand, crouching with the other, sweeping his fingers gently around the broken pieces on the floor.
A waitress was already hurrying over with a towel. “Sir, really—it’s no trouble. We’ll handle it.”
But Todoroki was already mumbling another apology, gathering pieces into his palm.
His heart was still racing. His fingers were clumsy. The floor swam a little.
He hadn’t come to this party expecting to have to physically confront his friends’ pornographic imaginations, but here he was, elbow-deep in shattered glass and sexual crisis.
One jagged edge slipped past his focus, catching him across the side of his finger. “Ah.”
Blood bloomed instantly, bright and stark against his skin.
Midoriya was up like a shot. “Shoto—what happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Todoroki stood up too quickly, nearly tipping back over. “It’s nothing. I just—cut my finger. It’s not—”
Bakugo appeared beside them, eyes narrowing as he reached up to grab Todoroki’s wrist. “Let me see.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Shut up. You’re bleeding, dumbass.”
Todoroki flinched the moment their skin touched.
Bakugo’s grip wasn’t rough, just firm. He held Todoroki’s wrist steady, thumb brushing just below the wound, trying to see how deep it was. “Oi. Seriously. Calm the fuck down. Look at me.”
Todoroki’s jaw clenched.
“I said look at me.”
He shouldn’t.
He knows he shouldn’t.
But instinct won out.
Their eyes met.
And Todoroki’s vision erupted again.
A bed.
Slightly familiar. Bakugo’s bedroom, maybe.
He’s on top of Todoroki, grinding down against him with a slow rhythm, mouth dragging open mouthed kisses down his throat.
“You feel that?” Bakugo muttered. “That’s what you do to me, every time you walk into a room, you fucking tease.”
Todoroki moaned, arching into him, hands fisting the sheets.
“You want more?”
“Yes—please, please—”
“Then fuckin’ beg for it.”
Todoroki ripped his hand back. “Don’t touch me.”
It was too loud. Too sharp.
Everyone nearby went silent.
Bakugo froze, expression unreadable. Midoriya looked like someone had just stepped on him.
Todoroki realized what he’d said a half second too late.
His mouth opened. No words came out.
“I—I need a second,” Todoroki quickly muttered, already backing away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—just—excuse me—”
He turned and fled toward the bathroom, nearly knocking over a chair on the way.
The silence at the table cracked with murmurs.
Ashido blinked. “...What the hell was that?”
Midoriya opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at Bakugo.
Bakugo didn’t say anything either.
***