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The apartment was quiet save for the scratch of pen on paper and the occasional hum of the refrigerator. Outside, the city lights of Musutafu glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a tapestry of neon and distant stars. Inside, Izuku Midoriya sat hunched over a mountain of student essays, his green curls falling into his eyes as he annotated a particularly creative misinterpretation of Quirk theory.
He’d been grading for three hours. His back ached. His wrist cramped. And the coffee in his mug had gone cold an hour ago.
But he couldn’t stop. Not until he finished this stack. Tomorrow was the parent-teacher conference, and he needed to have feedback ready for every single student. It was the kind of meticulous work that had defined him since childhood—the obsessive need to be thorough, to prepare, to earn his place.
The clock on the wall read 11:47 PM.
Izuku sighed, rubbing his eyes. He reached for his coffee, grimaced at the temperature, and set it aside. Just fifteen more essays. He could push through.
Then he heard it.
The key turning in the lock.
Izuku’s head snapped up, a smile already forming. The door swung open, and Katsuki Bakugou stepped inside, looking every inch the Number Two Pro Hero he was—tall, broad-shouldered, still in his hero costume, the orange and black fabric streaked with dust and what looked suspiciously like villain blood.
“You’re late,” Izuku said, the words coming out softer than he intended.
“Villain didn’t take a damn siesta.” Bakugou kicked off his boots, not bothering to untie them. He shrugged off his gauntlets, letting them clatter to the floor. His shoulders slumped with exhaustion, the tension of the day bleeding out of him now that he was home.
Izuku stood, abandoning his grading. He crossed the room in three quick strides, wrapping his arms around Bakugou’s waist and pressing his face into the curve of his neck. Bakugou tensed for a second—always did, even after five years of marriage—then relaxed, his arms coming up to hold Izuku close.
“You smell like smoke,” Izuku murmured.
“Fought a fire Quirk bastard. Wasn’t gonna let him burn down the shopping district.”
“Of course not.” Izuku pulled back, scanning Bakugou’s face for injuries. There was a small cut above his eyebrow, already scabbed over. He reached up, fingers gentle. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.” Bakugou caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to Izuku’s palm. “I’ve had worse shaving.”
“Katsuki…”
“What did I say about worrying?” Bakugou’s voice was gruff, but his eyes were soft. That was the thing about him—the man the world knew as the explosive, short-tempered hero had a tenderness he reserved only for Izuku. For the man who had seen every crack in his armor and loved him anyway.
“I can’t help it.” Izuku smiled, small and fond. “It’s part of my charm.”
“Your charm is a pain in my ass.”
“And yet you keep me around.”
“Damn right I do.” Bakugou’s hand slid to the back of Izuku’s neck, pulling him into a kiss. It was rough and hungry, the taste of a day spent fighting, the heat of exhaustion and relief mingled together. Izuku melted into it, his fingers curling into the fabric of Bakugou’s costume.
When they broke apart, both were breathing harder.
“You should shower,” Izuku said. “You’re covered in grime.”
“So are you.” Bakugou’s thumb traced Izuku’s cheekbone. “You’ve been hunched over those damn papers all night, haven’t you?”
“I have a deadline.”
“You have a husband who wants to take care of you.” Bakugou’s voice dropped, the gruffness replaced by something lower, more intimate. “Let me, Izuku.”
Izuku’s breath caught. It was the tone Bakugou used when he was shifting into that particular headspace—the one where he wanted to be in control, to give Izuku permission to let go. They had a dynamic, carefully negotiated over years of trust and communication. Izuku was the one who planned, who organized, who carried the weight of a hundred responsibilities. But when they were alone, when Bakugou came home tired and wired and needing something real, Izuku loved nothing more than to hand over the reins.
“Okay,” he said, the word a surrender and an invitation.
Bakugou’s eyes darkened. “Good boy.”
The praise sent a shiver down Izuku’s spine. It always did. He followed Bakugou into the bathroom, watching as he peeled off his costume piece by piece, revealing the hard lines of muscle beneath. Even after years together, Izuku never got tired of this view—the broad shoulders, the powerful arms, the scars that mapped out a life of violence and heroism.
Bakugou caught him staring in the mirror. “Like what you see, nerd?”
“Always.” Izuku came up behind him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade. “Let me wash your back.”
“You better.” Bakugou turned on the shower, steam billowing out. He stepped under the spray, letting the hot water wash over him. Izuku followed, sliding his hands over Bakugou’s shoulders, working the tension out of the tight muscles.
They washed in comfortable silence, the only sounds the hiss of water and their breathing. Izuku was thorough, careful around the cut on Bakugou’s forehead, gentle as he massaged shampoo into his hair. Bakugou let him, eyes closed, leaning into the touch.
When they stepped out, wrapped in towels, the air was thick with anticipation.
Bakugou dried off quickly, then turned to Izuku, still damp, water droplets clinging to his freckled skin. He pulled Izuku close, kissing him again, deeper this time. His hands roamed, tracing the curve of Izuku’s spine, the dip of his waist.
“Bedroom,” Bakugou said against his lips.
“Essays—”
“Will still be there tomorrow.” Bakugou bit Izuku’s lower lip, just hard enough to sting. “I’m not asking.”
Izuku’s resolve crumbled. “Okay.”
Bakugou led him to their bedroom, the sheets still rumpled from the previous night. He guided Izuku to sit on the edge of the bed, then knelt before him, looking up with an intensity that made Izuku’s heart race.
“Tell me what you need,” Bakugou said.
“You.” Izuku’s voice was barely a whisper. “I need you.”
“You have me.” Bakugou’s hands found Izuku’s thighs, sliding up under the towel, pushing it aside. “But I need more than that. What do you want tonight?”
Izuku swallowed. They had safewords—red for stop, yellow for slow down, three taps if words failed. They had rituals. They had trust.
“I want you to take control,” Izuku said. “I’ve been making decisions all day. I want to… not think.”
“Good.” Bakugou pressed a kiss to Izuku’s inner thigh. “You did so well today, Izuku. Teaching those brats, handling parents, all that paperwork. You deserve to rest.”
“Katsuki—”
“Let me take care of you.” Bakugou’s voice was rough, but tender. “Let me make you feel good. You just have to lie back and take it. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” Izuku’s breath was shaky. “Yes, I can.”
Bakugou rewarded him with a smile—rare, genuine, full of affection. “That’s my good boy.”
He pushed Izuku back onto the bed, the towel falling away completely. Izuku lay there, naked and vulnerable, his skin flushed with anticipation. Bakugou stood, letting his own towel drop, his cock already half-hard. He climbed onto the bed, straddling Izuku’s hips, looking down at him with hooded eyes.
“I want to taste you,” Bakugou said. “Is that okay?”
“Yes. God, yes.”
Bakugou shifted, settling between Izuku’s legs. He took Izuku’s cock in his hand, stroking slowly, watching the way Izuku’s hips bucked into his touch. Then he leaned down, taking the head into his mouth.
Izuku gasped, his hands flying to Bakugou’s hair. Bakugou hummed in approval, taking him deeper, working his throat to accommodate the length. He was skilled—they’d had years of practice, learning each other’s bodies with the same dedication they brought to hero work.
Bakugou’s hand moved in tandem with his mouth, stroking what he couldn’t reach, bringing Izuku closer to the edge with practiced precision. Izuku was already trembling, his breaths coming in short gasps.
“Katsuki—I’m close—”
Bakugou pulled off, a string of saliva connecting his lips to Izuku’s cock. “Not yet.” He kissed the inside of Izuku’s thigh. “I’m not done with you.”
“What—”
Bakugou reached for the lube in the bedside drawer—always there, always within reach. He slicked his fingers, then pressed one against Izuku’s entrance.
Izuku moaned, his head falling back. The intrusion was familiar, welcome. Bakugou worked his finger in slowly, stretching him, finding that spot that made Izuku’s vision blur.
“More,” Izuku begged. “Please.”
“Greedy.” But Bakugou added a second finger, then a third, scissoring him open with careful precision. Izuku was a mess beneath him, arching into the touch, a litany of pleas spilling from his lips.
“Katsuki—fuck—please—”
“What do you need, sweetheart?” Bakugou’s voice was a low growl. “Tell me.”
“You. Inside me. I need you inside me.”
“Yeah?” Bakugou withdrew his fingers, slicking his own cock. “You think you can take it?”
“Yes. I’ve been ready. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
Bakugou’s eyes flashed. He positioned himself at Izuku’s entrance, pressing in just barely, teasing.
“All day, huh? While you were grading those papers?”
“Yes—fuck—every time I thought about coming home to you—”
Bakugou thrust in, filling him completely in one smooth motion. Izuku cried out, his nails digging into Bakugou’s shoulders.
“You’re so tight,” Bakugou groaned, pausing to let Izuku adjust. “Always so perfect for me.”
“Move,” Izuku pleaded. “Please, Katsuki, move.”
Bakugou moved. He set a punishing pace, each thrust deep and deliberate, hitting that spot inside Izuku that made him see stars. The bed creaked beneath them, a steady rhythm that matched their gasps and moans.
Izuku’s legs wrapped around Bakugou’s waist, pulling him deeper. He was lost in the sensation, the feeling of being filled, of being claimed. Bakugou leaned down, kissing him sloppily, teeth clashing.
“You’re doing so well,” Bakugou muttered against his lips. “Taking me so well. My perfect husband.”
“Katsuki—”
“I love you.” Bakugou’s hand found Izuku’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. “I love you so fucking much.”
“I love you too—I’m close—please—”
“Come for me.” Bakugou’s voice was a command, but his eyes were soft. “Come for me, Izuku. I want to feel you.”
That was all it took. Izuku shattered, his orgasm ripping through him, his body arching off the bed. Bakugou followed moments later, burying his face in Izuku’s neck as he spilled inside him, groaning with the force of his release.
They lay there, tangled together, breathing hard. The room was silent except for the sound of their hearts pounding.
Finally, Bakugou lifted his head. “Color?”
Izuku blinked, still dazed. “Green. Perfect green.”
“Good.” Bakugou pressed a kiss to his forehead, then carefully pulled out. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a warm washcloth. He cleaned Izuku gently, reverently, pressing kisses to each spot he touched.
“You okay?” Bakugou asked, settling beside him.
“More than okay.” Izuku turned to face him, reaching out to trace the line of his jaw. “That was…”
“Amazing?” Bakugou offered.
“Perfect.” Izuku smiled. “You’re perfect.”
“Don’t get sappy on me.”
“Too late.” Izuku leaned in, kissing him softly. “I’m already sappy. I’ve been sappy since high school.”
Bakugou snorted, but he pulled Izuku closer, wrapping his arms around him. “You’re a disaster, Deku.”
“Your disaster.”
“Yeah.” Bakugou’s voice was quiet, sincere. “My disaster.”
They lay in comfortable silence, the city lights casting shadows across the ceiling. Izuku’s eyelids grew heavy. The exhaustion of the day finally caught up with him.
“The essays,” he murmured.
“Can wait until tomorrow.” Bakugou pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Sleep. I’ll wake you up early if you want.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Izuku smiled, nestling closer. “I love you, Katsuki.”
“Love you too, nerd.” Bakugou’s hand found his, fingers intertwining. “Now shut up and sleep.”
Izuku was already drifting off, the warmth of Bakugou’s body a comfort he’d never take for granted. Outside, the city continued its endless hum, but in this room, in this moment, there was only peace.
They had everything they needed.
---
Morning came with golden light streaming through the curtains and the sound of birds outside the window. Izuku woke slowly, his body pleasantly sore, his mind hazy with the remnants of sleep.
Bakugou was still beside him, an arm draped over Izuku’s waist, his face softened in slumber. Izuku watched him for a while, counting his eyelashes, marveling at how the world’s most explosive man could look so peaceful.
Eventually Bakugou stirred, blinking awake. “You’re staring.”
“I’m admiring.”
“Same thing.” But Bakugou smiled, pulling Izuku into a lazy kiss. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” Izuku stretched, wincing at the ache in his lower back. “I think I need a bath.”
“I think you need to take a sick day.”
“I have parent-teacher conferences.”
“Then you need a bath and a massage.” Bakugou sat up, the sheet falling away. “I’ll make breakfast. You soak.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” Bakugou’s voice left no room for argument. “You took care of me last night. Let me take care of you today.”
Izuku’s heart swelled. He reached out, catching Bakugou’s hand. “I love you.”
Bakugou’s cheeks flushed slightly—even after all these years, he couldn’t hide it. “Yeah, yeah. I love you too. Now get your ass in the bath before I change my mind.”
Izuku laughed, pulling himself out of bed. He padded to the bathroom, turning on the taps, letting the hot water fill the tub. When he sank in, the warmth seeped into his muscles, carrying away the tension.
A few minutes later, Bakugou appeared with a tray—two cups of coffee, a plate of toast, and a small bowl of fruit. He set it on the edge of the tub, then sat on the closed toilet lid, watching Izuku with a soft expression.
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I know.” Bakugou took a sip of his coffee. “I wanted to.”
Izuku smiled, picking up a piece of toast. They sat in comfortable silence, the morning light filtering through the steam. Outside, the world was waking up, full of demands and responsibilities. But here, in this small bathroom, they had carved out a space of their own.
Later, Izuku would go to his conferences. Bakugou would head to the agency for paperwork. They would face the world as Pro Hero Ground Zero and the beloved teacher of Class 1-A.
But for now, they just existed. Together.
And that was more than enough.