Work Header

Sitting Pretty

Work Text:

It’s the little things that blot out the drag of the bleariest days.

It’s the touch of calloused hands where they’re needed most, the sighs that melt against battleworn skin when relief of duty finally comes, the soft upturns of tired mouths rasping out overslept greetings to ring in the morning. It’s a collection of normalities Todoroki Shouto has come to know, ones that intersperse comfort where he never thought he’d need it— where he never thought he’d want it. But then Bakugou happened, and then several years happened, and suddenly his entire life was delicately woven with these little things that meshed together all the terrible, great, awe-inspiring facets of herodom, which thankfully, blessedly ended each day with him coming home to Bakugou Katsuki.

But really, he considers the mundane more of a simple grace than anything else these days with the on-call demand of the pro hero world. Sound moments of sanity are all he could’ve hoped for after their devastating absence in his youth. And even at the worst, most unforgivably horrid times, he finds it in himself to try, no matter how fleeting the effort, if only for Bakugou. But forget ever telling him that. Todoroki can already hear the potentially chastising remark should he let any of his slowly learned compassion outwardly show. Something like “Fucking gross”, no doubt. And he’d kiss the expletives right off his filthy mouth.

That’s precisely why he doesn’t warn Bakugou of his plan ahead of time. Instead he decides to surprise him, and, well…it’s not like it’s some extraordinary display of affection anyway, he’s just picking him up from work.

It’s the little things, after all.

Such irregular duties haven’t matched up their schedules in quite some time, so it’s somewhat celebratory when they do. In lieu of grabbing a drink with friends or some other form of winding down that neither of them particularly care for, content with quiet nights instead (“Like the old men you are”, Kaminari has told them time and time again), Todoroki capitalizes on this alignment by rushing to meet Bakugou at the agency he shares with Midoriya. A twenty minute drive turns into thirty as rush hour thins out, and perhaps it is a little bit out of the way, but it’s worth it, he thinks, because he knows Bakugou will appreciate his presence after such an incredibly taxing day.

If he does, however, he doesn’t show it, scowling only a fraction less than usual as he unlocks the door to let his partner in. But he’s always been this way, and by now Todoroki has learned to gauge the different flavors of displeasure that adorn Bakugou’s face, ranging from mildly irritable to enraged. This one is low on the scale— a solid ruling of grouchy, which is to be expected after spending most of the day in a courthouse. It’s not something most people would ever want to do, nevermind the number two hero of Japan. This particular look does little to veil just how much of him has been drained from being an obligated witness of an ongoing bank robbery case in which the “bureaucratic bullshit”, as Bakugou so eloquently puts it, has spiraled out of control.

“I don’t have to go back, at the very least,” he counts his blessings, “Good thing, too, or I might’ve exploded the entire jury if i had to sit in that room for another second. I fucking hate lawyers. And I had to trust that shrimpy intern with my patrol while I was gone. The one with the prism quirk, you know— Anyway, what the hell are you doing here?”

Todoroki steps through the threshold, a frigid gust of wind coming with him. “What, I can’t surprise my partner at the end of his shift?”

“You’re off, too?” Bakugou turns back, raising an eyebrow. Todoroki nods a confirmation, following him into the small room he calls his office. “Huh. That’s new. And you know my schedule, too? Stalker.”

“Katsuki,” Todoroki deadpans, “We’re dating. We literally live together.”

“Doesn’t make you any less of a creep.”

“Unbelievable.” Really, he should’ve expected this. But teasing is good. Teasing means Bakugou hasn’t been worn out too much from being forced to contain himself in a hearing for hours on end. Still, he must be pent up, itching to spark something to life. “Have you eaten?” he asks him.

Bakugou grunts something akin to a “no” as he pores over whatever he’d been working on before Todoroki’s arrival.

Todoroki thinks for a moment. “I’m craving sukiyaki.”

“A hot dish for once? Feeling adventurous, are we?”

“It’s cold enough for it,” Todoroki shrugs, standing near a file cabinet in the corner. “I think it’s supposed to snow tomorrow.”

Bakugou doesn’t have anything to say to that. Todoroki uses this opportune silence to glance around and observe his workspace, so orderly— with the exception of the contents of his gym bag tossed about, looking thoroughly rummaged through. He’s only seen this place a few times before, with it being so far from his own agency. When he runs into Bakugou on the job, it’s not here but rather out in the field during some catastrophe that calls for their combined effort. So he takes all of it in as though he’s trying to commit it to memory, understanding the beige walls and old carpet from Ground Zero’s point of view. It’s certainly not bad for a start-up agency, though it doesn’t boast much: one general area connecting to a bathroom and a small kitchenette, then the two private rooms in the back reserved for Bakugou and Midoriya respectively. It’ll grow with time, Todoroki thinks. Not that Bakugou would want anything ostentatious or gaudy in any case, but the top two heroes do deserve a space they can be comfortable in.

As he scans the room, he’s overcome with a very staggering something that pangs in his chest, unbidden. I’m proud of you, he could say, or you’ve come so far. Instead he stutters, “This…This is a nice desk.” For added effect, he knocks on it. He actually knocks, just in case Bakugou doesn’t know what a desk is, as if he isn’t sitting at this very desk as Todoroki blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “What is this, mahogany?”

Bakugou blinks up at him. “I don’t know? Who gives a fuck.”

Todoroki sighs, just barely hears the “You’re so weird” muttered under Bakugou’s breath as he returns to the half-filled out form on his ‘nice’, ‘mahogany’ (maybe?) desk. The disaster of a human being expresses his thanks to whatever deity is watching over him that he has already been dating Bakugou Katsuki for years now and is not currently trying to win him over, because god knows he wouldn’t be able to do that with lines like, “That’s a nice desk.” But then, he’s never had any particularly good lines. He’s not entirely sure how he managed to entrance Bakugou, to be honest. Maybe he’s tricked him into dating him up until this point.

“How much longer are you going to be?” Todoroki has to ask, because now his stomach is growling. He really wants sukiyaki. But then he tilts his head, inspecting a new discovery. “Is— Is that my shirt?”

Bakugou pauses in his stride to the bookshelf and looks down, pulling at the navy collar in examination before humming noncommittally. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

He does something diabolical then: he bends over slowly, strategically, and he knows precisely what he’s doing. There is no way he needs to bend that much to retrieve something from a wall-mounted bookshelf. What’s worse is his hooded eyes never leave Todoroki as he straightens back up and saunters— saunters over, and for a split second Todoroki thinks he was wrong; maybe his line about the desk really did work. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

“You…” Todoroki gives him the once-over with abundant confusion. “Are you trying to seduce me?” And then in typical Todoroki fashion, he says, “There’s nothing sexy about you stretching out my nice dress shirts, Katsuki.”

Stretching?” Bakugou scoffs, and Todoroki can practically see the displeasure scale teetering over to rashly defensive in record time. “You better not be calling me fat. We’re, like, practically the same size!”

“Our chests aren’t.”

“Oh, come on, my pecs aren’t that big.”

Todoroki challenges him. “Remember when Kaminari dared you to try on one of Yaoyorozu’s brassieres and it fit like a glove?”

“You’re exaggerating,” Bakugou rolls his eyes, “And who the fuck says brassiere, what are you, my sixty-year-old auntie? Just call it a fucking bra.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you.”

Bakugou has no retort but a simultaneously fed up and amused tch as he joins his stance against the file cabinet, much too close, head tilted back and eyes sparking with latent vigor. A careful fingertip skates along his shirt collar, drifts down until it finds a button, then another, and another, soft rustling of fabric striking gentle tension that makes Todoroki feel very hot all of a sudden. He turns away, shrugging off his coat because obviously Bakugou is in no rush to leave any time soon.

When he meets his aggravating partner again, it’s with the realization that his first four buttons are undone, artfully parting the shirt and putting his pecs on full display. Bakugou’s expression does nothing to hide any ounce of his devilry.

“Okay, now you really are trying to seduce me.”

Bakugou shrugs and slides up to him, a far cry from nonchalance. He’s never been one for subtleties. “Not my fault you apparently have a weak spot for my huge ass titties.”

Todoroki sighs for what already seems like the thousandth time tonight. Of course it’s meant to illustrate a certain level of exasperation, and of course his hands betray this futile attempt by finding either side of Bakugou’s trim waist and pulling him closer. “Do you really have to call them that?”

“Titties. Titties. Titties.” He taunts as Todoroki kisses him silly, muffling the awful, crude word against his lips, both failing to stifle their smiles. He’s too much sometimes. Todoroki tells him so, to which Bakugou replies with one last whispered, “Titties”, thus receiving a light shove into the file cabinet.

“I do wonder…what cup size you’d be, technically.”

Bakugou never turns down the chance for revenge, so he pushes Todoroki back (harder, of course) before he returns to his desk. “Okay, shut up about my boobs. Pervert.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Todoroki huffs, “Finish up so we can go home.”

“Make me.”

Now he’s being serious. He always seems to toe that line, toying with Todoroki, testing the waters before he fully commits. Is this just a game to him or does he actually want Todoroki to give it his all? Both, he thinks. With Bakugou, it’s always all or nothing.

He takes a step forward. “You’re the one who started this.”

Bakugou leans with one hand on the desk— definitely mahogany— and purposely lets the shirt slip off his shoulder, exposing himself even more. Todoroki wants to bite him there, whisper nothings into the teeth marks left indented on pale skin. The glint in his eyes does not go unnoticed, flickering over Bakugou’s wicked stare and settling on the swell of his chest.

“And you’re gonna finish it.”

“You have work to do,” Todoroki mumbles in half-hearted protest, lips brushing so softly that it spurs a sudden ache.

Bakugou slots himself between Todoroki’s legs and backs him up against the desk, rasping, “So do you.”

It’s with measured precision that it comes to this, placated exhales swallowed and chased by tongues athirst for more. Damn him. He’s too crafty, and Todoroki is weak, falls into his trap every time and lets him hollow out wordless praises in the only way he knows how. So pretty, his mouth swears with each score against Todoroki’s own. So good, the soft noises of hunger gnaw at his lips. And fucking perfect, Todoroki feels the weight of unspoken adoration when Bakugou cradles his head like he’s holding the whole world in his hands. I'm spellbound by you, watchful crimson promises when they part halfway, foreheads resting against each other.

“Missed you,” Todoroki feels punch drunk, says it as if it’s his first greeting of the night and they haven’t been previously conversing.

Bakugou almost laughs at the way he’s able to kiss the wit right out of his partner. Almost, until there are hands where he’s bare, fingertips dancing along sensitive, raised flesh. And they’re kissing again, faster, headier, needier, and maybe Bakugou missed him, too. Just a little bit.

He’s cute, Todoroki realizes not for the first time and certainly not the last. The way his lips part with each absent-minded gasp, it’s obvious he’s blown his cover. No longer belligerent or combative, he turns tender in his clutches, and Todoroki can practically see his heart skip two beats as he thumbs over Bakugou’s nipples. Something stirs against his leg when he pinches, eliciting a barely cached groan that fills Todoroki with a different sort of pride when he looks down and sees the bulge in Bakugou’s slacks. Slacks, he can’t believe it, this is new territory, so professional and put together. Bakugou must hate it, but not nearly as much as Todoroki loves it.

His stomach rumbles again, and he weighs his options. They could stay here a bit longer, or they could leave, have dinner, and reconvene at home. But Bakugou is here in his shirt, his shirt, wide open and begging for Todoroki to oblige…

But sukiyaki…

“Y’know,” Bakugou nudges his nose against his temple, urging him on, “it’s kinda chilly in here. Maybe you can warm me up.”

Todoroki decides then, locking eyes. They’re in his office. No, they can’t. He might be off the clock, but it’s still inappropriate, isn’t it? He voices his concern, “If you’re so cold, then button up.”

Gone is the tenderness; he’s back to being the impossible man Todoroki knows too well. “But it’s so much more fun this way.”

“We’re not doing anything here in your hero office.” Todoroki’s tone conveys finality as he rises from the desk, feet finding the floor again.

“C’mon, Shou, it’s just me,” Bakugou comes between him and the coat rack, all but begging for his attention now, “Deku won’t be here until eight. But if you’re really hung up on privacy…” Todoroki doesn’t like the way his eyebrows furrow and his crooked grin turns almost predatory. Or maybe he does, he doesn’t know. Bakugou’s voice lowers as he hones in, and Todoroki really should be immune to this by now, but, “…maybe I can let you hide under my desk and blow me.”

He hides his intrigue all too well. “Oh, what a privilege.”

This just eggs Bakugou on, hands now sliding up Todoroki’s back, impishly pulling at his fleece sweater. “Don’t pretend like you wouldn’t be begging for it if we were anywhere else.”

“You’re the only one who seems to be begging right now,” Todoroki counters, now crashing and burning and sinking into Bakugou for the second time in the span of, what has it been, five minutes? He’s gone.

“I don’t fuckin’ beg.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

If Bakugou can play this game, so can Todoroki. His own hands skim over Bakugou’s chest again, throwing caution to the wind along with all rationale as he wanders downward and finds him half hard, filling out beneath his palm— the left one, heating thin layers between him and what solidifies there. He asked for warmth, didn’t he?

Todoroki smiles in a way he knows will grate Bakugou’s last nerve. “Say please.”

“Fuck you,” is Bakugou’s immediate retaliation, because it always is. Deftly, Todoroki skims over the hardness that’s taken shape, grasps it loosely, drags a thumb across the outlined tip in his pants and revels in the way Bakugou’s eyelashes flutter in response. Inflicting a kind of torture this lackadaisical is an art form, and Todoroki has had many years of practice with the masterpiece that is Bakugou Katsuki. Hard-willed as always, his partner resists succumbing to the touch, gritting through lazy patterns drawn up and down his concealed erection. But at the heart of it he’s just as weak as Todoroki, so eventually one of his sharp intakes of breath turns into something that suspiciously sounds like please.

“Hmm?” Todoroki tilts his head in mock confusion, masking the satisfaction rising in his chest.

With some (literal) prodding that results in antsy twitching and a suppressed whine, Bakugou finally huffs out a constrained, “Please, you cocksucker.”

It’s all Todoroki needs to hear. “That can be arranged.”

The begrudging plead unravels him all at once, makes Todoroki forget where they are, deduces that maybe it doesn’t matter all that much anyway. Not when Bakugou is being such a brat, looking like that, begging for Todoroki to fight back. So he does, packing a punch as Bakugou rolls across the floor with the force of being pushed roughly into his office chair.

Todoroki looms over him, gripping either arm of the chair in his resolve. “How much longer is this going to take?”

“Half hour, easily,” Bakugou figures, glancing at the contents of his desk, “The whole vortex thing from last week is still reaming me out with paperwork.”

Todoroki mulls it over. Then, “Hm, okay. I can make it last.”

Bakugou doesn’t anticipate this particular response, at least the momentary incredulity on his face makes this much apparent. He blinks and it fades into a challenge, as always. Old habits die hard.

“Bet you won’t.”

Todoroki bristles, “You say that as if you could even last that long.”

“I, for one, have a godly amount of willpower. You? Not so much.”

He’ll make him eat those words. Without warning he drops to his knees, and he wishes he could preserve the glee that flashes in Bakugou’s eyes at the sight. “We’ll see about that.”

“Alright then,” Bakugou plays along, “If you can keep your mouth on me for as long as it takes me to finish this expense report, I’ll…” he thinks for a moment, then with a worrisome smirk, he settles upon a wager that will guarantee Todoroki’s sportsmanship, “…I’ll let you fuck me over my desk.”

Oh. It is a nice desk, after all.

“You say that as if it’s been some longtime fantasy of mine.”

Bakugou perches himself upright as Todoroki occupies the space between his legs. “You saying it hasn’t?”

“I mean…” Todoroki seriously considers it for a moment, then addresses the more pressing matter at hand. “You have lube here?”

Bakugou looks at his partner like he’s deranged. “Why the hell wouldn’t I have lube here?”

“That’s…” Todoroki shakes his head, having learned long ago that some questions are better left unanswered, “Okay, we can discuss that one later.”

“What?” Bakugou justifies, “You carry lube around in your uniform, in your pee-pee canister things.”

“That’s— that’s entirely different.”

“Wasn’t entirely different when we used it on that stakeout.”

Todoroki sighs, fingers ambling up Bakugou’s calves, over the bend of his knee, palms spread on each thigh as he pries them apart. ”Do you ever shut up?”

“Don’t get your fuckin’ panties in a twist, no one’s around to hear me.” That small comfort is negated, however, as soon as he adds, “But we could pretend there is, if you want.”

Todoroki gives him a quizzical look, pausing his journey forward. It’s with a certain skepticism that he meets Bakugou’s midpoint, face to face with the hard line he’d just been toying with moments ago. He spares one more glance at Bakugou, who watches the painstaking graze of his pretty lips along the uprise of it, baiting a reaction. That undoes him completely, melts him into slow and steady taunts until he brushes split locks out of Todoroki’s face to see that mark of diligence fully, wholly.

“That’d be fun,” Bakugou says, voice softer, slow and thawed out, “if you stopped by during your lunch break, with all the interns running around,” and this thought is broken by a hitch in his breath as Todoroki unzips him, kisses where he strains against his underwear, “So easy to get caught…but you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Todoroki doesn’t answer, only beckons a gasp forth as he sends kitten licks up Bakugou’s hard-on, wets the grey cotton with soft suckles where precum has already started to soak through. No, he won’t last. But it’s cute when Bakugou tries to prove himself like this.

It’s only when the hips beneath his hot mouth start to writhe with impatience that Todoroki gives him the small mercy of unwrapping him completely. Bakugou shifts up, lets his garments pool at his feet, now dressed only in the shirt he stole from Todoroki, opened halfway as a window for his heaving chest. Between that and Bakugou’s pretty cock standing at attention for him, Todoroki doesn’t know where to look first. He’s almost ashamed of how much his mouth actually waters as he rakes him over, gaze finally resting upon the thickness of his shaft and the pulsing veins that run along the underside, disappearing into the folds of his foreskin. With nimble fingers he lets it stretch back and forth over the slick head before he leans in.

“Maybe you’d want everyone to know what a good cockwarmer you are, sitting pretty under my desk,” Bakugou says impossibly low, almost falsely saccharine, and it makes Todoroki’s hair stand on end. His wet lips draw a murmured curse as they encase him inch by inch, embedding Bakugou in the heat he’d wanted so badly. “How long can you last, Shouto?”

With Bakugou halfway sunken in, Todoroki stares, just as placid as always, promising to uphold his side of the bargain. He indulges in being filled, if only ever by the one person who can match him blow for blow (pun somewhat intended.) It’ll be an easy defeat.

“What’s the matter?” Bakugou does well to hide his pleasure that instead makes itself known through the throb in Todoroki’s mouth. “Cat got your tongue?”

More like Kat, Todoroki wants to say. Two low, indistinguishable hums surround Bakugou, and it could be a muffled “Fuck you”, but who can be totally certain?

“No noise and no moving,” Bakugou lays down the ground rules, “You want me to last, don’t you?”

With narrowed eyes, Todoroki thinks up new forms of communication that won’t grant any friction or release. His answer is heat summoned from within— this is what he asked for, after all— sheathing a mouthful of Bakugou, searing for only a fraction of a second but long enough to make him jump.

Ow, you fucker!”

Todoroki wishes it were easier to feign innocence with a dick in his mouth.

But it goes both ways; if Bakugou wants to last, he’ll have to take his own advice and keep still as well. It’s clear he’s only just now realizing this, squirming in an attempt to get comfortable. Todoroki is content with just watching him from his spot on the floor, gradually acclimating to the girth, lips spread wide and easing over untouched skin.

Bakugou gulps, marvelling at the sight before he resigns himself to the last of his duties. It’s the little things, inevitably, like Todoroki’s little mouth leveling boiling blood as Bakugou finishes up his work. For too long he visibly ponders the numbers of the expense report from yesterday, maybe fires an asinine inquiry at Todoroki about the intersection where that one building collapsed, knowing full well that his partner won’t answer. And he doesn’t. He simply glares, eyes glinting coldly like they always do when Bakugou is being particularly abhorrent. It’s a look reserved only for the resolute ultimatum they always seem to come to, and Bakugou loves it. Can’t get enough of it. Todoroki begs to differ.

He paces himself, sinking slowly enough that Bakugou doesn’t even notice. Between his knees and his jaw, it’s already torture. Everything aches so immensely that it’s all Todoroki can do to concentrate on preserving his place there between Bakugou’s legs, still as a statue, quiet as the dead of night. Suddenly he finds it hard to breathe, air pushed and pulled harshly through his nose in short bursts. It’s not too much, he tells himself. Not yet, at least.

Todoroki doesn’t know how much time has passed when a hand creeps under the desk, fingers weaving through petal-soft hair. His eyes flutter shut instinctively as he quells a desperate sigh, reveling in the adoring strokes at his scalp. No noise, he reminds himself. It seems to be Bakugou’s one advantage over him, even as someone who doesn’t particularly say much in the first place. He never knew being still could be so grievous.

“So pretty,” Bakugou murmurs, “Could stay like this forever.”

Absent-minded fingers twirl around red and white alike, petting and playing like they’ve got all the time in the world. Todoroki peers up through thick lashes, eyes straining to see the love in Bakugou’s gaze, something so unabashedly doting that it makes Todoroki’s heart stall in his chest. He forgets the conditions for a moment and almost loosens his tongue, keening to treasure and lave what he’s been keeping warm for too long. But it hits him when a finger brushes just underneath his earlobe where it meets the neck, producing an involuntary lurch that would be a laugh.

Take back every bit of affection misplaced in the past minute, forget everything, he redacts it all— Bakugou is a bastard through and through.

He knows all of Todoroki’s weaknesses even as he distracts himself with other tasks. He knows the reaction he’ll get if he consciously touches where Todoroki is most ticklish. A muffled sound vibrates around Bakugou again as payback, a simple “Stop” that sounds like absolutely nothing but the shortness of breath it procures from Bakugou.

“Shouldn’t talk with your mouth full,” he says, and Todoroki wants to punch the smirk off his face.

Oh, he better win this.

It’s with this aggravated thought that he sets his resolve in stone, ignoring every irritation in favor of proving his stubborn pride. The world is currently all odd angles, Bakugou dawning above, rendering Todoroki half-blind. But when he hears the incessant buzzing above his head, he knows exactly what it is.

Bakugou picks up his phone, giving Todoroki a pointed look before he answers the call— one that quite plainly says you better behave yourself. Todoroki is insulted, really. The nerve of him, to insinuate that he would play such dirty tricks. The audacity. The hypocrisy.

It’s precisely why Todoroki defies him, hammering the final nail in the coffin.

“What.” Bakugou greets the caller less-than-cordially. Todoroki can’t hear the other line but he can safely assume it’s Midoriya. “Leaving soon. No, I didn’t get to—”

The rest of his sentence constricts as he’s enveloped fully, bottomed out, finally buried to the hilt. Todoroki disregards the careful rigor sustained thus far, gratification all too sweet as he flattens his tongue and stretches himself thin, pushing past discomfort to let the head of Bakugou’s cock hit the back of his throat. It’s a daunting commitment, but the way Bakugou seizes mid-sentence, disguises the moan that wants so badly to escape…it burns hotly in the pit of Todoroki’s stomach, makes fulfillment all the more pleasing. It’s only when Bakugou twitches in his seat, just barely catching the instinctive buck of his hips, that Todoroki wishes he could get some relief of his own.

“Soon. I said soon. Yeah, I just need to—” Bakugou runs through the bare minimum responses just to end the call, “I dunno, it was over before I could…No, but they said…Okay, whatever. Bye.”

Todoroki hears more than sees Bakugou slam the phone down on the desk. Scowling down at the man in between his legs, he berates, “You play dirty.”

And I’m not even sorry about it, Todoroki would say if only he wasn’t swallowing Bakugou whole with his nose pressed up against coarse, blond curls. He blinks instead, stoic as ever, fighting the hot prickle behind his eyes. Bakugou curses under his breath with one last lingering look, indecipherable between admiration and confrontation. But Todoroki knows him better than that; even through the tears borne of physical stress, he can just barely see Bakugou’s jaw set in an attempt to keep composure before he hunches over again and scribbles something lightning fast. Bakugou’s waning patience is a short-lived victory, however, as Todoroki adds trying not to choke to his list of worries.

The tap of a pen on wood cuts through sharp focus. “What’s the postal code for Oimachi Station?”

In his current predicament, Todoroki struggles to shoot Bakugou an incredulous look. How on earth is he supposed to— He lets out a sharp breath through his nose and holds up one finger, then four fingers, then—

“Hold on,” Bakugou looks back and forth between his partner and his work, repeating each number, “One…four…eight…” This is so, SO ridiculous, and between gagging and his knees screaming bloody murder, Todoroki cannot find the humor in this despite the obvious inanity of being latched onto Bakugou’s crotch, on the verge of choking while signalling numbers to him.

It’s silent again save for Todoroki’s harsh breathing. His time is measured in aching stillness behind the darkness of his eyelids, caught up in the soreness and the heat and the taste, so overwhelming that it feels like drowning. To hell with the stakes and his pride, he just wants so badly to move, to feel Bakugou swell inside him just before he crests. Pain and exhaustion stab through his jaw as he imagines it, glacially slow in the act of palming himself through his pants. If it’s going to hurt, he’s going to make it worth it.

If only he were so lucky. Bakugou notices, of course, because the sound of friction might as well be the echo of a pin drop in the quiet room. “Desperation ain’t a good look on you,” he says, tilting Todoroki’s chin up with one finger, “If you wanted some help, all you had to do was ask.”

Bakugou’s form blurs as he reclines in his seat. Though his vision stings, Todoroki won’t look away. And when the weight of Bakugou’s foot comes down where Todoroki needs it most, he can’t stop the quiet moan that rises, gagging him again. Eyes screwed shut and eyebrows drawn together, he lets the unsought tears spill over as Bakugou gets too much pleasure out of toying with him, nudging Todoroki’s growing hardness with the point of his shoe. The duality of the two conflicting sensations makes it unbearable to endure, only worsening when he realizes he’s been openly drooling. Unable to swallow, saliva drips off his chin onto the floor, down his neck, wet and messy. He can’t suppress the sound that coils around Bakugou’s length this time, a plea with no true intent.


Somehow Todoroki still has the strength to politely flip him off.

Work goes forgotten as Bakugou watches Todoroki come apart between his legs. Following suit, he unravels in slow increments, fingertips darting over his abs, tracing circles around his nipples and flicking the hard buds of them. He goes rigid in Todoroki’s hot mouth as he does so, quivering on the brink of something crucial.

He shudders through broken litanies, “So gorgeous” and “Wanna fuck your mouth” being the most distinguishable through the haze that clouds Todoroki’s mind. It’s when Bakugou’s hips spasm into him, choking him, that Todoroki realizes Bakugou’s work is done. He’s won.

This catalyst dislodges him at once, and he groans in pain more than anything else when his lips loosen, slick and dribbling up the length that’s been blocking his airway for what feels like an eternity. He’s never been more grateful for his own autonomy, no matter how much it hurts to exercise his jaw, feeling the bones click with disuse. He sighs against the cockhead, completely saturated and glistening, before he sucks in sweet air and bores down once again.

Todoroki gets even by sweeping his tongue along the ridge that meets the crown, swollen, red, and throbbing. He seeks counterplay in the dither of stimulation, searching for feeling where he’s lost it in his legs, too numbed from being at Bakugou’s beckoned call. He blesses his partner with the most reverent payback, and when Bakugou absolutely whines, grunting, “Fuck, Shouto, I-I'm—” he swallows every last drop that shoots hot and hard down his throat, sweeter than anything he’s ever known.

What’s left is a heaving wreck in an office chair, all smugness stripped away. Todoroki doesn’t fair much better in total ruins, wiping away the mess of his mouth and neck, adjusting back to normal by kneading out the soreness in his jaw.

“You’re a fucking cheater.”

It’s all pins and needles when Todoroki rises on shaky legs. His voice is shot to hell, completely hoarse. He coughs to clear it out before answering, “You were finished. You hadn’t written anything for several minutes. I was just riding out my victory.” He massages out the kinks in his neck, teasing, “Thought you liked it when I gave it my all?”

“Well, gee fuckin’ whiz,” Bakugou scoffs, “Who knew you were so perceptive.”

“Don’t be a sore loser. You got yours, now I get mine.”

Todoroki leans against the desk and reaches out, offering ceasefire. Bakugou takes his hand, though not without feigning reluctance in a childish display of spite. “Only because you were so pretty drooling on my cock. It’s a good look for you.”

Still as insolent as ever, it seems. In one swift movement, Todoroki knocks the papers to the floor and cuts off Bakugou’s complaint by crowding him onto the desk. He’s shell-shocked by the fluidity for only for a moment, watching Todoroki rummage until he finds a small bottle of what Bakugou refers to as emergency lube (which Todoroki still can’t wrap his head around) in the far corner of the bottom-most drawer.

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t wear you out too much,” Bakugou marvels, then eats his words as his knees are hiked up with no mercy, pants still dangling around his ankles. Todoroki takes note of the dress shirt barely doing anything to cover him at this point. Definitely stretched, he thinks. Oh well, it looks better on him anyway.

“You look good in this color,” he says conversationally, squirting a healthy amount of lube into his hand, “It suits you.”

“Yeah? Maybe I should steal your clothes more often.”

“Not unless you have a death wish.”

Bakugou pretends to think it over as he reclines back on his elbows. With attentive eyes on Todoroki, he decides, “There are worse ways to die.”

“Stop talking,” Todoroki mutters, hyper aware of every ache as he aligns their bodies, “Still sore.”

“Oh, poor baby,” Bakugou mocks, and for that, Todoroki pushes his middle finger into him without warning. The reaction is immediate; Bakugou’s head falls back as he grits his teeth against a moan, already arching up in a silent request for more.

It’s sloppy and hurried with Todoroki still terribly afflicted, but neither have the time nor energy to care as they make quick work of the precursor to the relief Todoroki craves so badly. He’s two fingers deep with Bakugou thrusting back into him, panting “Shouto, Shouto” over and over like it’s the only thing he knows.

And then the click of the agency’s front door renders them frozen. Bakugou groans in annoyance, clenching around Todoroki’s fingers. “Fuck. Motherfucker. Son of a fucking bitch. Are you fucking kidding me.”

Todoroki doesn’t have to peer through the blinds to know that it’s Midoriya. There’s a rustling around the outer room when their guest notices that Bakugou’s office light is still on. “Kacchan,” he calls, “what are you still doing here?”

Bakugou glares at Todoroki in exasperation, as if somehow this is his fault. Todoroki almost laughs.

If he were a nicer person, he’d take his fingers out of Bakugou. But he’s not, so with some difficulty, he adds another and basks in the look of betrayal warring with the rapture that pries Bakugou’s mouth open in a silent moan.

Finally Bakugou’s brain starts working again as he shouts through the wall, “Work— p-paperwork— fuck—”

“Oh, still?” Midoriya replies, and the clarity of his approaching voice paints horror on Bakugou’s face. “How many follow-ups do you need to file for that one incident?”

His question is promptly met with a guttural groan as Todoroki hooks in and finds Bakugou’s weakest point. Bakugou slaps a shaky hand to his mouth to prevent anymore involuntary noise from escaping, and with wide, angry eyes, he promises to strike down his partner where he stands.

Luckily, Midoriya seems to take his response for frustration rather than arousal. He sounds concerned when he says, “I hope it’s not stressing you out too much.”

Bakugou huffs, knowing this won’t end any time soon unless he prompts it. He pulls Todoroki’s fingers out with reluctance, gasping at the sudden absence. Todoroki helps him fix his shirt, and it looks passable if you squint and ignore the unevenness of the two buttons they missed. Bakugou pulls his pants up haphazardly, digging his wallet out before wrenching his office door open just enough to poke his head out and shoo Midoriya away.

Unseen and off to the side, Todoroki can tell Bakugou looks far past disheveled, because the first thing Midoriya says is, “Kacchan…are you alright? You look so…”

Bakugou cuts him off by stuffing a wad of bills into his hand. “Go get me a coffee. Food. Something. Anything. Just go.”

And if Todoroki were a nicer person, he’d keep quiet. But he’s not, so he adds with no small amount of volume, “If possible, I’d also like a matcha tea!”

Bakugou visibly deadens inside, closing his eyes in defeat. Slyness colors Midoriya’s tone as he makes the realization. “Oh…hi, Todoroki-kun,” he says without even checking to confirm, “You know, it seems like a nice night for a brisk walk. Maybe I’ll get a head start on my patrol.”

“Maybe you will,” Bakugou says through clenched teeth.

“And I trust you’ll finish up your…very important work. Have fun.”

“Fuck off and die.”

Bakugou slams the door and turns with murderous intent. This menace, of course, is negated by his pants falling to the floor again as he abandons his disorderly attempt at looking put together. And that’s what sends Todoroki over the edge, bursting out laughing and clutching his desk, this very nice, mahogany desk, for support. Bakugou tries a “Fuck you” but it comes out quaking and drenched in laughter as well. It’s all too contagious, and suddenly they’re both cracking up and doubled over at their own stupidity.

Todoroki grasps his jaw, grinning against the ache. “It hurts to laugh.”

This just splits Bakugou’s sides even more, like he’s only just gathered what’s happened. “I can’t believe you sucked my dick for a half hour. Holy shit.”

It’s the little things, they both agree between laughs peppered with messy kisses, in absolute stitches over the absurdity of it all.