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Bakugo knows he’s watching, sitting there on the common room couch with those distant eyes, blue and grey and strange, that haven’t looked anywhere but at him for minutes. There's probably no reason behind it. Todoroki isn’t smiling or frowning, he’s stuck on something just below Bakugo’s neckline.
“Quit fucking staring at me.”
Todoroki doesn’t stop. “Why?” He asks, like he should be allowed to look now – like that night after their extra lessons when they sparred as they swore they would, and then lost an hour afterward doing everything but fight, somehow gives Todoroki explicit permission to stare. Bakugo doesn’t want to know what he’s thinking about when his eyes flash. It’d only piss him off; or worse, it wouldn’t.
He sets his snack down beside him. “If you have something to say to me, say it instead of acting all cryptic.”
Todoroki finally meets his gaze head-on, and Bakugo realizes he shouldn’t have asked for it.
“Is it cold?” Todoroki wonders. It’s such a bizarre comment that Bakugo opens his mouth to reply, only to snap it shut again as it sinks in, Is it cold, and he realizes what Todoroki had been staring at. Bastard. He's trying to get him wild again without the pretense of a fight.
Bakugo slouches and leaves the question stubbornly unanswered.
Todoroki just barely smiles at his silent response.
Christ- he isn't doing this; there isn't anything keeping him here, not a breath of good will or clashing of equals or whatever the fuck is churning between them, if it's anything at all, and it probably isn't. This is absolutely nothing. “I’m going to bed. Have fun with, whatever this is,” Bakugo gestures at him and then snatches his food, gets up, waits for Todoroki’s painfully sincere Goodnight in that low voice Bakugo hates and doesn’t. The goodbye never makes it. Instead, Todoroki sinks back into the couch, blinks, and swirls his index finger around the cushion by his thigh.
Todoroki had said all he wanted to say already, those three little words paired a look. He wants another piece, he wants Bakugo’s brand of disaster. It’s a sick joke to realize it; he's kidding, asking for it here in the dorms, right in the common room – him and Todoroki fucking Shouto.
But Todoroki is serious, when isn’t he dead serious. After what happened at the training gym, right in the locker room, with Todoroki fucking Shouto: this is just the universe offering up seconds.
Bakugo purses his lips, and pretends he isn’t squirming at the way that finger keeps drawing steady circles. He doesn’t want Todoroki. A year at U.A. has proved them incompatible, destined enemies, the future Number One hero and the son of the man who probably doesn’t deserve to be. There’s friction no matter how you look at it; friends is a stretch, and this is impossible.
Until Todoroki stretches back into the couch and pulls all his muscles tight, teases his legs open ever so slighty, and Bakugo is left rushing to disable the bombs building in his fists. He grits his teeth. “You’re trying to piss me off.” He knows he’s wrong; he doesn’t care. In one second flat Bakugo is standing directly in front of Todoroki and letting his food drop to the floor, forgotten.
“Are you angry with me?”
Bakugo pushes the threat of his palm right to Todoroki’s center chest, sparks and all, and climbs onto the couch with his knees on either side of him. “Figure it out,” he taunts, sinking down to make a point. Todoroki lets out a noise at the sudden pressure, and it's exactly what Bakugo needed. He shimmies closer until Todoroki can do nothing else but grab his hips, hands losing control already and burning icy-hot through the waist of his pants. The contrast sends a rush down his abdomen, an elemental drug.
"Bakugo," Todoroki says in the way only he can. He slides his hands up under Bakugo’s tank top to make contact with his bare skin like a shock, a jolt of temperatures high and low. He flinches before he can stop himself. Todoroki feels him do it, it has to be why he’s suddenly surging further, both thumbs digging trails into Bakugo’s stomach and pushing the black fabric up with it. He’s awful, he wanted this all along–
Is it cold?
He notices how Todoroki stops just as he reaches his chest, taking a small breath to compose himself beforehand, like otherwise he’d lose himself entirely. "You don't even know what you want," Bakugo teases, almost a growl. Todoroki proves him wrong. His tank top is delicately lifted those few, final inches, and Bakugo sits exposed under unapologetically hungry eyes.
Todoroki just has to give one last look, Can I, and Bakugo bites his lip in a fiery reply, I’d kill you if you didn’t.
He cups Bakugo’s chest with a squeeze and leans forward, kisses his skin before licking straight up the center of his sternum. Todoroki gives the little pink nub all the attention it deserves. He sucks his mouth around Bakugo's nipple, wet and already messy, the only time in the world he'll be so careless. Bakugo suppresses a moan and arches back, grabbing Todoroki’s thighs to keep himself from squirming away unintentionally. He hates him; god, he hates him.
It’s impossible to hold back his curses; “Fuck,” Bakugo chokes at the sensitivity, at Todoroki’s tongue drawing circles in his skin like it’s his only chance to memorize it. He doesn’t expect his tongue to be split in two just like the rest of him - left side hot, right side surging chills down his torso. Bakugo wants to loathe how it feels, but instead he’s reduced to shivers and nearly trembling on Todoroki's lap.
Before, Todoroki hadn’t–
A dark blush steals his cheeks away. He watches Todoroki rake his tongue across his nipple, spit rolling down like he couldn’t care enough if it’s dirty, or messy, just as long as he finally gets his taste, because Bakugo already knows his - he'd had a whole greedy mouthful. Bakugo swallows another noise and pushes his chest out, so furious at himself that it hurts. Furious at the world for putting the two of them together and Bakugo doing nothing to resist, because it turns out he doesn’t want to, not before and not now–
Todoroki pulls away just long enough to look up, and brush the spit from his bottom lip with his thumb.
– and maybe he never will.