Chapter Text
You watched Bakugou ease back into your comforting body.
The tension on his face looked deeper-set every time he visited. He was far too young to start getting wrinkles, only a 20-something rookie, but he made it happen. There was always some kind of tension you had to work out from between his brows with a diligent knuckle.
Most of your time nowadays was spent massaging his face and his scalp, then his stiff neck, shoulders, and back.
He grunted, disapproving, at your efforts this time.
When he went to sit up, you pulled him back onto your shoulder with a wet slap. You were surprised the bath wasn't working as well as you thought to completely calm him.
"Hush."
A long, drawn-out sigh, but nothing more than that. His bratty nature wasn't nearly as apparent without Denki around to draw it out- but you had a feeling he was also growing more tepid with time.
You pressed a kiss to his temple and rubbed the pads of your thumbs across his brows, hard and slow so he would let up.
It took longer to work the stress out of him today.
Only a week ago, they came out with the new popularity poll, and to your delight, he was in the top ten- but you knew it wouldn't be enough for him. It hadn't become commonplace to talk business here, since it stressed him out so much, so you were left to guess that a part of the issue was the lack of support in his life to help him handle his anxiety. It not only made your job a tall task, but it also left him less satisfied with his life outside of Pro work.
Bakugou would habitually slouch as soon as he entered your home. You were always there to let him melt into your arms.
Sometimes he would slump to his knees, sometimes he would pull you onto him, but he reliably held you for at least five minutes before you could get any words out of him.
Today, he cried into your chest and clung to you for so long that it started to hurt your back. All you could do was hold him, shush his sobs away, and run your fingers through his hair.
You looked at him through the corner of your eye and pressed your chin to the side of his head.
He was a heavy heart to carry.
Sometimes, you wished he was more interested in talking, because you had an excess of advice you could give him. Something to help him be a bit more proactive with his stress, instead of leaving you to pick the pieces up and put him back together twice a month.
His body twitched, all the way down to his legs, when you ran the pads of your fingers firm into the sides of his scalp.
Most of his tension was at the back of his head and his neck-- it felt like you were rubbing a metal pole, but it did something for him, because he was grew more vocal here.
Little grunts and groans, adjustments, quick gasps.
"A-hh- mn," He sighed, seething with a few twitches at your expertise.
His body was just cascade of plush, slippery muscle on muscle. You worked each knot out with dedicated care and intensity, no matter the amount of fretting he gave.
You weren't sure if he would be able to relax if you didn't prompt him to talk.
Bakugou was astoundingly quiet on his own, but today he still hadn't spoken a word; a symptom of his inner turmoil.
A brush across his chiselled cheekbone. He leaned into the soft touch.
"Can I tell you something?" You asked him.
He nodded, slowly, as you traced across his crooked nose bridge, then down, "Mhm."
"You're carrying too much, Katsuki."
Your fingers were featherlight on his stubbly chin, guiding him to look at you.
At first, you saw the rawness over his eyes as he searched yours, a sad kind of insecurity lacing his swiftly changing expression. It hurt him to look so angry all of a sudden, but he did it anyway so you wouldn't notice how deep your words cut.
Careful as always not to give him any indication of sternness yet, you let your hand fall back to his tough, striped shoulder.
"I know you take it very seriously." You kept on, tone even and nonjudgmental, "But you're putting too much pressure on yourself."
An ill-intentioned scoff at what, to him, was a useless observation.
"Katsuki."
He frowned at the absence of your touch. It took a long time to work up to the courage to speak.
"I'm..." Effort worked across his face. It landed on something that looked like disgust, or loathing, "I'm scared."
"You should be," You watched him sit up and search you for clarification.
When he was quiet again, back to the side of the tub, you reclined to show him there was no need to get stiff.
"It's a scary job. You'd be an idiot if you weren't."
He was pensive. He fought harder to stay rigid against the jets around him, the soft, soapy feeling of his skin on the wall, and the scent of lavender all around.
It was difficult trying not to be preachy. You took the time to think of the best way to elaborate on what you really meant.
His head dipped closer to his shoulder, his body failing his stubborn mind when your calm voice filled his ears. He watched your mouth move much like a cat.
"That fear is important. It keeps you sharp," You plucked a grape from the board you prepared, then tossed it to him. He caught it and chewed slowly while he listened, "You wouldn't be very heroic if there was no fear to overcome- you're not exactly brave if there's no doubt involved."
That was more than enough to let him soak up. He looked at capacity already- sharp as a tack, but his tendency to overthink these higher-concept ideas always gave him a dumb look.
There was no point to making him work. Obviously incapable of understanding you now, and potentially for a long time, you decided to try something he could get his mind around, back to the present.
His attention became split between that tough theory and on the toy you brought out. You tucked it away behind a few bottles of shampoo and body wash, just out of sight until now, balanced in your palm.
Thanks to all the bubbles, you were unsure if he was hard or not, but you could feel his back tighten, his grip firm around your thighs.
Half of his visits did involve sexual favors. Lately, he had no requests of the sort. Stress did interesting things to the libido.
Armed with the knowledge that it was healthy to have regular emissions, you made some preparations this time, despite his vague desire to just be unclothed, massaged, and 'taken care of.'
"I know you didn't ask for it. But I thought this could be a good way to help you relax."
It didn't take much convincing. He was hard as a rock and stupid at the chance of getting his cock stroked, toy or otherwise.
"Aww," You cooed next to his ear, "You sound so pretty, Katsuki."
His sharp shudder and lean, towards your lips, and not away, was a good signal.
How many times did people compliment him, nowadays? Was his agency as kind to him as his classmates? Or, even if he was getting the praise he so badly craved, would he be able to see past the metric ton of criticism he was exposed to as a Pro Hero?
A whine, uneven and raspy, "Th-ank you..."
"How's that feel?"
Those strong hips were bucking into it, just a bit, in a manner that made it clear he was trying to be sneaky. He couldn't get stuff like that past you, but it was cute that he still tried.
Bakugou's pretty, glossy eyes were fighting it. You felt the comparison coming.
"'Ts-, um-h, not--, h-Ah, as good as you, Mommy,"
Your eye roll was thankfully unnoticed. That's exactly what Kaminari said when you first used one on him.
"I'm sure."
The sarcasm dripping from your firm words kept his hips stilled. You were confused for a moment, unsure why he stopped, but made the connection in his baited breath. He usually stopped breathing for a second when you were stern.
As a concept, it was very intimate thing that just the inflection of your voice had him trained that way. It wasn't the goal today, though. You smiled.
"You can fuck it, baby," You soothed the tension in his mind with a simple statement.
That alone provided him all the evidence he needed that all of this was his reward, not an elaborate set-up to test his resilience of mind.
"G-od-- m-nh-," He whined, high and vulnerable. Warm thumbs hooked into the crease of your hips and thighs.
His head thrown back onto your shoulder as he did what you told him to, you could see the flicker of elation brighten the corner of his eyes. Slurred curses slipped from him, some aggressive, most unfiltered pleas.
The way he still controlled his thrusts impressed you. He liked being watched, he knew you liked watching, he knew he looked good. He wanted your lustful stare, your approval, the praise that followed it.
Bakugou never had great stamina. His visits were less frequent, and you weren't entirely up-to-date on his love life, but you could only assume it had just as much angst, just as little satisfaction as his schooldays.
Edging him was generally quite fun, but again, there was not a need for it when he was so stressed out already. With Kaminari, a large part of his enjoyment was the torture, the denial, the punishments. Bakugou didn't need another space where he felt like he wasn't 'enough.'
"H-ahh," His breath hitched again at the feeling of your palm cupping his balls.
You sucked a kiss to the side of his neck.
"Fuck-fuc'-fu-hh-mm," The weight of his skull was exaggerated against yours, "I like- I like tha-Mmh- Mommy."
Bakugou was close when he clenched his hands into fists. Your thighs were protected by the water, your Quirk, and his own stiffened fingers.
"You can cum when you need to, sweetie." Your soft reminder elicited an nearly immediate moan.
He seethed, nails dug hard into the heels of his hands, the ghost of hesitation instantly melting off in a big, shaky and unpredictable orgasm.
His strength was completely spent after he came. Whereas some guys found energy after their first, he always became a puddle of clingy mumbles and shaking. You supposed it also had to do with the high-stress occupation, and his tendency to take it all into his self-concept.
Gasping, he still didn't open his hands in an attempt to keep you safe. There was an effort that was keeping him stiff.
"Good boy-- shhh, sh," Your hand cupped the side of his face, directing his head gently back, "Did so good, Katsuki."
A blur of a kiss, smushed messy against his slippery temple as you put the messy toy away.
He was crying. His sobs were spaced out from exhaustion.
Your mutter was heavy, a comforting blanket to help his twitchy face and tummy.
"You're doing so well."
His burning body slipped to the side while he demonstrated a clumsy and ill-executed desire to wrap his arms around you. The temptation to tell him no passed- a favor, when you saw that he was not fully gone. There was a pout on his lips in the aftermath of his orgasm.
You held him.
Every touch was light, reassuring, a way of telling him that not everything needed to be piled onto his shoulders.
The poor thing didn't need to bear more weight when he was with you. He had the option to leave the toll at the door. He could be assured that no matter what it was like out there-- in your arms, here, it would never be losing battle.