Work Text:
Bakugo Katsuki. Thirty years old.
Number 5 on the hero charts.
They call him the Bomb King, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, the Human Hellfire.
Rough around the edges? No. He’s nothing but edges—sharp, serrated, and smoking. The press loves to talk about his aggression, his violence, the way he chews through villains like he’s starving and every battle is a feast.
They think they know him. They don’t.
They see the explosions, the snarl, the cracked knuckles and shredded gauntlets. They see someone too much. Too loud. Too angry. Too alive.
But they don’t see the man who walks into his apartment every night and softens like molten glass at the sound of one voice. They don’t see how completely, utterly, helplessly he loves Izuku Midoriya. Izuku is the only one who’s ever truly seen him. The only one who could look into the storm and call his name with calm, with love, with certainty.
They started dating in their third year of high school, somewhere between the end of a battle and the start of something permanent. Katsuki didn’t even realize it was happening until he was already in too deep—until he was lost in those green eyes like they were gravity.
And now? Now, he wakes up every morning to the scent of Izuku’s shampoo on his pillow and thinks: This is the best thing I’ve ever done. He’s still rough. Still raw.Still sharp in every place that isn’t touched by Izuku’s hands. But he melts for him. Anything Izuku wants, Katsuki gives. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t need to.
“Babe, can you grab some soba on the way home?”
Katsuki’s already out the door.
“Can we stay in tonight?”
His phone’s off. He’s holding Midoriya under a blanket before the sun finishes setting.
“I’m scared,” Izuku whispers sometimes.
Katsuki just holds him tighter, cups his jaw and says, “Not while I’m alive.”
Because Izuku is everything. His gravity and his purpose. His blood, his breath. The only warmth he’s ever craved. And Izuku knows . Oh, he knows exactly how whipped Katsuki is. He smirks sometimes when he asks for something he knows Katsuki hates doing—like dancing in public, or wearing matching sweaters for winter photos. And Katsuki will grumble, will curse under his breath and scowl at the floor—but he’ll do it. Every time. Because one look at Izuku smiling like he hung the stars himself, and Katsuki remembers that nothing else matters.
Not the rank. Not the press. Not the villains or the pain or the past.
Only Izuku.
Always Izuku.
And Izuku—sweet, radiant Izuku.
Hero name: Deku.
Number 4 on the charts.
Japan’s darling, beloved by civilians and children and heroes alike. The symbol of kindness. The heart of the profession. The boy who broke and bled and came back stronger, smiling, always smiling.
But beneath that smile lives a knowing. A truth tucked deep behind emerald eyes.
He knows. Oh, he’s always known.
Katsuki Bakugo is his .
Izuku knew it the moment Katsuki showed up to his hospital room, hands bandaged and eyes bloodshot, crying because he was quirkless again.
Izuku knew then. Bakugo would give him the world if he asked.
But even before that—before the mechanic suit, before the gifts and the shared apartment, before kisses and “I love yous” whispered between battle scars and exhaustion—Izuku saw it in his eyes. In the way Katsuki never looked at anyone else the way he looked at him. Like he was the sun and Katsuki was just learning how to bask without burning.
And now, years into their love, Izuku knows how far that devotion runs.
He knows Katsuki will give in—every time.
Whether it’s late-night ramen cravings or reckless, heart-first strategies that only Midoriya could pull off. Whether it’s tender apologies or firm declarations. Katsuki never says no to him.
Not really.
Because Izuku deserves the best.
And Katsuki believes, down to the marrow in his bones, that it’s his job to give him that.
He remembers the way Katsuki once said, “If you want the stars, I’ll blow up the fuckin’ sky for you.”
And he meant it.
So Izuku teases him sometimes, gently, playfully.
“Baby, will you do my morning patrol shift?”
“What?, no.” A pause. A scowl.
“…Yeah. Whatever. Text the agency.”
Or:
“Can we wear those couple keychains you hate?”
“…Fine. But don’t tell Kiri.”
And sometimes, it’s softer.
“Hold me.”
Already in his arms. No words needed.
Izuku knows he holds Katsuki’s heart in his hands. And he cherishes it. Protects it. Worships it just as much as Katsuki worships him. Because love like this—their love—isn't soft and quiet.
It’s feral and burning and true.
It’s raw affection wrapped in explosive heat and gentle hands pressed against each other in the dark. Izuku doesn’t need the world to see it. He just needs Katsuki.
And Katsuki, gods help him, would kneel at his feet if he asked.
But he never has to.
Katsuki’s already there.
Willing. Loving. Undone.
It had been a shit day. Katsuki’s boots were still sticky from the remnants of that slime bastard’s quirk, his gloves were soaked with soap and industrial disinfectant from scrubbing himself raw in the agency’s showers, and his shoulder ached like hell from throwing one too many civilians out of harm’s way.
But none of that mattered.
Because he was home.
And he was here.
The second Katsuki opened the apartment door, his body stopped hurting.
His pulse steadied.
His breath caught.
Izuku Midoriya—his sweet, beautiful, unholy weakness—lay sprawled across their couch, legs bare, drowning in Katsuki’s worn-out Aji Fry t-shirt, the one with the faded edges and soft cotton, stretched loose around Izuku’s thighs. That damn shirt he could never throw away, because Izuku claimed it as his, years ago.
His curls were messy, cheeks pink from warmth or wine, or maybe just Katsuki’s presence. He was glowing in the low light of the room like something divine, and those eyes —fuck, those eyes —looked up and pinned Katsuki in place.
Eyes that said, You’re home.
Eyes that whispered, Worship me.
And Katsuki didn’t hesitate.
His duffle bag hit the floor with a soft thud , and he was already moving, already dropping to his knees like his body had been waiting all day to collapse at Izuku’s feet.
Hands braced on the floor.
Breath heavy in his throat.
Izuku shifted, slow and deliberate, one thigh sliding further apart, the hem of the shirt rising just barely, teasing. And Katsuki’s heart stuttered in his chest like he was still eighteen and hopelessly in love for the first time.
Because he was .
Still hopeless.
Still feral with need.
Still fucking ruined for this man.
Katsuki looked up once—just once—and Izuku smiled, soft and smug all at once. A hand came to rest in his hair, gentle and guiding, and Katsuki leaned forward like he’d been called by God.
He took Izuku’s leg in his hands, reverent.
Pressed a kiss to his ankle.
Then another to the smooth skin above it.
He kissed up the line of his shin, slow, breathing against his skin like it was holy.
And Izuku just watched, humming low, the sound vibrating deep in Katsuki’s chest, making his hands shake from the weight of his own devotion.
The hero world called Katsuki too much.
Too loud. Too brutal. Too wild.
But here, at Izuku’s feet, he was just enough.
He was what he wanted to be—soft in the hands of the only person who ever loved him right.
Because Izuku knew.
Knew that Katsuki would fall apart at a glance. Would kneel, beg, break, burn—for him. And Katsuki didn’t just worship him because of the shirt, or the pose, or even the hunger thrumming in his veins.
He worshipped because it was Izuku.
Because every second with him felt like breathing fire and tasting sugar at the same time.
And he’d keep kissing, and kissing, and kissing—
Until Izuku pulled him up.
Until he let Katsuki worship him the only way he knew how—
Completely.
Because Katsuki Bakugo had nothing left to give the world after a day like today.
But for Izuku? For his sun, his soul, his peace and his storm? He had everything. And he’d give it. Every damn time. And Katsuki—Katsuki felt it. That completeness. That rightness.
The kind of feeling that wraps around your ribs and squeezes until all the broken parts fuse back together. His lips moved slow, reverent, worshipful as he kissed his way up Izuku’s thighs, and when Izuku’s fingers threaded into his hair—gentle, so gentle—Katsuki sighed like he’d been holding his breath all day just to exhale into that touch.
He looked up.
And what he saw made his chest ache.
Izuku, flushed and glowing, curls wild around his face like a halo, green eyes half-lidded and dark with lust and love. His lips were parted, damp and soft and kiss-bruised already from his own teeth.
God, Katsuki thought, how did I get this lucky?
But there was no room for disbelief. Not when Izuku smiled at him like that . Not when Katsuki could feel heat radiating off his skin, could smell him, could see how ready he was.
He moved his hands to Izuku’s hips, his thumbs brushing warm skin, and pushed his thighs open wider.
And there it was.
The proof.
No underwear, no pretense, just Izuku—bare and perfect and his.
Already dripping, already trembling, already begging in nothing but breaths.
Izuku smiled.
And Katsuki shivered.
Gently, slowly, he tugged him closer to the edge of the couch, positioning him like he was precious cargo, a relic on display for only his eyes to see.
And then—he devoured him.
Wet kisses first, trailing close to where Izuku pulsed and ached, then deeper, more hungry, more desperate. Katsuki licked into him with the kind of hunger reserved for gods and lovers and lifetimes. Tongue insistent, lips sealed around every moan and gasp Izuku gave him like he was drinking him down straight from the source.
Izuku arched, his body a live wire, hands in Katsuki’s hair pulling, anchoring.
“Kacchan,” he moaned, soft and strained and ruined.
And Katsuki moaned right back, vibrating deep between his legs, his own eyes fluttering shut as he tasted the very heart of the man he loved.
The room filled with the sound of it—slick, obscene, unholy.
The slap of his tongue, the wet drag of lips, the occasional growl when Izuku whimpered just right.
And all the while, his name—his name —was a prayer on Izuku’s tongue.
“Katsuki. Kacchan. Oh— God. ”
And when Izuku came, thighs trembling, back arched off the couch and fingers clutching Katsuki like lifeline, Katsuki held him steady, tongue still moving, gentle now, slow, like he never wanted to stop tasting him.
Izuku's chest heaved, eyes fluttered open, and he looked down—
And he smiled.
That soft, breathless smile that Katsuki would go to war for.
That smile that told him yes, this is real.
That he was loved, and wanted, and enough.
Katsuki stayed there for a moment longer, hands still on his hips, forehead pressed to the inside of Izuku’s thigh, catching his breath.
And for all the chaos of the day, all the grime, all the pain—none of it mattered.
Not when Izuku looked at him like that.
Not when Katsuki could worship him like this.
He was home.
And he’d never stop kneeling if it meant Izuku would keep smiling like that.
Katsuki Bakugo loved Izuku Midoriya like religion.
Not loud and performative like the media painted him—no.
It was quiet in the small things. Constant. All-consuming. A devotion that didn't ask for praise or recognition, only a place at Izuku’s side.
Even the mundane became sacred when it involved Izuku.
“Kacchan, look!” Izuku gasped, face practically pressed to the glass of a toy shop’s window. “A new All Might figure! Look at the pose! Can I have it?”
Katsuki squinted. “Another one?”
But Izuku turned to him, bottom lip out, cheeks puffed just a bit, big green eyes wide with innocence and calculated charm.
And Katsuki—fuck, Katsuki was just a man .
He sighed, already reaching for his card.
“Go get it, baby.”
Izuku squealed, actually squealed , jumped on his toes and kissed Katsuki on the cheek with a loud smack before dragging him inside like a child on Christmas.
Katsuki never stood a chance.
It happened again. And again. And again.
At bookstores, at cafés, at arcades.
“Kacchan, the new manga I told you about is here!! The bee one! Can I get it?”
Those damn puppy eyes. That excited bounce. That voice.
“That’s why I got you the card, baby,” Katsuki said, smiling, corner of his lips twitching with the kind of affection he used to think made him weak.
Izuku beamed and went straight to the register, already talking Katsuki’s ear off about pollination powers and bee wings and some rival character with an attitude problem
And Katsuki listened.
Because he loved the sound of Izuku talking.
Loved the way he lit up when he was passionate about something, how his hands moved, how his voice sped up. Katsuki could spend forever just nodding along, warm in the presence of Izuku’s fire.
And later that night, it wasn’t All Might figures or bee manga Katsuki was thinking about.
It was Izuku , spread out beneath him on the bed, flushed and panting, hair sticking to his forehead, lips swollen from kisses and whimpers.
Katsuki hovered above him, breath caught in his throat, hand tight on Izuku’s hips as he sank in, slow and deep.
God, he looked wrecked.
Eyes glassy, jaw slack, taking him so well—always.
Katsuki’s fingers dug harder into his skin. He watched the way Izuku’s thighs trembled, the way his curls bounced with every thrust, and something hot and dangerous stirred in his chest.
It was love. It was obsession.
It was everything.
He slammed in harder, deeper, chasing that sound—Izuku’s gasp, that choked-off moan of his name—and the bed creaked beneath them, but Katsuki didn’t hear it.
He was too far gone.
Too lost in the way Izuku opened for him, trusted him, loved him.
He kissed his shoulder. His neck. His temple.
And he whispered, breathless:
“I’d let the world burn for you.”
And he meant it.
Because Katsuki Bakugo had nothing sacred left but this.
And Izuku Midoriya was everything.
And if anyone asked Katsuki, he wouldn't deny it.
He loved Izuku Midoriya.
No shame, no hesitation, no anger to hide behind.
Just the simple, burning truth of it—everything he did was for Izuku.
It started long before they kissed, long before the world caught on to what they meant to each other.
Back in high school, when the war had ripped through their generation like a storm and left them all bleeding in the aftermath, Katsuki didn’t have the words yet. But he had actions.
He always had actions.
At sixteen, he started carrying Izuku’s backpack after training. He grumbled about it, of course, said things like “You’re slow as shit, just give it here already,” but he never let Izuku take it back. Not once.
That same year, he taught himself to massage Izuku’s ruined hands. All that quirk damage, those cracked bones and scarred skin— Katsuki learned where it hurt, where to press, where to soothe.
Because Izuku would never say it, never ask.
But Katsuki knew.
And Katsuki gave.
At seventeen, he learned how to make katsudon. Burned the rice the first three times. Spilled the broth once. But he got better. He always got better. Because Izuku craved it when he was tired. Craved it like comfort.
And Katsuki wanted—needed—to be that comfort.
By eighteen, the truth was carved so deep into his bones it could’ve been a second quirk. He needed Izuku by his side. Not just wanted—needed.
So he swallowed his pride, approached Hatsume, and asked for something he never would’ve before:
“Build him something better. A suit that’s light, strong, perfect for support.”
And he worked, gods, he worked—in his own training, in battle, in study—every single day, driven by one goal:
Give Izuku his dream back.
Because Katsuki saw what others didn’t. He saw Izuku’s strength, but also the way it hurt him. The way it weighed on him. So he lifted it when he could. Healed it when he was allowed. Loved it, even when Izuku didn’t know how to love himself.
And now, years later, with Izuku curled against his side on the couch, humming about hero reports and manga plots and agency meetings—Katsuki still does the same.
If anyone asked him—“Do you love him?”
He’d say:
“Of course I do. Everything I’ve ever done was for him.”
Because Izuku Midoriya was the dream.
And Katsuki Bakugo had always been the one willing to bleed to make it real.
At 23, Katsuki Bakugo learned how to grade papers.
Not because he needed to.
Not because he wanted to.
But because Izuku was sitting on the floor of their living room surrounded by stacks of hero course essays, red pen in hand, eyes bleary and hands cramping, mumbling through yawns about how proud he was of his students—
And Katsuki couldn’t not help.
He sat beside him, pulled one of the stacks into his lap, and said,
“Tell me what the hell to look for.”
And that was that.
They stayed up past midnight together, grading, commenting, sorting. Katsuki rubbed Izuku’s shoulders when he drooped, pressed a kiss to his temple every time he muttered something selfless like “I just want to make sure they know they’re doing well.”
Katsuki already knew what love was, but nights like those—soft and quiet, ordinary and warm—showed him how much he loved.
So much it ached.
At 24, he bought his first car.
He picked something flashy—he had the money, the fame, the rank—but inside he picked something simple, comfortable.
A car with a plush backseat, soft cushions, perfect for long rides and even better for naps.
Because all Katsuki thought about was Izuku.
Izuku, who worked two jobs—hero and teacher.
Izuku, whose muscles constantly ached from long days of saving lives and shaping futures.
Izuku, who deserved a place to rest, even if it was just in the back seat of a car.
And one evening, just as the sky turned that golden-lavender hue they both loved, Katsuki glanced in the rearview mirror and saw him—curled up in the backseat, hoodie bunched around his face, legs tucked in.
“Kacchan,” Izuku murmured, voice soft, dreamy, “can we get Korean BBQ tonight?”
Katsuki smiled, warm and real.
“Sure, darling,” he said.
Because Izuku could ask for the moon and Katsuki would build a ladder, tear open the sky, and bring it down.
Every time Izuku asks for something—whether it’s dinner, a new blanket, to be held a little longer, or to be fucked rough and raw after a hard day—Katsuki gives.
Because he can’t say no to him.
Not now. Not ever.
And if anyone dares to say Izuku’s spoiled, Katsuki won’t argue.
He’ll nod. He’ll shrug.
He might even smirk.
“Damn right he is,” he’ll say. “And he fuckin’ deserves to be.”
Because Izuku Midoriya deserves the world.
And Katsuki Bakugo—every wild, jagged, burning part of him—was born to give it.
“Kacchan, I want ramen,” Izuku says, voice muffled as he presses his face into Katsuki’s back, arms looped around his waist, lips brushing against the muscle just below his shoulder blade.
Katsuki exhales through his nose, knife still rhythmically chopping vegetables on the cutting board.
“You had ramen for dinner yesterday,” he replies, aiming for that firm, no-nonsense tone he used to be so good at.
But his hands betray him.
They’re already reaching for the damn pot. Already filling it with water. Already setting it on the stove like it was muscle memory.
Behind him, Izuku hums, nuzzling in closer like he knows he’s won. Because of course he knows.
He always knows.
“But I want one,” Izuku whines softly, the way only Katsuki is allowed to hear him do—childish, playful, so full of affection it makes Katsuki’s heart stutter.
Katsuki sighs, gives in—because he always does—and says,
“With or without spicy flavor?”
Izuku kisses his shoulder, warm and light and soft.
“A little spicy,” he says, already backing away toward the couch, barefoot, comfortable, his silhouette bouncing lightly as he walks away in those ridiculous Red Riot pajamas Katsuki bought him last week—the ones he’d found in a shop window while they were out on patrol. Izuku had pointed, grinning like a kid.
Katsuki hadn’t even waited. He bought them on the spot.
And now he watches him pad away, curls messy, arms stretching up, humming some theme song off-key—and Katsuki stirs the pot, adds in just enough chili oil to tingle Izuku’s lips but not burn, and loads in the veggies. Because Izuku never remembers to eat them himself.
When it’s ready, Katsuki calls out,
“Hey, ramen’s done.”
Izuku shuffles into the kitchen and hops up onto the marble counter bar—the one he had insisted they get, despite the price.
“It’ll make the space look brighter, Kacchan!”
And damn it, he was right. Like always.
He sits there, knees swinging, blowing the steam from the bowl while rambling about new Red Riot merch—something about a life-size plush and keychains and—
And Katsuki just stares.
Watches him.
Watches the way Izuku’s feet dangle over the edge.
And for a moment, he’s gone.
He’s seventeen again.
He sees Izuku in their old classroom, sitting on someone else’s desk, maybe Todoroki’s, maybe Iida’s—doesn’t matter.
Izuku’s laughing, head tilted back, eyes squinting with joy, and his legs are swinging.
Freely. Carelessly. Just like now.
And something clicked in Katsuki’s chest that day.
Like the pull of gravity.
Like recognition from the soul.
That was the moment.
That was when he knew.
When he realized that Izuku Midoriya wasn’t just someone from his childhood.
He was the one.
Then the memory blurs, and he’s back in their kitchen.
Izuku is still laughing, still talking, still glowing.
Steam curls from the bowl between them. Katsuki leans on the counter, elbow propped as he watches.
And he just… smiles.
Because this—this right here—
Is his dream.
Not the rank, not the glory.
Izuku.
In Red Riot pajamas. Eating ramen. Feet dangling. Rambling with stars in his eyes.
And Katsuki thinks:
God, I love you.
And he always will.
Dinner is done.
Bowls scraped clean, lips wiped, the kitchen humming with the quiet lull of domestic life.
But Izuku stays.
He stays on the counter, feet swinging gently, arms propped behind him, still in those silly Red Riot pajamas that barely hide the way his thighs shift open as he waits.
Katsuki can feel his stare.
That weighted silence. That change in the air.
He doesn’t turn right away—he never does. He rinses the last dish, dries it with the plush towel Izuku insisted they buy (“Kacchan, feel it, it’s like a cloud!”) and hangs it neatly.
Only then does he face him.
And there, laid out on that damn marble counter, is his dessert.
Izuku, flushed and glowing, perched on his elbows, legs parted just enough to be indecent. His cheeks are pink, his lips are bitten, eyes wide and glassy.
And Katsuki knows.
He doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t smirk.
He just sinks.
Down to his knees—because that’s where he belongs when Izuku looks at him like that. He takes Izuku’s legs in his hands, presses soft, slow kisses to each shin, each knee, moving higher, reverent.
Izuku hums, low and sweet, and his legs fall open further, inviting, offering.
Because he wants Katsuki.
Here.
Now.
No teasing. No waiting.
And Katsuki—gods help him—can never say no.
He looks up, eyes locked on Izuku’s face, searching.
And he sees it.
The trembling lip.
The tear-bright eyes.
The burning cheeks.
The need, wild and desperate, unspoken but loud.
Izuku wants it rough.
To be devoured.
To be undone.
So Katsuki doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to.
He just stands, grabs Izuku’s jaw, tilts his face up, and kisses him like he’s about to disappear.
It’s messy. It’s hard.
Teeth clash. Tongues tangle.
Katsuki drinks him down like he’s starving, like he didn’t just have dinner but hasn’t eaten in days.
His hands grip Izuku’s hips, thumbs pressing into the skin like he’s trying to anchor himself.
Izuku moans into his mouth, hips canting forward, chest flushed.
By the time Katsuki pulls back, Izuku’s lips are wrecked—swollen, wet, red from licking and sucking and kissing too hard.
Katsuki stares.
And there he is.
His beautiful, beautiful baby.
Already a mess.
And Katsuki smiles—dark, soft, full of love and lust and awe. Because this is who he belongs to. And this is who he’ll worship until his knees give out and his breath runs dry.
Izuku’s breath hitches—sharp, trembling, sweet. Katsuki hears it like a command. Like music. Like permission.
He always knows.
He doesn’t need words.
His hands move before his thoughts catch up—grabbing, taking, pulling Izuku forward. One quick, fluid movement and Izuku is spun around, bent over that cold, polished marble counter he insisted they install.
That expensive marble counter.
Now the altar for Katsuki’s worship.
He tugs down those Red Riot pajamas—slow enough to savor, fast enough to make Izuku gasp—and Izuku shivers.
Not from cold.
Not from nerves.
But from pure, aching need.
Katsuki watches the fabric pool at Izuku’s ankles, sees the tremble in his calves, the flex in his thighs, the way his toes curl against the tile as they barely, barely touch the floor.
He spreads him open, breath caught in his own throat.
And there he is.
Izuku Midoriya.
His Izuku.
A man made of lightning and hope, strength and soul, bent over for him, only for him.
Every muscle in his back tense with anticipation. His hands gripping the edge of the marble like if he let go, he’d float away. Katsuki leans in, palms firm on Izuku’s hips, anchoring them both.
The sight is burned into his brain.
It’s devastating.
It’s perfect.
Izuku, flushed and panting, whispering his name like prayer. Like Katsuki’s the only one who’s ever made him feel this way.
And maybe he is.
Katsuki lowers his lips to Izuku’s spine, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades, and murmurs,
“You have no fuckin’ idea what you do to me.”
Because in this moment, watching Izuku bent, trembling, offering, Katsuki knows—
He’s never getting out of this.
He’s going to be lost in Izuku Midoriya forever.
And it’s the best damn place to be.
So he sinks to his knees once more, Katsuki's favorite place in the world is on his knees. And he looks at the legs that he worships, freckled and strong and leans forward, resting his forehead gently against Izuku’s thigh, grounding himself in that familiar warmth. He breathes in deep, like Izuku is air, like love has a scent and it's always clinging to Izuku’s skin. His hands smooth up the length of those legs he adores, reverent and slow, almost apologetic. And he kisses every inch of Izuku.
But Izuku is not a patient man, he never is, “Kacchan,” Izuku whines again, hips giving a desperate little roll.
Katsuki's heart clenches
Katsuki breathes in the sight of him — Izuku glowing under the soft kitchen light, pouting lips, flushed cheeks, and those damn furrowed brows that Katsuki could trace blindfolded.
It’s not just want — it’s trust. It's knowing Katsuki will always give him what he needs, without question, without pause.
he smiles at the love of his life and parts his ass cheeks with strong hands and without looking away from izuku’s eyes, he spits on to his puckered hole and izuku’s eyes roll into the back of his skull and his body shivers as a loud moan escapes his mouth and that's it, that's all it takes for Izuku to turn his head to the front and enjoy what he asked for.
And katsuki gives, he always gives, anything his dear darling wants.
So he grabs lube from the drawer on the kitchen, they always have lube in every corner of the house. Izuku's idea. Since he's the one that gets horny all the time and demands katsuki's cock anytime he wants.
And katsuki pours the lube onto izuku’s hole, and fuck he can't never get tired of this. Never in his life. So he fingers Izuku there, on the expensive marble counter and the kitchen fills with moans and wet sounds of katsuki's fingers deep inside Izuku, curling just right to make Izuku let out raspy moans and as a second finger I'd inside, Izuku shivers and katsuki knows.
"Kacchan" Izuku breathes
And katsuki knows, he knows what his baby wants. His little darling. So he takes out his fingers and lives his aching cock and katsuki licks his lips, looking at Izuku, sweet Izuku, the darling of Japan. Bent over a counter, fingered and already a mess, wanting more, wanting to feel the stretch of pro hero GEMGD cock on his asshole, because Izuku likes the pain, he likes to feel, blame it on OFA, but Izuku gas a high pain tolerance and he loves it.
Loves the way katsuki's cock stretches him, loves to feel the ache, the pulse.
And katsuki knows. So he sinks in one rough motion because that's what his baby wants today.
And katsuki knows.
So he fucks him hard in that counter, gripping his hips, brushing his sides, making Izuku moan loud and sinful.
And katsuki takes izuku’s right leg and holds him there as he fucks his ass like his life depends on it. And Izuku is in heaven. He really is.
Lips wet and red, back arching and the pain he feels as katsuki tugs his soft curls to pull his head back.
It's perfect.
"Oh god.... Oh my... Kacchan please!!"
Izuku is already a mess and katsuki knows, he always knows.
So he fucks harder, until his hips collide with izuku’s and izuku’s hips hit the hard counter and Izuku feels the pain and the pleasure builds up in his lower abdomen and he moans, harsh and raw.
"Yes! Yes! Yes katsuki oh god oh my god, thank you thank you!" And Izuku is crying, not because his sad or because katsuki is hurting him, but because katsuki is consuming him.
And katsuki knows, he always fucking knows. So he fucks harder, rougher, so hard his legs try to give up, he furrows his brows because he needs to concentrate on giving Izuku pleasure, it else he would come before Izuku and that's not good, because then Izuku would be unsatisfied and he doesn't want that he wants to make Izuku cum again and again and again.
So he fucks and fucks and thrust until Izuku is a mess, curls bouncing with every thrust, back with shimmering sweat, his ass jiggling at the way katsuki us fucking him and Izuku cries out katsuki's name before hi cums hard and his body tenses with a force that makes him clench hard enough to hurt but katsuki doesn't care so he fucks Izuku through his orgasm. And when Izuku is trembling with overstimulating he slows down just enough to chase his own orgasm and he comes, he comes so hard his vision blurs and all he can think of is Izuku.
And rith there on the kitchen, full of chest rising and heavy breaths, Katsuki kisses izuku’s back as he slides out of him and they both groan. And bow he takes a step back and he can see, like a beautiful painting, something so beautiful that's takes his breath away.
Izuku bent over the counter, wobbling legs, perfect round freckled ass and his cum, his cum dripping from that beautiful pink hole and katsuki thanks everyone, everything, anything. He thanks whatever God granted this beautiful fait for him. Because Izuku is beautiful and he doesn't do enough to deserve him.
And sometimes, Izuku wants it slow.
No teasing, no games. Just love — aching, overwhelming, soft love. The kind that leaves you trembling for hours after, not from pleasure but from being seen, being touched like you matter.
And Katsuki gives it to him.
Because if Izuku asks for gentle, Katsuki will go slow, even if his own skin burns to take and devour. He'll bury that hunger just to watch Izuku unravel beneath the weight of worship instead of heat.
He’ll take his time, touching Izuku like a prayer. Reverent. Silent. Eyes full of something bigger than just lust — something divine. He'll hold his face, kiss his eyelids, stroke his curls as he slides in with aching care. He’ll whisper things he only says when it’s dark and they’re alone: I love you, you’re everything, I was made for you.
Izuku clings to him like Katsuki is air, like he’ll die without him, and Katsuki melts. He grips his back and kisses the corner of his mouth, kisses his shoulder, the curve of his neck, slow and slow and slower still — until the only thing filling the silence is Izuku's broken little sighs and the sound of two hearts beating as one.
And when it’s over, when Izuku is tucked against his chest with flushed cheeks and a sated smile, Katsuki brushes sweat-damp hair from his forehead and holds him tighter than the night before.
Because Katsuki Bakugo would do anything Izuku Midoriya asked.
Rough. Slow. Gentle. Brutal. Loving.
Because Izuku is his home, his reason, his always.
And Katsuki doesn’t just love him.
He belongs to him.
And some may say Katsuki is whipped.
And they’d be right. God, they’d be so right.
Katsuki Bakugo is 100% down astronomically bad for Izuku Midoriya.
Utterly, devastatingly, soul-bendingly in love.
He doesn’t even deny it anymore. Not when his card history is a graveyard of All Might collectibles, overpriced plushies, rare manga, hero-themed pajamas, and delivery receipts from restaurants halfway across the city because “Kacchan, I’m craving something spicy and comforting at the same time.”
And Katsuki grumbles. He always grumbles.
But five minutes later, he’s already placing the order or lacing up his boots to go get it himself.
Because if Izuku wants something — anything — Katsuki is already two steps ahead, figuring out how to get it into his hands.
Izuku? He knows. He knows exactly how far gone Katsuki is.
He knows the way his pout can bring the strongest man in Japan to his knees.
He knows the little glint in his eye when he says “Kacchan~” in that sing-song voice means Katsuki’s already lost the battle.
And he uses it. Of course he does. He weaponizes it with terrifying precision.
And Katsuki lets him. Every. Damn. Time.
Because Izuku is a spoiled man.
Because Katsuki made him that way.
Because Izuku deserves it.
Because he’s worked harder than anyone, fought harder than anyone, carried the world on his back more times than Katsuki can count.
So yeah. If Izuku wants him on his knees, Katsuki is already kneeling.
If Izuku wants the moon, Katsuki is halfway to stealing NASA’s launch codes.
And when Izuku says “Kacchan… I saw this really weird All Might incense burner online—”
Katsuki just sighs, pulls out his phone, and says “Send me the link.”
Because that's what you do when you're in love.
Hopelessly, completely, and irreversibly.
Sometimes Izuku wakes up at 3 a.m. and whispers, “Kacchan… do you think pigeons have best friends?”
And Katsuki, groggy and already reaching to pull him close again, mutters, “Go back to sleep, nerd.”
But the next morning? He’s on his phone googling pigeon behavior because if Izuku wants to talk about it over breakfast, he’s gonna have answers.
Sometimes Izuku sees a rainbow in the sky and decides they need to go on a walk right now, even if it’s pouring.
Katsuki grumbles the whole way as he laces their boots and grabs the umbrella, but he still follows behind, watching Izuku skip ahead like a child, pointing at puddles and tugging at Katsuki’s sleeve to look at clouds shaped like All Might.
Katsuki doesn't even realize he’s smiling until Izuku catches him and says, “I knew you’d love this.”
Sometimes Izuku comes home with the most ridiculous things.
Like a huge inflatable beanbag shaped like a rice ball.
Or a life-size cardboard cutout of Red Riot.
Or a light-up neon All Might sign that buzzes if you clap twice.
Katsuki stands there, arms crossed, staring at whatever monstrosity Izuku is dragging into their house like a proud cat with a weird catch.
But Izuku just pouts. “Please? I saw it and thought of you.”
And the sign ends up in the hallway, the beanbag replaces the perfectly good recliner, and the Red Riot cutout mysteriously appears by the kitchen entrance to “greet them in the morning.”
Sometimes Izuku wants to dye his hair.
Just because.
“I saw this fanart,” he says one day, holding up his phone. “Green with gold tips. It looked kind of cool.”
Katsuki huffs. “You’re already cool, idiot.”
But later that night, he’s setting up towels in the bathroom and squeezing dye into a bowl, and Izuku is sitting between his legs while Katsuki carefully brushes through every curl.
Izuku falls asleep against his chest after. Katsuki lets him stay there until his legs go numb.
Sometimes Izuku wants to rearrange the whole apartment. At midnight.
“I think the couch would feel cozier against the window, don’t you?”
“No.”
Pause.
“…You’re already moving the coffee table, Kacchan.”
“Shut up.”
And sometimes Izuku just wants to be held. No reasons. No games. Just there.
And Katsuki’s arms open like instinct. Always.
He’ll press his cheek into Izuku’s hair and whisper whatever stupid, soft thing comes to mind — even if he’s half asleep, even if they just argued, even if they’re running late.
Because Katsuki knows the truth no one else does:
Izuku doesn’t ask because he’s spoiled.
He asks because he trusts that Katsuki will love him enough to say yes.
And Katsuki always will.
And sometimes, Katsuki wonders if he was born just to serve this man.
Not in a pathetic way. Not in a lesser way. But in the only way that makes sense to him.
Because loving Izuku Midoriya is the most natural thing he’s ever done.
Izuku gets sick maybe once every year — nothing major, just the kind of cold that makes his voice a little scratchy, his eyes glassy, his muscles achy. But when he does, Katsuki becomes his entire world.
Blankets. Soup. Lukewarm tea because Izuku says hot tea burns his tongue and that’s “mean, Kacchan.”
“I want toast. But only if it's cut into four hearts,” Izuku mumbles one morning from the fortress of tissues and pillows.
Katsuki stares at him, toothbrush still in his mouth.
“You’re serious.”
Izuku sniffles and nods, big eyes already gleaming like he might cry if Katsuki says no.
So of course, he does it. Cuts the toast. Toasts it twice so it’s crisp, just how Izuku likes it. Makes the little hearts with a knife that he should not be using for bread, but it’s faster.
He puts the plate down in front of his sniffling idiot of a boyfriend and says nothing. And Izuku beams. “I love you.”
And damn it, Katsuki feels it in his chest like a firework.
There was one time Izuku got the flu so bad he couldn't get out of bed for days. High fever. Trembling hands. Slurred words.
Katsuki stayed home from patrol and interviews. Hell, he canceled a whole agency event and didn’t give a damn what the press would say.
He sat at Izuku’s bedside and read him manga in a low voice, feeding him sips of electrolyte water and brushing sweat-soaked curls from his forehead.
At one point, Izuku turned to him, barely lucid, and whispered, “Don’t leave me, okay?”
Katsuki didn’t sleep after that. Just held his hand and whispered, “I wouldn’t even know how to.”
Because no matter how strong Izuku is out there — the Number 4 Hero, the Symbol of Hope, the man with strategy and scars and fire in his soul — in here, he gets to be his Izuku. Soft. Needy. Messy. Real.
And Katsuki lives for it.
He lives for the spoiled requests at midnight, for the sleepy “Kacchan… I want pancakes shaped like Aizawa-sensei’s cat” mornings, for the dramatic “Carry me to the bathroom, I can’t walk” flu days.
Because he can. Because no one else gets to see Izuku like this. Because every time Izuku lowers his guard, every time he gives Katsuki his bare, beating heart — Katsuki holds it like it’s sacred.
Because it is.
Izuku Midoriya is sacred to him.
And Katsuki Bakugo would go to war, to hell, to the edge of death itself — just to bring him a stupid heart-shaped toast or to hear that croaky, delirious voice whisper “I love you.”
And when he does… Katsuki swears he can die happy.
As adults, their love became quiet and easy — like breathing, like gravity, like something that had always been written in the bones of the world, waiting to fall into place.
Katsuki never really thought he’d be the kind of man who’d buy matching toothbrushes, or stand in the middle of a grocery aisle comparing different types of tofu because Izuku said the "usual kind feels squeaky today." But he is. He does.
He brushes Izuku’s hair when it’s tangled from sleep. He keeps Izuku’s favorite gummy candies in every jacket pocket — because sometimes Izuku forgets to eat on long patrol days. He always has a spare phone charger in the car, because Izuku forgets that too.
And yeah — the guys notice.
“You’re whipped,” Kirishima says one day, watching Katsuki on the phone with Izuku. He’s half-listening to a complicated order for some new limited-edition collector’s figure that went on sale five minutes ago.
Katsuki hangs up, already typing it into a preorder site, and shrugs. “And?”
“Like. Fully down bad,” Kaminari adds, mouth full of fries. “Like, you’d probably kill for that man.”
Katsuki snorts. “I have.”
Sero laughs so hard he nearly chokes.
“You don’t even argue anymore,” Kirishima says, a little awed.
Katsuki just looks at him, unbothered. “What’s the point? I’m gonna do whatever he wants anyway.”
“God, you’re disgusting,” Mina says, grinning. “It’s kind of beautiful.”
They all give him shit for it. Constantly. But Katsuki never denies it.
Because why should he?
Because Izuku is home. Izuku is peace. Izuku is the soft weight against his side at 3 a.m. when the world is too loud. Izuku is the scent of jasmine tea and the warmth of blankets and the sound of a voice that has loved him since they were children — even when it didn’t know how to say it.
Katsuki wants to spoil him. Wants to be the one Izuku leans on. Wants to be the one who gets to see his ugly cry after a bad mission, or his delighted squeal when his new Uravity hoodie arrives in the mail.
He gets to love Izuku Midoriya.
He gets to keep him.
That’s a fucking privilege.
One time, after Katsuki cooked him dinner and folded his laundry and surprised him with signed merch from his favorite obscure artist, Izuku stared at him with this look in his eyes — like Katsuki had hung the stars just for him.
And he whispered, "Kacchan, why are you so good to me?"
And Katsuki answered without even thinking:
“Because you’re mine.”
Like it was the simplest truth in the world.
So yeah, his friends call him down bad.
But Katsuki calls it being in love.
And if that makes him pathetic? He’ll be pathetic forever.
For Izuku? Gladly.