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Hero-ing isn’t a job you can “clock-in, clock-out” of. The first time you put on your suit, you signed an imaginary contract with the public, vowing to devote yourself wholeheartedly to its wellbeing, no matter the cost. You suddenly became more than just another contracted worker–your hero identity was inextricably linked with your personal life. This meant that in addition to actually saving people, you acted as a figurehead–a symbol of the society’s insurmountable strength, it’s unwillingness to submit to wrongdoing, and yada, yada, yada.
Long story short, it meant you had to make a lot of appearances to keep up your image. Not that you minded; You lived for the excitement. People were the reason you’d decided to be a hero, after all. It only made sense that you’d want to be near them. Press briefings, autograph sessions, agency dinners–these were the events where you thrived.
Your husband, however, didn’t really share your affinity for large gatherings. Tamaki had gotten better at making appearances over the years, that much was certain. Then again, just about anything was better than the “duck-and-cover” approach to conversation that he’d sported in your days at U.A. Nowadays, he could at least take a compliment without busting out into nervous shakes. There was still a well-defined limit to just how much socialization he could handle before he imploded though.
Regardless of your differences when it came to dealing with people, both you and Tamaki could agree that the best part of any night was coming home. Away from prying eyes, it was easy to relax. You didn’t have to worry about how the public saw you or what they’d think if you spoke a certain way. Your apartment was a safe zone, a place where you could be as social or antisocial as you wanted to be. It was also nice to have Tamaki to yourself for a while, considering that the agency seemed hellbent on scheduling the two of you on different shifts. Maybe it was because they were afraid of “canoodling” on the job, or because they wanted to keep your hero personas distinct from one another. All you did know was that you didn’t get to spend nearly enough time together anymore.
Making it home from yet another drawn-out, dull event should have been cause for celebration, complete with relieved smiles and formal attire tossed aside carelessly. This time though, something’s off. Tamaki fumbles with his tie, yanking it loose with a frustrated grunt before throwing himself haphazardly onto the bed. He doesn’t even look at you. That’s concerning.
“Tamaki?” You urge, sitting on the mattress beside him. “Is everything alright, my love?”
He leans his cheek against the comforter, reluctantly turning to meet your gaze. His face is all scrunched up, the corners of his mouth and eyes marked by the creases you’d become well-acquainted with over the years. Those worry-lines spoke volumes, even when the man himself didn’t. Frustration. Embarrassment. Self-doubt.
“Is this about the party?” The subtle twitch of his lip is all the response you need. “Why are you upset? You did great.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not.” You scoff, offended at the accusation. “You were positively charming. You looked so confident standing in front of all those people–you didn’t stutter or slouch or frown at all.” Absentmindedly, you brush some of the hair off of his forehead, tucking it behind his ear. His expression softens a bit, and you decide that you can give him a little bit of a hard time–it was his punishment for questioning your honesty.
“The only reason I even knew you were nervous was because of that little look you gave me near the end of the night–you know, the one where your eyes said, ‘Oh God, get me out of here, please.’ ”
“I tried to find Mirio so that people would bother him instead.” He groans, obviously not too pleased by your teasing. “But they just kept talking to me–asking all sorts of questions about my costume, my hero name, my–”
“That’s because they liked you.” Your words catch him off guard. He bites his lip and it looks like he wants to say something, to disagree, but you press on before he gets the chance. “Don’t even argue–you charmed the pants off of everyone there. Especially that one reporter.” A devious grin curls across your lips. “I thought I was going to have to tell her to back away from my man, seeing as she was practically drooling over you.”
Almost instantaneously, he squeaks out some incomprehensible gibberish and rolls onto his side. Even though his face is turned away from you, his nose pressed awkwardly against the headboard, you can see the distinct tinge of pink that creeps up the back of his neck. You loved it.
“What, you really didn’t notice?” Ever so slowly, you inch towards him, not stopping until he’s sandwiched between you and the wall. He’s stuck, but it’s his own fault for cornering himself. Leaning over his shoulder, you press your face into his neck, taking an evil delight in the way he shivers.
“ ‘Suneater is such a unique hero name.’ ” You purr into his ear. Your imitation of the woman isn’t even close to being accurate, but frankly, that was the last thing on your mind right now. You’re too focused on the way his breathing hitches in his throat. “ ‘Oh please, won’t you tell me how you picked it? I’m your biggest fan, so I just have to know.’ ”
It’s the lewd moan you tack on at the end of the sentence that gets him to twist around, his face a deep, beet red color. You seize the first opportunity you’re given, smashing your lips into his and silencing any complaints he may have.
The two of you fall into a familiar rhythm. Your hands tangle into his hair while his settle into their usual spot at your waist. For all of your differences, there was no denying that the two of you just fit. He was cautious where you were impulsive, squeezing your sides when you got too carried away, easing you into a slower tempo. You were playful where he was serious, nipping at his lips between gasps, savoring each and every noise it earns from him. The result was something perfectly balanced, unhurried, yet brimming with passion.
You’re lightheaded by the time you let yourself pull back, but whether that’s a consequence of the kiss or the man is just about anyone’s guess. You tug at his hair, angling his face upward so you can pepper kisses along the underside of his jaw. You don’t miss the way he peers down at you with a furrowed brow.
“Got something you wanna say, Tamaki?” You offer, smiling into his skin.
“You’re... a terrible person.” It’s raspy and entirely unconvincing.
“Yup. The absolute worst.”
Still, he doesn’t protest when you snake your hand beneath his shirt and pull him in for another heated kiss.