MHA smut

verdant

Written by: FireHeartAW

Summary:

"Were you fucking listening to me?" Katsuki's tone is fiery again, hot, too hot against the column of his throat, and Izuku's too close to the flame, happy to be burnt. He rolls his hips in response and groans at the way his cock throbs against fabric and muscle — caught beneath his uniform as it remains haphazard, pushed up against Katsuki's thick thigh.

"You were," Katsuki praises, heat coming off of him in intoxicating waves. "Told you, you were first. Go ahead, 'Zuku."

'Zuku.

'Zuku.

'Zuku.

It bounces around his brain with bubbly dopamine, sets fire to every nerve as Katsuki opens his mouth again and presses a command into his jugular. Red, all he can see is red.

"Use me."

_______________________________

Sirens echo through the stagnant air of their apartment, an aftermath of their work, following them home with a shadow that leaves just a brush of red light on their walls in distant flashes. It matches the cut on Izuku's cheek, the semi-healed gash on Kacchan's stomach — a new scar, Izuku's sure, something his eyes will trace several times over in the tiny bathroom mirror they share. This is how heroes shed their skin, uniform torn into bits by gravel and cement, boots left in a haphazard pile by the door. Katsuki will complain about it later, but right now Izuku can see bone-deep ache in the way he moves through the shadows, strength seeping out of him into every corner of their apartment. He follows, of course he does, like he always has — a siren song luring him into the depths of familiarity. His cheeks fill with blood again, bright red, camouflaged by the debris of their job just outside.

This is how heroes retain their humanity, staying close to someone who understands, someone who knows. See, sometimes Izuku's fights stir restless beneath his knuckles, as though his quirk electrifies the scars there — replaying the feeling of punching, pushing, fighting tooth and nail for the greater good. It remains, quiet yet charged, and somehow Kacchan knows. Somehow, when they come back home, he knows to grab Izuku's hands, quirk-warmed palms easing out the static of it all, pushing back the memories of the patrol for the sake of retaining his sanity. For hands that remain human, so they can continue to reach as they had decades prior in non-conductive waters.

He's kept that reach held close to chest, though, as though the first break of his arm wasn't a break at all but simply a rejection. It's been safer this way, stuck in his yearning, watching Kacchan from afar and close up. In a shared mirror, across comfortable rooms. But tonight, stuck by the shoes he has the sudden urge to fix, he finds himself reaching anyway — voice pushing out of him in a rasp that only develops after screaming a particular name across a city block.

"Let me help you," he offers, quiet, almost a whisper, lost somewhere amidst siren and city life. But he watches, careful in their still dark living room as Katsuki pauses just down the hall, tensing as though sensing danger. It looks foreign on him, wrong, in all the places that Kacchan usually responds to a threat. And maybe Izuku pushed it too far, voicing their usual routine out loud. Maybe he crossed some line with the now non-silent offer, and years of stripping each other down to nothing but briefs and old scars is about to be ripped away. Izuku starts the process of grieving somewhere deep beneath his ribcage, but then Katsuki half turns to face him, and the vermillion of his gaze is the only shade of noticeable red left in the room. Ambulances, sirens, noise and routine gone, shifting to something new in the silence of it all. Katsuki's eyes burn, scald, adorn Izuku in patterns he can't see, but feels as they catch on every cut and bruise like he wishes to set fire to them. And finally, for once in their life, they both acknowledge their duty out loud — communicating in places they usually silently care with offers... demands that feel awfully familiar. A song they both know the melody to, no longer dissonant.