i’ll always come back to you
— preference | angst, comfort | fem!reader x husband pro hero
— ft. k.bakugo, i.midoriya, s.todoroki, i.tenya, s.aizawa, m.togata, s.hanta, e.kirishima
— file brief : when the mission ends and the battlefield quiets down, they come back home—to you.
— sensitivity log : mentions of blood, fear, war and emotional exhaustion. post time-skip.
— author’s note : just a bunch of tired heroes finally coming home to someone who loves them? yeah. i ate that up. hope you do too lol <3
You were both pro heroes. You both signed up for danger.
And still, nothing prepared you for this kind of waiting.
The mission was brutal. It made the news—until it got so violent they cut the coverage altogether. No updates. No messages. Not even his agency knew where the hell your husband was.
For five hours, you paced the apartment like a ghost.
Nails chewed down. TV muted. Phone clenched in your hand.
You kept saying, “He’ll be hungry when he gets back.”
So you cooked, barely tasting what you made. Set the table. Tried to breathe.
You froze, slowly turning toward the door with wide eyes.
He stood there—gear torn, caked in soot and blood. Exhausted.
He smelled like smoke. Like metal. Like war.
You dropped the knife in your hand.
You ran. Straight into his chest.
“Don’t ever do that to me again,” you whispered, voice shaking. Your fingers curled into the fabric over his back, pulling him close. “Don’t—don’t ever—”
“Shut up,” he muttered into your hair. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you like he thought you might disappear next. “M’here now, dumbass.”
You felt him exhale. His shoulders dropped.
His forehead pressed against yours as he said it again—softer this time.
And just like that, everything started to feel real again.
After a long shower and some food—barely touched on his end—you both ended up in bed.
You tried to rub his shoulders, hands gentle on the knots you could feel under his skin.
He just pulled you close, arms locked around your waist like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. His face buried in the crook of your neck, breaths slow and shaky.
“No massages,” he muttered, voice rough and low. “Just… stay.”
You held him, fingers carding softly through his damp hair.
And when you whispered “I’m here too”, he only held you tighter.
As if leaving you alone had been the scariest part of all.
Ever since he went back to being a hero, your husband decided he had to make up for lost time.
So he took every mission—no matter how dangerous, how far, or how insane it was.
Waiting again, after a brutal, three-day-long mission.
Everyone at the agency said it was rough. But there was no official report yet. No solid answers.
Just the two questions running laps in your head:
You didn’t wait. You didn’t think.
You just threw yourself into his arms.
Part of you wanted to melt into him.
The other part wanted to scream, to hit him for not sending a single message.
But when you looked up—ready to let it all out—
his big green eyes met yours.
And just like that… maybe the screaming could wait.
For now, it was just you and him.
Standing under the arch of your front door.
Holding each other like a lifeline.
And your husband was nowhere to be seen.
You started to get nervous when the clock hit midnight.
He never got home this late. The latest he had ever arrived was 10:30 p.m.
They said they weren’t sure of his status, but would “look into it.”
“Really helpful,” you thought.
You sat on the couch, eyes fixed on the floor as your mind zoned out. You didn’t even know what time it was anymore.
The door opened. His eyes scanned the darkness, searching—until they landed on you.
You stood up, slowly walking toward him.
Had you fallen asleep—missed him so much that your subconscious conjured this?
But when his forehead touched yours, when his hand gripped yours tightly, it all felt real.
You stayed like that for a while.
Feeling each other’s warmth and heartbeat, like a silent reminder that you both were still here.
You wanted to ask what happened. Was everyone all right? Did the agency even know he was home?
But none of it mattered right now.
Not when he was holding you like this.
He sighed. His breath brushed the side of your neck as he finally spoke:
“Today was… a lot. But nothing scared me more than the thought of not making it back to you.”
You held him tighter, tears welling in your eyes.
“But I’m home,” he whispered again. “I’m with you.”
You had always been thankful for your reliable, responsible, fast, and amazing pro hero husband.
He always tried to be home by 8:00 p.m.—
Ready for dinner, a bath, and to hold you like you were all that ever mattered.
So when the clock hit 10:00, and there were no messages on your phone, you started to worry.
Whenever his patrols ran late, he would at least send a quick
“I’ll be late. Love you, honey.”
Prepared dinner, just like always.
Answered a few emails from the agency.
Until finally—the door opened.
Covered in blood you prayed wasn’t his, eyes serious… moved… almost broken.
He walked toward you with slow, heavy steps—and pulled you into a tight embrace.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” he whispered.
“I didn’t want the last thing you heard from me to be goodbye.”
Your heart skipped a beat.
You helped him out of his gear, his body trembling faintly under your hands.
He bathed, scrubbing the blood off his skin like he was trying to wash the day away.
And when you both were finally in bed—dinner still untouched—he broke a little.
Soft, quiet tears as your fingers gently brushed through his hair.
“I love you, Tenya,” you said, voice soft and grounding, anchoring him back to the one thing he could hold on to.
“I love you too, my darling.”
That night, you watched him sleep—just in case.
And he would forever be thankful for having you by his side.
He was supposed to be at U.A.
He was supposed to be teaching a class.
He was supposed to get home by five.
And you knew nothing about him.
You’d caught a glimpse of the news—something about an attack—but he wasn’t even supposed to be there.
Still, something told you to check the list of pro heroes reported by the agency.
Now your heart really started racing.
You called him—for the hundredth time.
And then, suddenly, the front door opened.
Bandages covering his left arm, blood dried on one side of his face, his capturing weapon faintly stained red.
Hugged him tightly—but carefully.
You both sat on the couch, silent.
His hands rested on your waist, his face buried in your neck.
You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that.
“Couldn’t go without seeing you one last time.
Though I’m glad this wasn’t it.”
That broke your heart a little.
You didn’t know exactly what happened today.
But you could see it in his eyes, whatever it was, it had been hard.
So you brushed your fingers through his hair, soft and slow.
His eyes closed, bit by bit.
And you watched him sleep.
Protecting his well-deserved rest from the world outside.
To Japan, he was known as Lemillion—the number one pro hero.
To his friends, he was Mirio Togata: the friendliest, kindest, sometimes-funniest man alive.
He was the love of your life.
(He wouldn’t dare commit a crime—unless it was for you.)
So when the headlines started, covering a massive battle downtown, your heart stopped.
Fighting. Smiling. Being Lemillion.
But then the fight got rough.
The villains sabotaged the news coverage.
And you were left in the dark.
You ran to the rooftop of your building, desperate to catch even a glimpse.
Anything to let you know he was okay.
But all you could see was smoke, fire—
and the occasional explosion you were pretty sure was Bakugo’s fault.
Cold wind biting your skin.
Eyes locked on the battlefield.
Until everything went quiet.
You checked your phone. Nothing.
You went back to your apartment.
Until the door creaked open—
He grunted a little—but didn’t stop you.
“I’m sorry, beautiful,” he mumbled, breath against your hair.
“I left my phone at the agency, and I—”
That was all that mattered.
You pulled back just enough to really see him.
Dried blood clung to the edge of his collar.
He may have been the number one hero—
But to you, he was still just your husband.
And then, you both collapsed onto the bed.
Just the two of you—tangled in each other.
And finally, he felt safe.
Because he was in your arms.
The agency had called him hours ago.
But he still wasn’t home.
The dinner you’d made hours before was still waiting on the table, slowly going cold.
Just like your fingers, tapping nervously against your phone screen.
You exhaled sharply—relieved.
But not enough to stop pacing.
Every sound outside made you turn to the door, heart skipping.
“Missed me?” he joked, voice hoarse.
“Bet you thought I died dramatically. But nope, I’m too pretty.”
You rushed to him, ignoring the awful comment and the sting in your eyes.
He chuckled when you scolded him, but let you fuss over him anyway.
Tended to every wound, no matter how small.
Made him take a hot shower.
Heard him groan at the sting of soap over scrapes.
You reheated dinner while he dried off.
He walked into the kitchen with a blanket around his shoulders like a cape.
“You’re a hero too, you know,” he said between bites.
“My personal nurse slash emotional support wife.”
But kissed his temple anyway.
Later, you both crawled into bed.
He pulled you into his lap with no hesitation, arms wrapped tight around your waist.
Foreheads pressed together.
His thumbs gently rubbed circles on your hips.
“Thanks, beautiful,” he whispered.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Tears threatened—but didn’t fall.
You didn’t ask questions.
Just held him closer, letting him breathe.
That night, you stayed like that.
Grounding each other. Reminding each other you were real.
The heroes had won again—
And your love had carried him home.
Red Riot was loved by many.
He was strong. Smiled through the pain. He protected. He fought. He won. Always.
He had left a couple of hours ago, and you barely got to say goodbye after returning from your own patrol.
The reports said the fight was rough. That at least eight heroes were receiving medical care.
They also said Red Riot had been the last one to leave the battlefield.
His status: “unknown.” Super helpful.
You were about to run to the hospital when your phone buzzed. A text from him.
Short. No typos. No “babe”. No emojis.
So unlike him. So unlike your Eijirou.
You tried to stay calm. You really did.
But the silence in your apartment felt suffocating. The dinner was cold by now. Your legs couldn’t stop pacing.
You were already reaching for your jacket when you heard the lock click.
Not in his usual Red Riot armor, but in a plain hoodie. Blood on his sleeves. Bandages on his ribs.
His eyes met yours—and for a moment, he just stood there.
“Hey,” he said softly, voice slightly hoarse.
You ran to him, wrapping your arms around his torso carefully. He tensed under your touch.
But then he relaxed—and hugged you back with that strength you knew so well.
“I’m here. I’m okay. I promise,” he whispered into your hair.
You didn’t speak. Just held him tighter.
You helped him wash up. Cleaned the wounds he didn’t bother mentioning.
He winced once. You caught it. He smiled it off.
Later, in bed, he curled around you like a shield, forehead resting on your shoulder.
Neither of you said much at first.
Until you whispered, “You don’t have to smile for me. Not tonight.”
“I was scared. I’ve never been this scared before. Not of the villains. Of not coming back. Of not seeing you again.”
You turned to face him, brushing a finger over his cheek.
“Then don’t ever forget—you have something to come back to. Always.”
His eyes glistened. And this time, he didn’t hide it.
He pulled you closer, voice barely audible as he pressed a kiss to your temple.
“You’re my safest place.”
And that night, you held each other as the city outside slept.
Red Riot could be strong again tomorrow.
But tonight, he was just Eijirou. Yours. Home.
consider this an official warning: plagiarism is against U.A. regulations. - tenya iida (fr)
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