Katsuki bakugo

The week had been a warzone wearing a city's face—seven consecutive days of that particular brand of hell that only Pro Heroes ever truly tasted. Bakugo had rotated through three different patrol zones, exfiltrated civilians from a collapsed mall in Shibuya, punched a spiked Nouveau-Gangster through the ceiling of a hospital parking garage, and spent six goddamn hours in a decontamination unit because some D-list villain thought weaponized sewage was a personality trait. His gauntlets were still scraped raw across the knuckle-plates. His sternum scar, that silver-white relic of a war half a decade gone, ached every time he twisted too fast. Kirishima had laughed at him yesterday when he'd caught Bakugo stretching out his spine against the agency break-room wall like a decrepit cat, popping joints and swearing vividly enough to make a sailor cross himself. Then Todoroki advised him to go home with a look of mild concern that Bakugo had answered with a raised middle finger.

He'd stumbled through their front door at 2:00 AM last night, reeking of smoke and sweat and that sterile, chemical stench of post-mission decon. He hadn't eaten real food in two days unless instant ramen counted as a food group. He'd peeled out of his hero suit in the hallway, left it in a heap for whatever deity governed laundry, and hit the mattress face-first with all the grace of a felled tree. He hadn't even pulled up the sheets. Just collapsed, naked and furious and so exhausted that his skull felt full of static, and died for the next six hours.

Now, morning light is slipping through a crack in the blackout curtains, thin and gold and offensive. Bakugo is conscious in the way a bear might be conscious mid-hibernation—dimly, resentfully, buried under layers of pain and warmth. Every bone in his body offers a formal protest. His lower back shrieks when he shifts his hips. His jaw aches from clenching his teeth through mission briefings. His hands, scarred and blunt and resting on his stomach, feel like they've been replaced with rusted hinges. He makes a sound—not a groan, because groans are for weak people, but a low, gravelly rumble of absolute suffering—and tries to sink back into the black.

Then he feels it.

A shift in the mattress. A subtle displacement of heat at his left side, then the blanket dipping near his waist. Bakugo's brow twitches. He is too tired to properly flare his temper. He considers, with the sluggish logic of a sleep-drunk man, whether he's having a very specific and inconvenient muscle spasm. But no—there's breath. Warm, deliberate, tickling the inside of his thigh. His lungs seize for half a second. He cracks one crimson eye open. The room is sideways, blurred, aggressively bright. He lifts his head from the pillow, neck cracking loud enough to echo, and stares down the length of his own body with the startled bewilderment of a man who genuinely cannot process reality yet.

"The fuck," he rasps, voice shredded by sleep.

The blanket tents over a shape between his legs. Nuzzling. Right against his crotch. Slow. Adoring. The kind of insistent, worshipful friction that drags blood south before his brain has finished booting up. Bakugo blinks once, twice. His hands twitch at his sides. He knows the shape of that head beneath the duvet, knows the particular cadence of their patience when they've decided on something. Panic does not enter the equation—this is far more dangerous than panic. This is disrespect. Beautiful, brazen disrespect.

"Hey." He kicks weakly under the covers. It doesn't connect with anything meaningful. "Get outta there. I'm off the clock. That means I sleep. That's—the whole fucking point of days off."

They don't emerge. Instead, a hand finds him in the dark heat beneath the sheets, and Bakugo sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth as his cock is drawn out from where it had been resting, half-hard with morning ignorance, against his thigh. The sudden exposure to cooler air lasts only a moment before that same warmth returns, closer now, intimate and deliberate. Bakugo's spine arches involuntarily, which sends a bolt of misery through his lower back. He curses again, louder.

"Are you insane?" he demands, collapsing back against the pillows, one arm thrown over his eyes. His other hand grips the sheets instead of their hair, white-knuckled and uncertain. "I'm broken. I'm literally in pieces. My everything hurts. You're gonna catch an elbow by accident and I'm not gonna be sorry."

Nowhere in that statement does he tell them to stop. He realizes this a half-second too late.

The first wet stripe of their tongue up the underside of his shaft guts him like a blade. Bakugo's hips jerk, a choked noise clawing out of his throat that he will deny to his grave. "Christ—" His head digs into the pillow. The ceiling spins, plaster cracks suddenly fascinating. He had been prepared for many threats this morning. The agency calling him back in. A villain attack in the district. His mother showing up unannounced with criticisms and a rolling pin. He was not prepared for his spouse to become a creature of singular, sloppy determination beneath their shared bedding.

They take him deeper. Not teasing. Not soft. A filthy, messy heat that sets his nerves screaming with gratitude. The obscene, wet sound of it makes his stomach clench. Bakugo's hand abandons the mattress and finds their head under the blanket, fingers tangling roughly in hair or ears or whatever he can grip. For a second his intention is to pull them off. It really is. He is exhausted. He is sore. He is a man who needs four more hours of death and a bottle of muscle relaxant.

Instead, his fingers tighten and push down.

"Shit," he whispers, voice guttural, cracking at the edges. "Shit, you—fuck."

He is unraveling fast. Tiredness dissolves under the absolute authority of their mouth, replaced by something coiled and urgent and furiously awake. Bakugo is not a man who surrenders gracefully, so he doesn't surrender at all—he wages a smaller, hotter war against his own pleasure, hips canting upward in sharp, stuttering thrusts that he can't fully control. His brow is furrowed, teeth bared, every muscle in his abdomen standing out in harsh relief despite the screaming complaint of his strained core.

"You absolute—" He cuts off with a hiss, eyes squeezing shut. His grip on their head shifts from punishing to guiding, forcing a rhythm that makes the bedframe creak. "You absolute fucking menace. Can't even let me die in peace. Gotta crawl under here like some little… some greedy slut."* It sounds like an accusation. It comes out like a prayer. "Yeah? This what you wanted? Waking me up with your mouth like some kinda fucking animal? God, you're deranged. You're perfect. You're—shit—that's good."

His free hand scrabbles down and finds the edge of the blanket, ripping it back so he can see. His spouse, flushed and disheveled and there, eyes glinting up at him with mischief and want. Bakugo's chest heaves. The scar across his sternum looks stark in the pale light, rising and falling with desperate breaths. His cock glistens at their lips, heavy and dark and throbbing.

He forces their head down again—not cruel, but insistent, urgency overriding every other system. "Up and down," he growls, low and wrecked, throat bobbing. "Don't get lazy now, you fucking brat. You started this. Yeah. Just like that. Work for it."

A thread of humor punctures the haze, raw and exhausted and utterly him; his lips twist into a grimacing smirk even as his thighs tremble. "My back's in eight pieces, my quirk gleams are shot from twelve hours of patrol, and you're the disaster I gotta deal with? Fine. Go ahead. Suck the last life outta me. It's your funeral, little freak."

But his hips don't lie. They snap upward, needy, desperate, seeking the messy wet heat that they offer him without hesitation. He watches them take him, watches the filthy devotion in their movements, and something in his chest—something that has nothing to do with his scar—twists tight with violent affection.

He is so close. Every nerve ending feels scorched. The oversensitive head of his cock catches on the roof of their mouth and Bakugo's entire body seizes. "Nnn—fuck, you—" he pants, losing syntax, losing his last grasp on the dignified, tired man who'd woken up thinking he deserved rest. "Take it. You take every fucking inch, you hear me? My good little hellspawn. My favorite—ah—my favorite pain in the goddamn ass."