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1.
Since he and Bakugou moved in together, Shouto has never eaten better. Not to say Shouto wasn’t well-fed at the Todoroki estate, but his father had been a purist and disciplinarian in that aspect as well, sticking to strict portions of health foods prepared in the most orthodox Japanese methods. Bakugou’s cooking on the other hand, much like Bakugou himself, is wide-ranging, surprisingly methodical, and constantly striving for top quality. In short, it’s really fucking good.
Tonight’s dinner is as solid a testament as any to Bakugou’s culinary ability: spicy pork bulgogi, carrot-ginger salad, rice, tsukemono for Shouto, banchan for Bakugou.
“I don’t know how you made this taste so good,” Shouto comments as they’re eating. “The quality of the meat isn’t even that high.”
“Novelty of commoners’ food still hasn’t worn off yet, young master?” Bakugou scoffs, but if the generous helping of pork he dumps into Shouto’s bowl is anything to go by, he’s pleased.
“Maybe we should open a restaurant in the future,” Shouto says in a rare moment of whimsy, “I think our quirks would be well-suited to it.”
Bakugou doesn’t even deign to look up from his food to that. “Do you take your job as a Pro-Hero seriously at all?”
“I mean, when we retire,” Shouto amends, keen on keeping the conversation going.
“I ain’t retiring,” Bakugou replies, crunching on his beansprouts determinedly, “After I beat Deku I’m gonna be the number one hero, and I’m gonna stay number one until I get taken out in action.”
“Suppose you’re such a good hero that no villain ever manages to kill you and your crippling rheumatism makes you a liability on the field, then.”
That earns Shouto a withering look, but Bakugou bites. “It wouldn’t be the worst job I’ll have had. Hell, the public’s missing out. Business would be booming at King Explosion Murder’s Kitchen.”
Shouto smothers his fondness with a glass of water to his mouth, but Bakugou must have caught it anyway because he sneers, as close to affectionate teasing as Bakugou will ever get, “Instead here I am feeding your pampered, unappreciative ass.”
“I am appreciative,” Shouto says, and takes an extra-large mouthful of rice and meat to emphasize.
Bakugo snorts. “Anyway, it’s not like you’d be much help around the kitchen. You’d just be a glorified ice maker and grill top.”
Cheeks bulging with food, Shouto doesn’t have room to argue. Bakugou finishes eating and begins collecting the dinnerware.
“You can contribute to this household by doing the dishes,” Bakugou looks over Shouto with a leer, “and if you really want to show your appreciation you can suck my dick afterward.”
Shouto swallows. “But your food tastes so much better than your dick.”
Bakugou chucks a pair of chopsticks at him.
2.
Shouto does end up sucking Bakugou’s dick afterward, and then some. He wakes up late the next morning with an ache in his ass and a growl in his belly. Shouto sits up, takes stock of the empty bed and the aroma-filled hallway, and decides against a shower. With some effort, he walks into the kitchen, where Bakugou is setting the table.
“About time you got your lazy ass up,” Bakugou chides, having just set the last dish down. It’s a full Japanese breakfast, just the way Shouto likes it.
The mackerel is grilled crisp, the tamagoyaki rolled fluffy. Bakugou had even added some leftover pork belly to the miso soup. They eat in silence, the distant sound of birds and cars outside. The food is superb as usual, but Bakugou finishes quickly and stares Shouto down, something a little akin to hunger in his expression.
“Well?” Bakugou demands when Shouto finally puts down his chopsticks.
“Thanks for the meal,” Shouto says out of habit. Bakugou twitches. Wrong answer.
“You are so fucking insufferable.” Bakugou snatches up his bowl and stomps to the kitchen sink.
Shouto stays in his seat for a moment, then follows him. Shouto’s not so well-versed in physical affection but he thinks a back hug and a kiss on the cheek might be appropriate at a time like this.
When he pulls away, Bakugou scrubs at his cheek dramatically, as if he hadn’t liked that. It’s cute when he does that. Because as Shouto has come to learn, when Bakugou kicks up a fuss about something small, it means Bakugou has put a lot of effort and consideration into that small something. And try as he might to front, it wounds him to his explosively tender core when that effort goes unrewarded.
“The hell you grinning about?”
Shouto takes a step back, looks Bakugou in the eye. “Thank you for the meal,” says Shouto, sincerely, “it was delicious. Thanks also for the aftercare last night—”
“Don’t patronize me,” Bakugou says quickly, turning pink.“I didn’t clean your ass after sticking my dick in it for the fucking brownie points, that’s just basic decency.”
“I can’t think of anyone else who would do that for me.”
“I don’t know, maybe half the entire damn country?” Bakugou turns back to the sink, ears red. “Go shower already, you dirty ingrate.”
“I wonder who dirtied me,” Shouto ponders.
This time, Bakugou attempts to throw the whole kitchen sink at him.
3.
Of course, Bakugou doesn’t cook all the time. Being one of the top heroes in Japan tends to keep one on a tight schedule. Likewise, Shouto doesn’t always come home for dinner either. There are some nights when Shouto goes to bed when Bakugou’s already asleep, some mornings when he wakes up when Bakugou’s already gone, and vice-versa. Neither of them complains; it’s just one of many small prices to pay in their line of work.
Which is why when Bakugou hands him a homemade bento on his way out the door one morning, Shouto is quite touched.
“Ugh,” Bakugou shoves the box into Shouto’s chest, looking away. “Stop mooning, you’re starting to look like Deku.”
Shouto traces the shibori patterns on the indigo furoshiki. “What’s the special occasion?”
“Christ, can’t a man pack his boyfriend lunch every once in a while? Now beat it.”
Shouto doesn’t budge. “I’m going to a press conference today. You know there will be food provided, so why make all the effort?”
“I’m starting to ask that myself,” Bakugou snarls. “It’s a public press conference, which means the public ’s gonna be there. That includes all your crazy fangirls and any villains looking to stir shit. You really gonna risk getting assassinated by eating tampered catering food?”
“It’s a safe event. There are other heroes attending in addition to me. Utsushimi will be there, along with Yoarashi—”
“Yeah, and last time I checked, none of you losers have poison-immunity Quirks.” Bakugou all but tosses Shouto out the door. “Now go, you’re gonna be late.”
Sitting through the hours-long press conference feels like a Mischelian task. There are fans like Bakugou had predicted, but fortunately no villain activity. Utsushimi and Yoarashi are also there, Utsushimi spacey and friendly, Yoarashi loud and boisterous as usual. After the presscon, Yoarashi claps a massive hand onto his shoulder.
“Shouto! Let’s grab lunch together! I know a good udon place nearby that also serves soba!”
“Sorry. I brought my own lunch today.” Shouto holds up the bento. Yoarashi peers down at it.
“Wow! To think a top five hero actually prepares his own lunch! I’m impressed, Todoroki!”
“Bakugou made it, actually.” Shouto suppresses the twinge of pride he feels saying that.
“Whoa, forreal? Need me a man like that,” Utsushimi pops up, leaning over to look. Yoarashi bends forward as well. Shouto finds himself unable to wait any longer. He unwraps the furoshiki and removes the lid with baited breath.
There, on a bed of rice, Shouto finds a message spelled out in furikake:
Ur Mine, Bitch.
The rice is accompanied by uncut wieners, grilled eggplant, and a frankly vulgar-looking split peach. If Shouto had any doubts as to what this meant, Utsushimi was there to clarify. “Damn. Possessive much? Homeboy’s totally gonna get the D tonight.” Yoarashi doesn’t say anything. He’d smashed his head against the table in shock.
Shouto’s phone buzzes. It’s a text from Bakugou, because of course he has impeccable timing on top of everything else.
feel free to send a pic to your other annoying friends
Ah. So Yoarashi was the real reason that Bakugou had gone to all this effort. His irrational, testosterone-fueled jealousy toward Yoarashi, to be specific. Shouto glances at Yoarashi, who’s been suspiciously quiet for the past minute. Despite the lump forming on his buzzed head, Yoarashi manages a wide grin.
“Wow! Ground Zero really filled this bento with all his white-hot passion! I believe any good partner should be passionate and hot-blooded! You’re a lucky man, Todoroki!”
“Mm.” Shouto smiles a bit. He can’t disagree with that.
Then he sighs, breaking out a pair of chopsticks. No sense in letting Bakugou’s crude handiwork go to waste. After all, like everything else he makes, it is delicious.
4.
Contrary to popular belief, Shouto does get sick. A temperature regulation Quirk, no matter how strong, has nothing on the flu. He’d just been raised to not let sickness affect him, that’s all. Illnesses, like Quirks, were just biological phenomena one builds endurance against and overcomes. The flu that hits Shouto this time, however, is proving to be a tough opponent. By the time he gets home from patrol, a cursory shower is all he can manage before collapsing into bed.
He’s prickling all over with sweat one moment and curling up from chills the next. It feels like barely five minutes have passed since he laid down when Shouto faintly hears the front door slamming and Bakugou’s grumbles echoing down the hall.
“Oi, Todoroki.” Bakugou’s voice sounds closer now. Shouto doesn’t immediately respond. Then, more gently, “Shouto.”
That startles Shouto into full consciousness. Even though they’ve been dating for a while now, first-name basis between the two of them is usually reserved for dire situations. Shouto makes to get up but his sense of direction is shot. He tries his voice next and it comes out hoarse. “Bakugou?”
“Yeah, it’s me, idiot,” Bakugou’s suddenly right next to him, his warm, rough hands pressing into Shouto’s bare skin. Shouto shivers. “How long have you been lying here?”
“Don’t know. Since I got back,” Shouto replies drowsily. Bakugou snaps his fingers in his face.
“Hey. Look at me.” Shouto blinks up at him. Bakugou’s face hovers close by, vaguely blurry and backlit by the hallway lights. His eyebrows are pinched together in worry. “You’re burning up.”
“I feel chilly, actually.”
“That would be the frozen sheets, dumbass.” Bakugou peels Shouto off the bed, and Shouto finally notices the frost slaking from his left side. Shouto pushes himself away, feeling chastened, like an overgrown child caught wetting the bed.
“Don’t treat me like a kid,” Shouto tries for cold but ends up sounding sulky, not to mention congested. A sudden dizzy spell sends him grasping the bedside table for support. “I’ve been sick before, I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, and look how great that turned out,” Bakugou rolls his eyes. “Stop being difficult and get back in bed.”
Grudgingly, Shouto defrosts the sheets with more concentration than typically required. He slides back under the covers, feeling mutinous. He turns toward Bakugou, fully intending to continue the conversation, but sleep overtakes him almost instantly.
When Shouto wakes up again, Bakugou is there, stirring and blowing on a bowl of congee. Shouto sits up, a little guiltily. He’s clothed in a clean set of pajamas now; a damp towel tumbles from his forehead. Bakugou lifts up a spoon.
“Open up,” Bakugou says, no-nonsense but not unkind. Shouto obeys. The congee is hot, bland, and exactly what Shouto needed.
“Sorry,” Shouto blurts out, “for lashing out earlier. I was just...”
“Peeved some germs kicked your ass?”
Shouto just nods.
“Well, suck it up, loser. This is what happens when you don’t keep your body at a hundred percent.”
It might be the fever, or the slight tension still in the air, but Shouto feels forthcoming tonight. “You’re right. I was careless. You shouldn’t have to baby me all the time. I want to be someone you can rely on, too.” Bakugou sets the bowl of congee on the bedside table. Drops his free hand on Shouto’s rumpled hair. Despite himself, Shouto leans into it.
“Goes to show how much you know if you think some basic care is ‘babying.’ We’re a thing, aren’t we?” Shouto thinks this goes above and beyond what significant others do, but. He also thinks Bakugou might have a point about how much he knows.
“Anyway, there’s no point in fighting it now, Half-Ass. Your immune system already got beat by the enemy, so now it’s gotta re-strategize and wait for backup.” Bakugou shoves congee into Shouto’s mouth with a little more force than necessary. “Didn’t think you were a sore loser, considering you threw the match in our first year—”
Shouto grabs Bakugou’s hand before his ministrations get more violent. “I can feed myself,” Shouto offers sheepishly.
“And drop porridge everywhere? Like hell I’m gonna let you do that, this is my bed too.” Nevertheless, Bakugou handles the spoon more gently after that, wiping Shouto’s mouth with his hand. His thumb settles against the corner of Shouto’s mouth, thoughtful. Shouto lets himself acknowledge that all this—the cooking, the feeding, and yes, the pampering and nagging—is Bakugou’s expression of love. His cheeks suddenly feel very warm under Bakugou’s hand. He tells himself it’s the fever.
+1.
On a rare day off, Shouto decides to make Bakugou a bento. A surprise. The conditions are perfect: yesterday, Ground Zero had busted a covert nightclub crime operation, which meant Bakugou hadn’t had time to prepare his own lunch for the following day. Today was a paperwork day for Bakugou, which meant he would be at the office. This morning Shouto had pretended to sleep in as the latter left for work, which meant Bakugou would be none the wiser. As soon as Bakugou’s footsteps had faded, Shouto had sprung into action.
It’s not that Shouto can’t cook. It’s just that he never had to, growing up, and therefore lacks any form of kitchen skill or sensibility. That doesn’t mean he can’t cook. But he wants to, for the opportunity to make Bakugou feel what Shouto now gets to feel on a near-daily basis. He wants Bakugou to feel cared for.
Shouto keeps the menu simple: tamagoyaki and karashi mentaiko onigiri. The rice turns out too mushy the first round, so he cooks it again and burns it. He makes a second batch that’s too sticky to handle until Shouto freezes one salted hand to form the onigiri. He fries the eggs on his left arm, for Quirk practice, and just because he can. After a few hours, he has what can be called a passable lunch. Shouto packs and wraps the bento, already hearing Bakugou’s nagging voice picking out all its shortcomings. He can’t wait.
But as luck would have it, Shouto’s on his way to Bakugou’s agency, magnum opus in hand, when a storefront ahead of him suddenly explodes. Contrary to what Bakugou might say, Shouto is serious about being a Pro-Hero. Which is why instead of walking straight past the scene of the crime to deliver lunch to his boyfriend like he wants to, Shouto freezes the bento onto his back and springs into action for the second time that day.
The villain’s got a detonation-based Quirk that manifests in projecting small but numerous missiles from his hands. A patrol hero is already on the scene, evacuating civilians. This frees Shouto up to freeze the villain in his signature wall of ice. It’s all going fairly well until Shouto realizes some time during the action, his bento had gone missing.
He’s on his knees, searching for it when he sees a flurry of missiles shooting directly at him. Shit. The villain must have gotten his hands loose, somehow. Shouto throws up another wall of ice, but the missiles have already closed the distance. Shouto shuts his eyes, bracing for fiery impact, when a huge explosion erupts and a heavy form knocks him backward.
“What the fuck are you doing?!”
“Bakugou?”
It is Bakugou, in his hero suit, here in the nick of time. Shouto would take the blazing look in Bakugou’s eyes as hatred if it weren’t for the faint trembling in Bakugou’s hands where they grip Shouto’s shoulders. “What do you think you’re doing here, bastard, this is my turf, don’t you dare come waltzing in and try to steal the fucking show with your fucking half-assed —”
“The bento.” Shouto jerks out of Bakugou’s grasp, fumbling blindly around on the ground.
“ Don’t ignore me. The hell are you doing, Icyhot?” Bakugou sounds a little less angry and more alarmed, as if Shouto had knocked a few marbles loose during the scuffle. Shouto recovers the bento box behind a piece of rubble, sodden from melted ice and grimy with ash, but miraculously intact. He breathes a sigh of relief.
“Oi,” says Bakugou, ominously, “you better not tell me you put your pathetic ditzy ass in mortal peril just to save your fucking lunch.”
“It’s not my lunch, it’s yours.” Shouto dusts the box off and hands it to him. “I came here to deliver it to you. I made it myself.”
“ What. ” Bakugou’s face contorts into an unidentifiable shape. Slowly, carefully, he opens the box. They both peer inside. Shouto’s heart drops. Considering the bento box had recently undergone violent impact, intense freezing and melting, and a large explosion, Shouto’s not sure what he had expected.
“Sorry…it got messed up a little.”
“ ‘A little’ my ass,” sneers Bakugou, “What the hell was it supposed to be?”
“Tamagoyaki and onigiri,” Shouto supplies. “Though I guess it’s more of a mixed rice now.”
“Looks like a fucking massacred rice to me,” Bakugou snaps, but his tone is much more subdued than usual. He wrinkles his nose. “That better not be blood I see.”
“It’s shichimi and sriracha ketchup,” Shouto says, wistfully, “because you like your food spicy.”
Bakugou glares at the lunchbox hard, as if it had personally thrown a gauntlet of challenge at his feet. Shouto suddenly realizes what Bakugou’s about to do the second before it happens. Before Shouto can stop him, Bakugou grabs a handful of the mess and crams it in his mouth.
Shouto watches anxiously as Bakugou chews, ready to break out the first-aid kit in his belt at the first sign of poisoning.
“It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever eaten,” Bakugou says finally. His expression is like that of a noble warrior hiding a mortal wound. “There’s almost no shrapnel in it.”
Shouto recognizes the comment for the generous praise that it is, coming from Bakugou. And especially coming from the situation. Despite himself, he smiles.
“Alright, c’mon, let’s go. I know something we can do to get the taste out of my mouth.” Bakugou says, eyebrow quirking up.
“Are you going to make soba for lunch?” Shouto brightens up a bit. Bakugou just looks at him, as if he had just suggested they go to a children’s funhouse. Shouto stares back, blankly. He can’t think of anything else two could do together to get a taste out of one’s mouth within a short period of time, besides—oh.
“God, Half ‘n’ Half, you’re so fucking stupid,” Bakugou says, abruptly, fondly, and kisses him.