Katsuki Bakugo

The chair creaks—a sound that’s become synonymous with Katsuki Bakugo’s suffering over the past forty-five minutes. It’s not just any chair; it’s a reinforced titanium alloy monstrosity they’d commissioned from Support Course engineers, specifically designed to withstand his quirk’s volatile output and, apparently, his complete emotional breakdown. His wrists are bound with quirk-suppressing cuffs (a “safety measure,” they’d called it, smiling sweetly), and his palms are sweating so much nitroglycerin that the air smells like burning sugar and regret.

He’s hard—painfully, furiously hard—trapped behind the restrictive fabric of his hero costume pants, and he’s not allowed to touch. Not them. Not himself. Not anything. Just watch.

How the fuck did it come to this?

He’d tried to refuse. God, had he tried. When they’d first brought it up—casually, over dinner, like they were discussing a new brand of laundry detergent—he’d laughed so hard he’d nearly inhaled his mapo tofu. Then he’d said no. Then he’d said hell no. Then he’d yelled, explosions popping off in the kitchen, setting off the smoke alarm.

But they’d looked at him with those eyes, the ones that made his sternum scar ache with a weird, tender throb, and slowly, over the course of three weeks, his resolve had crumbled like a cheap concrete wall under wrecking ball. He loves them. It’s disgusting how much he loves them. Saying no to them feels like someone ripping his molars out with rusty pliers—technically possible, but why would he voluntarily endure that kind of agony?

So he’d agreed. Reluctantly. With stipulations. With threats about what would happen if anyone ever found out (he’d have to kill them, obviously, and then himself). But then came the real kicker, the twist of the knife that made him realize the universe truly hated Katsuki Bakugo specifically.

They’d chosen Deku.

Izuku Midoriya. Green haired, freckle-faced, “I’m just happy to help!” Deku. His childhood rival. Current Number 7 Hero. The man who’d once cried because he stepped on a snail. Standing in their bedroom doorway now, looking annoyingly broad-shouldered and confident, wearing his blazer but with the shirt unbuttoned to show the sweaty expanse of his chest. He’s holding a bottle of water like he’s at a goddamn hydration commercial audition.

“You sure about the chair, Kacchan?” Midoriya asks, polite as ever, adjusting his gloves. “It looks uncomfortable.”

Bakugo’s eye twitches.

Uncomfortable. As if the chair is the issue. As if Bakugo isn’t currently contemplating whether he can headbutt Midoriya hard enough to knock him unconscious without permanently damaging their bedroom wall (again).

“Shut the fuck up, Nerd,”* he snarls, but his voice comes out rougher than intended, betraying the absolute state of his arousal.* “Just… get on with it.”

They’re already on the bed, his beloved spouse, positioned like a work of art against the pillows. They’re wearing that stupidly expensive lingerie he’d bought them last anniversary—the black lace set that makes Bakugo’s brain short-circuit. and they’re looking at Midoriya with a hunger that makes Bakugo want to simultaneously scream and come in his pants.

When they look at him, though, there’s a softness there, a wicked tenderness that says this is because I love you, this is because you said yes, look how pretty I am for you, even if someone else is touching.

Midoriya approaches the bed with the focused intensity he usually reserves for analyzing villain attack patterns. It’s deeply unsettling. He climbs onto the mattress with careful, deliberate movements, and Bakugo watches with horrified fascination as Deku’s large, scarred hands—hands that have punched through concrete and saved thousands; slide up their thighs. The lace shifts. Bakugo’s palms spark dangerously, filling the room with the scent of ozone.

“Easy, Kacchan,” Midoriya murmurs, not even looking back. The bastard. He’s running his thumbs over the sensitive skin of their inner thighs, spreading them open, and Bakugo can see the glistening arousal of their heat peeking out from beneath the dampening lace.

Deku hooks his fingers under the edge of the panties and pulls them down with agonizing slowness, revealing the flushed, wet flesh that Bakugo had kissed just this morning. ”You’re dripping,” Midoriya tells them, sounding like he’s commenting on the weather. “Is that for me, or for Kacchan?”* Bakugo makes a noise that’s halfway between a growl and a whine.

The visual is searing itself into Bakugo’s retinas. Midoriya shifts between their legs, his muscular back blocking Bakugo’s view for a moment before he settles, pressing the hard outline of his cock—when did Deku get that big? Unfair genetic bullshit—against their pelvis.

Midoriya leans down, freckled face hovering over theirs, and whispers something that makes them arch. Bakugo strains against the cuffs, the titanium groaning under the force of his biceps. He wants to touch the soft swell of their areola, wants to feel the heat of their sex against his fingers, but all he can do is grip the chair arms until his knuckles turn white, small explosions crackling uselessly against the quirk-suppressing restraints.

Midoriya enters them slowly. Bakugo can see the stretch, the way their hole part around Deku’s cock, the slick shine of arousal coating the shaft. The sound they make—throaty, broken, needy—is one Bakugo recognizes intimately. It’s the sound they make when he’s hit the right spot, when he’s fucking them just right, except now it’s Deku drawing it out of them, Deku’s hips snapping forward to fill them completely.

“Fuck,” Bakugo chokes out, his hips bucking involuntarily against empty air. He’s leaking precum, creating a dark spot on his pants, and the friction of the fabric is both too much and not enough. “You—fucking—Deku—”

“You’re doing so good, Kacchan,” Midoriya pants, because apparently he’s a sadist now, who knew? He’s found a rhythm, driving into them with the same relentless efficiency he uses to clear disaster zones. The bedframe bangs against the wall—thud, thud, thud—in time with Bakugo’s thundering heartbeat. “Just watch. They feel incredible. So tight. So wet around me.”

Bakugo wants to close his eyes, but he can’t. He’s transfixed by the sight of Midoriya’s cock sliding in and out, glistening with their combined arousal, by the way their sex is visibly swollen and throbbing. Midoriya shifts his angle, grinding his pelvis against their sensitive spot with each thrust, and they cry out, fingers clawing at Deku’s back, leaving red marks that Bakugo will have to look at in the agency locker room tomorrow. The humiliation is a living thing, crawling up Bakugo’s throat, mixing with his arousal until he can’t tell where the anger ends and the need begins.

They’re getting close. Bakugo can tell by the way their thighs tremble around Midoriya’s waist, by the desperate, rhythmic clenching of their walls that Deku is clearly feeling too, based on the way his breath hitches. Midoriya looks over his shoulder—actually makes eye contact with Bakugo while buried balls-deep in the person Bakugo loves most in the world—and there’s a smirk there. A smug, self-satisfied smirk that says ’I’m winning, Kacchan, I’m winning right now’.

“Tell him,” Midoriya murmurs softly, thrusting harder, making them whimper. ”Tell Kacchan who’s fucking you better.”