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The briefing room smelled like stale coffee and recycled air, the kind that clung to the back of your throat no matter how long you’d been stationed in the business of hero work. The lights hummed faintly above. A map of protected woodland stretched across the screen at the front of the room, overlaid with red markers that looked far too deliberate to be random.
Izuku sat forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the screen. He’d already memorized most of the information in the file—routes, dates, the patterns of disappearances—but he listened anyway, because listening mattered. Because missing details mattered.
Beside him, Katsuki leaned back with his arms crossed, boot hooked around the leg of his chair. He looked bored to anyone who didn’t know him. Anyone who didn’t recognize the tension threaded through his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened every time the word trafficking came up.
“Remote location,” the handler continued. “Limited visibility. Suspected use of abandoned ranger cabins and off-grid shelters. Victims moved on foot before being transported out of the region.”
Katsuki clicked his tongue under his breath. “Cowards,” he scoffed, too quiet for the handler to hear for once.
Izuku heard him anyway. He always did.
The handler gestured to the edge of the map. “Dynamight. Deku. You’ll move in from the west trailhead. Recon only. No engagement unless necessary. Backup will be stationed twelve kilometers out.”
Izuku nodded immediately. Katsuki grunted, which counted as both acknowledgement and agreement.
The handler hesitated, gaze flicking between them. “You’re both aware of the environmental factors, I presume? Cold temperatures. Possible overnight exposure.”
“We’ve handled worse,” Katsuki said flatly, jaw tight.
Izuku swallowed. “We’ll be careful. No unnecessary risks.”
That earned him a look—sharp, brief, unreadable. Katsuki didn’t say a word, but something in his expression changed, like the acknowledgement landed deeper than he had intended for it to.
The handler cleared his throat. “You’re both alphas. Command is comfortable pairing you due to your record and—”
“We’re professionals,” Katsuki cut in, eyebrow twitching. He sat up and crossed his arms, glaring into his eyes.
Izuku felt heat creep up his neck, entirely unhelpful and entirely unwarranted.
“Yes,” the handler said quickly. “Of course. Dismissed.”
They geared up in silence.
Izuku checked his pack twice. Extra thermal blankets. Emergency rations. Med kit, fully stocked. He hesitated, then tucked in a second set of gloves—thicker than regulation, better insulated. And a few… other things. Just in case.
Katsuki noticed.
He always noticed.
“You’re gonna throw your back out with all that shit,” Katsuki said, jerking his chin toward the pack. “You know better, nerd.”
Izuku flushed. “I—I just like being prepared.”
“Yeah,” Katsuki muttered. “I know. That’s the goddamn problem.”
The words came out rougher than intended. Katsuki turned away before Izuku could read too much into it, fingers flexing as he slid his gauntlets into place. He told himself it was just irritation. That Izuku’s constant readiness was annoying and nothing else.
That was easier than admitting it was reassuring.
They moved out just before dusk, the forest swallowing them whole within minutes of leaving the trailhead. Snow crunched softly beneath their boots, the sound muted by the thick trees overhead. The air smelled sharp and clean, biting at exposed skin.
Izuku took point, eyes scanning the ground for disturbances that didn’t belong—broken twigs, footprints half-buried by fresh snowfall. Katsuki followed a step behind, senses tuned outward, explosions held carefully in check.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Izuku’s breath fogged in front of him. He adjusted his scarf without thinking—and felt warmth settle around his shoulders as Katsuki draped his own jacket over him.
Izuku froze.
Katsuki froze too, like he’d only just realized what he’d done.
“It’s cold,” Katsuki snapped, already turning away before Izuku could notice how flushed his cheeks became. “Don’t slow us down.”
“O-Oh. Right. Thank you, Kacchan,” Izuku said, heart pounding entirely too fast for someone on a routine mission.
They walked on.
Neither mentioned it.
As night deepened, the forest grew denser. The snow thickened, flakes catching in Izuku’s curls and melting slowly. He brushed them away absently, mind focused on the path ahead.
He didn’t notice the slight stumble until it was already happening. A patch of ice gave way beneath his boot, balance tipping dangerously—
—and Katsuki’s hand was there. Solid. Warm. Fingers closing around Izuku’s wrist with practiced precision.
For half a second, the world narrowed to nothing but the feeling of skin on skin. How soft Katsuki’s hand felt against his. How warm.
Then Katsuki let him go just as quickly. “Watch it, nerd.”
Izuku nodded, breath uneven. “S-Sorry.”
They didn’t touch again. But something lingered in the space between them, unspoken and electric. By the time they found the first marker—a faint chalk symbol half-hidden behind a tree trunk—the light was fading fast. Katsuki swore under his breath, eyes flicking to the sky.
“Storm’s coming,” he said. “Feel it.”
Izuku nodded. He could feel it too now—the pressure drop making his joints ache, the way the air seemed to press inward.
“We should keep going,” Izuku said, though uncertainty threaded his voice. “If they’re moving people through here—”
“And get stuck out here in whiteout conditions?” Katsuki shot back. He took a breath, visibly reining himself in. “We’ll find shelter. Regroup. Then we finish the job.”
Izuku searched his face, then nodded. “Okay.”
They spotted a cabin just as the first heavy snow began to fall. It sat nestled between trees, half-hidden by drifting white, roof sagging slightly but intact. Katsuki cleared it quickly, movements sharp and efficient, while Izuku checked the structure with a careful eye.
“Safe,” Katsuki said at last.
Izuku exhaled in relief.
Inside, the thing was small. Sparse. Functional in the way old things often were. One table. One stove. One narrow bed tucked against the far wall.
Izuku stared at it.
Katsuki stared at it too. Not glanced. Not assessed.
Stared.
It was old. One thin mattress with a blanket folded at the foot like it was mocking him personally. The kind of bed that had never known comfort, only necessity.
“Absolutely not,” Katsuki said, bristling as he stumbled back against the door.
Izuku blinked. “Not… what?”
“That,” Katsuki snapped, pointing. “That’s not a bed. That’s a hazard.”
Izuku tilted his head, peering at it like it might explain itself. “I mean… it’s not ideal, but—”
“No,” Katsuki said again, sharper. His face felt hot. Too hot. He rolled his shoulders like that might shake the feeling loose. “We’ll take shifts. I don’t need to sleep.”
“You do,” Izuku retorted immediately, then flushed. “I—I mean, we both do. Hypothermia risk increases if—”
“I’m not sharing a bed,” Katsuki interrupted, words tumbling out faster now. “With you. Not because— I mean, it’s not— It’s just—”
He froze.
Izuku was staring at him. Not suspicious. Not teasing. Just… concerned.
“Oh,” Izuku said softly, diverting his eyes. “Okay.”
That was worse.
Katsuki dragged a hand down his face. Get it together. “I didn’t mean— Look, you’re fine. You’re— that’s not the point.”
Izuku nodded, quick and understanding in a way that made Katsuki want to scream even more. “We can figure something else out.”
The storm howled outside, punctuating the moment like the universe laughing at him.
Katsuki turned away before Izuku could say anything else, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He busied himself with the stove, the inventory, anything that didn’t involve acknowledging the fact that the idea of sharing that bed with Izuku fucking Midoriya made his chest feel too tight and his thoughts go dangerously off-mission.
Professional, he told himself. Get a grip.
Behind him, Izuku quietly set their packs down and began unpacking supplies, pretending not to notice Katsuki’s spiraling.
The cabin filled with the crackle of fire and the sound of snow battering the walls.
The bed remained.
Unmoved. Unforgiving.
Morning came slowly, light filtering through frost-rimmed windows in pale bands of gray and gold.
Izuku woke up first.
The cabin was cold again, the fire reduced to embers. He pushed himself upright carefully, muscles stiff from the night spent half-dozing in a chair that was never meant for sleeping. He glanced instinctively toward Katsuki—
—and paused.
Katsuki was still out, sprawled across the floor near the stove, jacket used as a makeshift pillow, arms crossed tight like he’d been bracing against something even in sleep. His brow was furrowed, expression tense as ever even now.
Izuku’s chest ached.
He didn’t have to do that, Izuku thought. He could’ve said—
Katsuki shifted, grumbling under his breath, then cracked one eye open. “If you’re staring, nerd, I’m charging you.”
Izuku yelped. “I—I wasn’t—!”
Katsuki sat up with a groan, rolling his neck. He looked awful. Tired. Cold. Still very much Kacchan.
“Storm’s eased,” he said, already switching back into mission mode. “We move.”
Izuku nodded, relief and something warmer blooming in his chest. He handed Katsuki a ration bar without comment.
Katsuki took it. Ate it. Didn’t complain.
Outside, the forest was hushed beneath fresh snow, tracks partially erased but not gone. Whatever had passed through here had done so recently.
Izuku crouched, brushing snow aside to reveal a footprint. “There,” he said. “Someone came through after dark.”
Katsuki crouched beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
Neither pulled away.
“Good eye,” Katsuki muttered. Then, quieter: “You good?”
Izuku looked up at him, surprised.
“Yes,” he said. “I am.”
They moved deeper into the woods together, steps in sync, the cabin disappearing behind them. Neither of them mentioned the bed.
Neither of them stopped thinking about it.
The forest looked different in daylight.
Snow clung to every branch, weighing the trees into bowed silhouettes. The world felt muffled, like someone had wrapped it in cotton—every sound softened, every movement deliberate. Izuku breathed it in, lungs burning pleasantly with the cold as he knelt near the edge of the cabin clearing.
“Tracks,” he murmured.
Katsuki was already beside him, boots planted wide, eyes sharp. He followed Izuku’s gaze to the faint depressions in the snow—boots, several sets, staggered and uneven.
“Recent,” Katsuki said. “They were sloppy.”
Izuku nodded. “They were tired. Or carrying weight.”
Their shoulders brushed again. Katsuki stiffened—just a fraction—then forced himself to relax.
Get it together.
They moved slowly, methodically. Izuku led when it came to reading the terrain—broken twigs bent in unnatural angles, bark scraped where someone had stumbled. Katsuki flanked, scanning for threats, senses tuned outward.
“You always see this stuff fast as fuck,” Katsuki muttered after a while.
Izuku blinked. “Oh—um. Thanks?”
Silence stretched, comfortable and tense all at once.
Katsuki hated how aware he was of everything today.
The way Izuku’s breath fogged when he exhaled. The way he hummed under his breath when concentrating, something soft and absent-minded. The faint scent of ozone and mint that clung to him, sharper now in the cold.
It’s just alpha bullshit, Katsuki told himself. Cold. Stress. Nothing else.
They paused near a fallen log, half-buried in snow.
Izuku crouched again, brushing snow aside with gloved fingers. “They doubled back here,” he said. “Tried to hide it.”
“Amateurs,” Katsuki scoffed. He crouched too, close enough that Izuku could feel the warmth radiating off him even through layers.
Izuku swallowed. “Kacchan?” he whispered.
Katsuki glanced up. “What?”
Izuku hesitated. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his glove. “About last night—”
Katsuki’s heart slammed into his ribs.
Nope. Abort. Bad idea. Terrible idea.
He straightened abruptly. “Mission first,” he snapped, a little too sharp. “Talk later.”
Izuku flinched—then nodded quickly. “R-Right. Sorry.”
The word hit Katsuki harder than it should’ve.
Idiot. You’re an idiot.
They walked on. Katsuki replayed the moment over and over in his head, every possible version of what Izuku might’ve said. About last night. About the chair. About the bed. About how Katsuki had panicked like a rookie and refused to even look at him.
He probably thinks I didn’t want to be near him.
The thought made Katsuki’s chest feel tight. It wouldn’t go away.
An hour later, the trail led them to a narrow ravine. Footprints descended carefully, then vanished under fresh snowfall.
Izuku peered down, brow furrowed. “They moved fast here. Someone slipped.”
“Good,” Katsuki said. “Means we’re close.”
Izuku smiled faintly at that—small, determined, the kind of smile that always caught Katsuki off guard.
Katsuki looked away immediately.
Don’t stare.
They took the ravine carefully, Katsuki offering a hand without comment when Izuku’s footing faltered. Izuku took it, grip warm and steady. Neither of them let go right away.
When they finally did, Katsuki cleared his throat. “You’re doing good,” he muttered.
Izuku glanced at him, surprised. “You too.”
The words lingered between them, heavier than the cold air.
By midday, the signs were undeniable—discarded rope fibers, boot scuffs hidden behind trees, the faint smell of smoke far ahead.
Izuku paused, scanning the area. “They’re close. We should be careful.”
Katsuki nodded. “Stay behind me.”
Izuku opened his mouth—probably to argue—then closed it again, nodding instead.
Katsuki felt something twist low in his gut. Protective. Instinctive. Dangerous.
You don’t get to feel like this, he told himself. Not now.
They pressed forward, snow crunching softly beneath their boots, white noise filling the spaces where words might’ve gone. Neither of them mentioned the bed. Neither of them stopped thinking about it. And somewhere beneath the professionalism, beneath the mission, something was starting to shift—slowly, inevitably—like pressure building before a storm.
They found the campsite just past noon.
It wasn’t obvious at first—no tents, no open fire. Just a wrongness to the forest, the way branches had been broken and re-tied, the snow disturbed in careful patterns meant to disguise movement. Izuku slowed instinctively, lifting a hand.
Katsuki stopped the second he noticed.
“What do you see,” Katsuki whispered, stepping closer to him.
Izuku crouched, fingers hovering just above the ground. “Compressed snow. Heavy boots. Multiple people, but… they’re trying not to leave tracks.”
“Trying,” Katsuki echoed, lips curling. “Means they’re scared.”
They moved forward inch by inch, senses tuned tight. Katsuki’s shoulders felt wounded like coiled wire, every muscle ready. His awareness kept drifting—not outward, where it should have been—but inward, to the steady presence just behind him.
Izuku was close. Too close. Close enough that Katsuki could feel the warmth of him through layers, close enough that every shift of movement registered like a spark.
Focus.
They crested a small rise and froze.
Below them, partially hidden by trees, was the remains of a temporary camp. Packed-down snow. Crates disguised under tarps. Rope. Zip ties. Blood.
Izuku’s stomach dropped.
“…They were here not too long ago,” he whispered. “Recently, Kacchan.”
Katsuki’s jaw clenched. The air felt thick in his lungs. Rage simmered, hot and sharp, threatening to spill over. “Which means they’ll be back.”
A branch snapped to their left. Izuku startled, breath catching—
—and Katsuki was there instantly, hand clamped over Izuku’s mouth, arm wrapping around his chest as he hauled him backward behind a tree.
Izuku went still.
Too still.
They pressed into the shadow of the trunk, bodies flush, Katsuki’s back to the forest, Izuku pinned gently but firmly against him, safe and sound. Katsuki could feel Izuku’s heartbeat through his chest—fast, but steadying as he registered Katsuki’s presence.
Good. He trusts me.
The thought hit Katsuki so hard it almost knocked the breath out of him.
Footsteps crunched nearby. Voices—low, indistinct.
Katsuki held his breath and ignored the pain. Didn’t move. Every instinct screamed to act, to strike, to end this now—but he stayed still. For Izuku. For the mission.
Izuku’s gloved hand brushed Katsuki’s wrist, a small grounding touch. Not panicked. Not afraid.
Just there.
The footsteps faded.
Only then did Katsuki release him, stepping back like the contact burned.
Izuku turned, eyes wide. “That was—”
“Too close,” Katsuki said.
“Thank you,” Izuku said instead.
The words were quiet. Earnest.
Katsuki looked away before Izuku could see the way his expression cracked.
They circled the camp, careful not to disturb anything further. Izuku documented what he could—placement, patterns, signs of recent departure—while Katsuki kept watch, anger simmering dangerously close to the surface.
I should’ve put you in the bed, Katsuki thought suddenly, viciously. Should’ve let you be warm.
The thought startled him.
What the hell are you doing???
“Kacchan?” Izuku said, soft.
Katsuki spun on his feet. “What?!”
Izuku hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “You’re… really tense.”
“No shit,” Katsuki snapped. Then—before he could stop himself—“They hurt people. They’re still hurting people right now. I don’t like that.”
Izuku blinked, then smiled—not bright, not cheerful. Something deeper. “I know.”
That smile lodged in Katsuki’s chest like shrapnel.
They moved on, following the trail away from the camp. The path narrowed, forcing them closer together. At one point, Izuku slipped on loose snow, catching himself on Katsuki’s arm.
“Sorry,” Izuku said automatically.
Katsuki didn’t let go. “Stop apologizing.”
Izuku looked up at him, surprised.
“You don’t have to act stupid about this,” Katsuki muttered. “Not around me.”
The words hung there.
Izuku felt something shift.
Not a rush. Not a spark.
A realization.
He watched Katsuki move ahead, broad shoulders tense, posture screaming control held together by stubborn will. He saw the way Katsuki kept positioning himself between Izuku and every potential threat without comment. The way his voice softened—just slightly—when Izuku spoke.
Oh.
Izuku swallowed.
This isn’t just admiration, is it.
The thought made his chest feel warm and terrifying all at once.
By late afternoon, the sky darkened again. Snow began to fall—soft at first, then heavier.
Katsuki scowled upward. “We’re pushing it too far. We should go back.”
Izuku nodded. “We could pull back to the cabin. Regroup. Report.”
Katsuki hesitated. The idea of going back—of that space, that bed—sent another spike of panic through him. He exhaled, sharp and shaky. “Yeah, yeah...”
They turned back, steps falling into rhythm again, the forest closing around them.
Behind them, the campsite waited.
Ahead of them, the cabin.
And between them, something unspoken continued to build—slow, relentless, impossible to ignore.
The storm slammed into them halfway back.
The snow thickened into heavy, blinding sheets of white, wind slicing sideways through the trees. The forest that had felt hushed earlier now groans under the weight of it—branches creaking, snow sloughing off in soft avalanches that thud against the ground.
Katsuki lead them through it, shoulders hunched, pace sharp. He kept just enough distance that Izuku had to work to keep up.
Too much distance.
Izuku noticed immediately. “Kacchan?”, he called over the wind.
Katsuki didn’t answer.
Izuku pushed a little faster, boots slipping once before he caught himself against a tree branch. When he reached Katsuki’s side, he opened his mouth to speak—
—and Katsuki suddenly stopped.
Snow swirled around them, the world reduced to white and gray and breath fogging in the air. Katsuki dragged a hand through his hair, fingers trembling despite the cold.
“Don’t,” Katsuki croaked.
Izuku froze. “Don’t… what?”
“Don’t look at me like that,” Katsuki snapped, voice tight. “Like you’re about to say something important.”
Izuku’s heart stuttered. “I just—”
“I can’t,” Katsuki cut in, words spilling faster now. “Not right now. We’re on a mission. I need you focused.”
There it is.
The pullback. Sharp. Sudden. Defensive.
Izuku felt it land like a classic Howitzer Impact— the sting of it—but he didn't retreat. He steadied himself instead.
“…Okay,” he sighed.
The simplicity of it almost broke Katsuki all over again.
He turned away abruptly, jaw clenched so hard it ached. His chest felt like it was caving in on itself with pressure building with nowhere to go. He didn’t understand what was happening—only that being this close to Izuku, feeling this much, is dangerous.
I don’t get to fall apart. Not here. Not now.
They walked the rest of the way in silence. The cabin eventually appeared through the snow like a promise and a threat all at once.
Inside, the door slammed shut against the storm, plunging them into dim, rattling quietness. The wind clawed at the walls, whistling through gaps in the wood. Snow thumped against the roof in heavy clumps.
Katsuki shook the snow from his jacket and then fed the stove with quick, aggressive motions. The fire flares to life, heat blooming unevenly through the space.
Izuku set their packs down carefully, fingers stiff with cold. He watched Katsuki out of the corner of his eye—saw the way his shoulders were still drawn too tight, the way his hands shook when he thought no one was looking.
Izuku wanted to say something. He wanted to say You scared me or You don’t have to shut me out or even just Are you okay?
But Katsuki’s back was rigid. Closed off.
So Izuku made a choice. He didn’t push whatever this was.
Instead, he busied himself quietly—hanging damp gloves near the stove, setting out rations, moving with deliberate calm. He gave Katsuki space without pulling away completely.
The bed sat there. Waiting.
Katsuki noticed Izuku glance at it—just once—before looking away.
The sight made something inside him twist and turn.
“…You can take it,” Katsuki muttered, still facing the stove. “The bed.”
Izuku startled. “What?”
“I’ll take the floor,” Katsuki snapped. “End of discussion.”
Izuku hesitated. Every instinct begged him to argue. To insist. To say you don’t have to punish yourself for me.
But, he swallowed it down, heart pounding in his chest.
“…Okay,” he choked out.
Night fell fast.
The storm grew louder, pressing in from all sides. The cabin shrunk with every gust, heat uneven, air thick with tension and unspoken things.
Izuku sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap, listening to Katsuki pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like a caged animal.
“Kacchan,” Izuku croaked out.
Katsuki froze.
Izuku kept his voice steady. “If you need space, I’ll give it to you. But… I’m here. Okay?”
Katsuki stayed where he was. Didn’t turn around.
For a long moment, Izuku thought that he wouldn't answer at all.
“…Yeah,” Katsuki finally admitted. “I know.”
The words sounded like they cost him something.
They settled into an uneasy quiet, storm roaring outside, fire crackling inside. Two alphas. One bed. A cabin cut off from the world. And something fragile, dangerous, and undeniable stretched thin between them—ready to snap, or catch fire, or both.
The night stretched into infinity.
The storm didn’t ease. If anything, it got worse—louder—wind clawed at the cabin walls, snow slid off the roof in thumps so heavy that it made the whole place shudder. The fire popped and crackled, heat pooling unevenly across the floor.
Katsuki lied on his back near the stove, staring at the ceiling.
He was still awake, victim to thoughts that wouldn’t shut the hell up.
Izuku shifted on the bed, careful, almost afraid to startle him. The sound was soft. Barely anything, but it still set Katsuki’s teeth on edge.
“Stop fidgeting,” Katsuki snapped.
Izuku froze. “…Sorry.”
The word hit Katsuki wrong. Again.
He exhaled sharply and rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “I didn’t mean— Just— you’re making noise.”
Izuku blinked at him in the dim firelight. Then, hesitantly, “You’re practically fighting away nightmares, but horizontally. On the floor. I’m worried about you.”
Katsuki scowled. “Shut up. You can't fight horizontally. That’s not a thing.”
Izuku’s mouth twitched into a small smile. “I think it is.”
There it is. That tiny spark of amusement. Katsuki felt it catch somewhere stupid in his chest.
Idiot.
He pushed himself upright, bristling on instinct. “You always like correcting people?”
Izuku shrugged, sheepish. “Only when they’re wrong.”
“Oh, you’re real brave when you’re warm and comfortable,” Katsuki muttered, crossing his arms across his chest with a scoff.
Izuku hesitated. Then—very deliberately—he shifted, tugging the blanket closer to his own shoulders instead of offering it. “Well…You said the bed was mine.”
Katsuki stared at him, eyelid twitching, lips pursed into a tight line.
Oh. You’re gonna play it that way.
“Tch,” Katsuki scoffed. “Didn’t think you’d be so goddamn selfish about it.”
Izuku’s eyes widened. “I— I’m not—”
“I’m freezing my ass off down here,” Katsuki continued, voice sharp, watching Izuku carefully. “And you’re hogging all the heat.”
Izuku looked down at the blanket. Then back up at Katsuki with a flicker of something there—uncertainty, then resolve.
“…You could move closer to the fire,” Izuku offered.
Katsuki’s chest tightened. That’s not what he wanted.
Wait. What?
“Or,” Izuku added, quieter, “we could… figure something else out?”
Katsuki felt the words land in his gut, heavy and confusing. Something in him wanted to close the distance. Wanted to be nearer. Not over Izuku. Not looming. But beside him.
Stupid fucking alpha. Broken ass alpha. Stop being such a broken fucking alpha, Katsuki. Get a goddamn grip.
Instead, he snorted. “What, you want me to crawl into the bed now?”
Izuku flushed. “I—I didn’t say that!”
Katsuki grinned, sharp and defensive and entirely too pleased. “Relax. I’m just messing with you, nerd.”
Izuku exhaled, a little shaky. “…You’re kind of a jerk when you’re tired.”
“Yeah,” Katsuki sighed. “And you’re annoying when you pretend you’re not.”
Izuku huffed out a laugh before he could stop himself. He clamped a hand over his mouth as if he was surprised by the sound he made.
Katsuki’s chest warmed at the sight.
There it is. That sound. His inner alpha beamed with pride.
The banter settled into something easier after that. Katsuki complained about the rations. Izuku pointed out how Katsuki ate his anyway. Katsuki said it was tactical. Izuku said that’s not what tactical means.
They bickered in low voices while the storm raged on, words filling the space where silence had once been pressing too hard.
Katsuki didn’t notice when the shaking stopped.
He did, however, notice how every time Izuku looked at him—really looked, eyes soft and earnest—that something tightened low in his belly. Not sharp. Not urgent.
Warm. Pulling.
It made no fucking sense.
Alpha instincts are supposed to be about dominance. About control. About wanting to pin, to claim, to tower.
But all Katsuki wanted—all he wants—is to drop his guard. To sink. To let Izuku be close without the weight of being strong all the time.
It scared the hell out of him.
So he snapped instead.
“You always this chatty?” Katsuki asked abruptly.
Izuku blinked. “Um. Sometimes?”
“Tch. Figures.”
Izuku frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’d drive anyone else insane.”
Izuku’s shoulders slumped a little. “...Oh.”
The sound was small. Hurt, even though he tried to hide it.
Katsuki’s stomach dropped.
“…I didn’t say I hated it,” Katsuki muttered.
Izuku looked up.
Katsuki looked away. “Just— don’t get a big head about it.”
Izuku smiled then. Slow. Gentle. Like he understood something Katsuki hadn’t figured out yet.
“Okay,” Izuku chuckled. “I won’t.”
The storm howled some more. The fire crackled in tune. The cabin held up without caving in on itself from the weight of precipitation.
Katsuki lied back down, turning his face toward the bed without quite meaning to. Izuku shifted again, closer to the edge this time—still not crossing the line, still respecting the space Katsuki drew.
Katsuki pretended not to notice. But his instincts hummed under his skin, restless and confused, tugging him sideways instead of forward. Toward closeness without control. Toward warmth without dominance.
Toward Izuku.
He didn’t have a name for it yet. All he knew was that when Izuku breathed, the sound steadied something him—and that scared him more than the storm ever could.
Stupid fucking alpha.
Katsuki didn’t notice the heat at first.
It creeped in the way exhaustion does—quiet, insidious. His skin felt tight, too warm beneath his clothes. The air in the cabin was almost thicker, harder to pull into his lungs. He shifted on the floor for the third time, shoulder brushing the cold wood, then the warmth of the stove, neither of them right.
He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
His palm came away damp. His scent gland was hot and raw and raised and fuck.
Izuku looked over at him. Katsuki paled.
The nerd sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, posture alert in a way Katsuki recognized too well. Hero instincts. Medic instincts. Alpha instincts, layered together until they were impossible to separate.
“What’s wrong?” Izuku asked.
“Nothing,” Katsuki snapped defensively, curling up tighter into himself.
Izuku didn’t accept that. He never does. He stood and crossed the small space between them in three quiet steps. Katsuki tensed before he could stop himself, shoulders drawing up, spine going rigid.
Izuku knelt in front of him.
The movement was careful. Non-threatening. Still close enough that Katsuki could feel the heat radiating off him—and that only makes the wrongness spike sharper.
“You’re flushed,” Izuku whispered, frowning as his eyebrows furrowed together.
Katsuki scowled. “It’s hot in here. I’m by the goddamn fire. Fuck off.”
Izuku lifted a hand, hesitated—then placed the back of his fingers gently against Katsuki’s cheek. “You’re burning up,” Izuku choked, eyes widening.
Katsuki jerked back, embarrassment flaring hot on top of everything else. “Don’t— I’m fine.”
Izuku stood his ground this time. His brow furrowed even deeper, concern etched plainly across his face. “You’re sweating, you’re shaking, and you’ve barely slept. You might be getting sick.”
“Sick?” Katsuki scoffed, but it comes out strained. He swallowed, throat dry. “I don’t get sick.”
“You’re human,” Izuku chuckled with a small smile. “Even alphas get sick.”
That word—alphas—landed wrong. Katsuki shifted again, knees drawing in slightly without him meaning to. His body felt too loose, too reactive, like it stopped listening to him.
Izuku noticed.
“Okay,” he choked out, decision snapping into place. “That’s it.”
Katsuki blinked. “What?”
“You’re getting in the bed.”
“No,” Katsuki retorted, shaking his head and pushing himself up—only for Izuku to grab his wrist instead.
Firm. Unyielding.
Not violent. Not cruel.
Strong.
The grip sent a shock of something warm, hot, and electric straight through Katsuki’s arm and down to his growing knot. His breath stuttered. His inner alpha reared, confused—recognizing the restraint not as a threat, but as something else entirely. Something good.
He’s stronger than you right now.
“Deku—” Katsuki choked, eyes widening as his face flushed even more. “Stop.”
Izuku didn’t let go. “You’re not thinking straight. You’re overheating. You need to rest.”
“I said I’m—”
Izuku shifted his weight and, in one smooth motion, picked him up.
It was quick. Controlled. Katsuki barely had time to react before Izuku cradled him against his chest before laying him onto the bed with surprising ease. The mattress dipped beneath Katsuki’s weight, blankets rustling loudly in the sudden quiet.
Katsuki froze, knot swelling larger. His brain short-circuited. His inner alpha howled—recognizing the act as being handled, placed, overruled by another alpha. And how much it liked it and wanted more.
The realization flooded him with a rush of heat and humiliation so sharp it made his ears ring.
He choked small, broken whine—confused, breathless, utterly mortifying—before he could stop himself.
The cabin went dead silent.
Izuku stiffened like he'd been struck by lightning.
Katsuki’s face burned. He clamped his jaw shut, hands curling into fists at his sides, eyes squeezed tight like that might erase what just happened.
“I—” Izuku whimpered, voice wrecked with concern. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”
“No,” Katsuki snapped, face hot and red. “Shut up.”
Izuku hovered, hands half-raised, clearly torn between backing off and checking him over again.
“Kacchan, you don’t sound okay.”
Katsuki turned his face toward the wall, teeth grinding. “Don’t analyze me.”
Izuku exhaled slowly, steadying himself. He reached for the blanket instead, pulling it up over Katsuki’s shoulders with careful hands.
The gesture was gentle.
Protective.
It makes Katsuki’s chest ache. His inner alpha preened and he hated it.
“Just rest,” Izuku murmured. “I’ll keep watch.”
Katsuki wanted to protest. Wanted to bite back, to reclaim ground, to not feel like this.
Instead, his body sunk deeper into the mattress, heat pooling low and unfamiliar, instincts tangled into knots he didn’t have words for. His breath came uneven, a faint tremor running through him that he couldn't suppress. His knot ached and pulsed between his thighs and he couldn’t stop himself from rubbing his legs together for some sort of reprieve.
Izuku sat beside the bed, close but not touching him, just watching him with a concerned and puzzled look on his face.
Katsuki hated how much that helped.
He hated even more that some part of him—deep, instinctual, traitorous—felt safe.
Katsuki woke up choking on heat.
Not the clean, sharp burn of a fever—no, this was deeper. Thicker. It coiled low in his body, radiating outward until his skin felt too tight, too sensitive, like every nerve had been turned up a notch without his permission.
The sheets were twisted around his legs.
That’s wrong.
He lied there for a second, disoriented, staring at the ceiling beams blurred by darkness and firelight. His breath came shallow, slow, uneven. Sweat slicked down his spine. His heart thudded heavy and slow, like it was pacing itself.
Get up, his brain ordered. His body refused to listen. He shifted and froze.
Izuku was still there.
Not touching him. Keeping his distance. Sitting on the floor beside the bed, back against the frame, arms folded loosely over his knees. His head was tilted slightly, curls shadowed, eyes half-lidded but alert.
Watching.
The realization hit Katsuki square in the chest.
“What… time is it?” Katsuki croaked.
Izuku startled, then looked up at him. Relief flashed across his face. “Hey. You’re awake.”
The sound of Izuku’s voice—low, steady, close—does something to Katsuki’s insides that made him grit his teeth. The arousal went straight to his sleeping dick, stiffening it in seconds.
“How long,” Katsuki demands.
Izuku hesitates. “A while.”
That answer landed wrong. Too vague. Too careful.
Katsuki pushed himself up onto his elbows—and immediately regretted it. The room tilted. Heat surged, sharper now, pooling low and dragging his instincts along with it. He hissed through his teeth and dropped back against the mattress.
Izuku went to him instantly. Hands at Katsuki’s shoulders—not pinning, not restraining, just steadying. Solid. Real.
“Easy,” Izuku whispered. “You’re really warm.”
“No shit,” Katsuki snapped, but the bite lost its usual edge. His voice wavered, just barely.
Izuku noticed.
He always does.
“This isn’t normal,” Izuku whispered. “You’re not shivering anymore. Your fever shouldn’t spike like this.”
Katsuki swallowed hard. His throat felt thick. “I told you I’m fine.”
Izuku’s jaw tightened. His scent shifted—subtle, but unmistakable now. Protective. Focused.
Alpha.
“I don’t think you are,” Izuku said slowly and calmly, biting his bottom lip.
Katsuki turned his head sharply, meeting Izuku’s gaze. The firelight caught in Izuku’s eyes, making them glow faintly. The sight punched something deep and wordless out of Katsuki’s chest.
His inner alpha reacts before he can stop it. Not with aggression.
With a pull.
A want to yield, to press closer, to let Izuku handle this because Katsuki can’t.
The thought horrified him. His body responded anyway. A soft, involuntary moan slipped out of his throat—more breath than voice, strained and helpless.
Izuku froze.
“Katsuki?” His voice dropped, careful now. “Hey. Talk to me.”
Katsuki squeezed his eyes shut. His hands fisted the sheets, knuckles white. “Don’t— look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like—” He broke off, teeth grinding. “Like you’re about to do something.”
Izuku drew back an inch—not leaving, just giving space. “I’m not,” he retorted. “I’m just worried.”
The sincerity in it made Katsuki’s chest ache.
Another wave rolled through him—heat, instinct, confusion all tangled together. His body arched subtly into the mattress without his permission, breath hitching as he leaned toward the nerd.
Izuku saw it.
Understanding dawned slowly across his face—not panic, not judgment. Just quiet, dawning clarity.
“…Oh,” Izuku’s breath caught in his throat. “Oh, Kacchan—.”
Katsuki’s eyes flew open. “Don’t say it.”
Izuku didn't. He shifted instead, moving closer again, careful and deliberate, presence bracketing Katsuki without crowding his senses or cornering his alpha.
“You’re not sick,” Izuku chuckled and smiled softly.
Katsuki scoffed—a sharp, broken sound. “No shit.”
Izuku swallowed. His hands hovered, then settled at Katsuki’s sides—not touching skin, just anchoring him to where they were together.
“We don’t have to do anything,” Izuku said. “Okay? We can slow this down.”
Katsuki’s breath caught. His instincts screamed otherwise—press closer, close the distance, give in—but Izuku’s restraint cut through the noise.
“…Stay,” Katsuki whimpered. “Please, Izuku.”
The word slipped out before his pride could stop it.
Izuku didn’t hesitate. “I’m here. Tell me what you need. What you want.”
Katsuki tried to open his mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but nothing would come out. He just started trembling again, shaking before he could even attempt to hide his weakness. He wasn’t shivering. He wasn’t shaking from the sharp tremor of cold, not the violent shudder of fear—this was smaller, meaner. It lived in his muscles, in the way his hands wouldn’t quite unclench, in the way his breath kept snagging halfway out like his body doesn’t trust the air anymore.
Izuku stayed where he was.
That’s the first thing Katsuki notices.
Not hovering. Not backing away. Just… there. Grounded. Solid. Sitting on the edge of the bed with one knee up, hands resting loosely on his thigh, posture open instead of looming. His presence filled the space without taking it over.
What a strong, careful, and principled alpha.
The storm roared outside now. Snow rattled the shutters. The fire burned down to a low, steady glow of embers.
Izuku watched Katsuki like he was something fragile—not breakable, but worth handling carefully.
“Katsuki,” he says quietly. “We should talk about what’s happening.”
Katsuki huffed a weak, defensive laugh. “You serious?”
“Yes,” Izuku chuckled. “If you’re okay with that.”
Katsuki swallowed. His throat ached. Everything felt raw and stupid, like the protective layer between him and the world had been peeled back without his permission.
“…Fine,” he muttered. “But don’t psychoanalyze me.”
Izuku’s lips quirked up. “Deal.”
A beat.
Then, softer: “I just want to know what you need.”
Katsuki looked away and stared at the wall as if that would make this easier. His jaw tightened, shoulders pulling inward despite himself. “I don’t know,” he snapped. “I don’t— this isn’t— I’m not—”
He cut himself off, breath hitching.
Izuku didn’t fill the silence.
He waited.
Katsuki exhaled through his nose, frustrated. His hand came up to rub at his face, then stalled halfway, fingers curling uselessly.
“…This isn’t supposed to happen,” he finally choked out, shoulders tight.
Izuku tilted his head. “What part?”
“All of it,” Katsuki growled. “Alphas don’t— we don’t do this. We’re not supposed to want this.”
Izuku studied him, eyes softening. “Want what, Kacchan?”
“You.”
The word hangs in the air, naked and terrifying.
Izuku nodded slowly, like Katsuki had just confirmed something he’s been holding quietly for a long time. “Okay,” he said. “Thank you for telling me.”
“You don’t get it,” Katsuki cried out, voice rising despite himself. “Alpha-alpha pairs exist, sure, but everyone knows what people think. That it’s unstable. That someone’s doing it wrong. That one of them’s—” He choked on the word, anger flaring hot and fast. “Weak.”
Izuku’s eyes sharpened—not with anger, but with something firmer. “Who told you that?”
Katsuki opened his mouth.
Closed it.
His hands curled into fists in the blankets. His shoulders shake once.
“Everyone…even my parents,” he admitted, barely audible. “Not directly. Just— comments. Jokes. Expectations. Alphas are supposed to lead. To take charge. To be—” He swallowed hard. “Not like this.”
Izuku leaned forward slightly, careful not to crowd him. “And what is ‘this’?”
Katsuki laughed again, but it broke halfway through. “Wanting to kneel,” he snapped. “Wanting to submit to you. To let you—”
He stopped. His whole body went rigid, like he was bracing for impact.
Izuku’s voice was gentle. “Wanting to trust me?”
Katsuki squeezed his eyes shut, jerking a nod. Trembling through the stiffness.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
When he opened his eyes again, they were wet. Red. Furious about it.
“I hate that part of me,” Katsuki choaked hoarsely. “I hate that my alpha—” He gestured vaguely at himself, at his chest. “—wants something that makes me feel small.”
Izuku shifted closer—not touching yet, but close enough that Katsuki could feel his warmth. “Does it make you feel small,” Izuku asked carefully, “or does it make you feel safe?”
The question knocked the breath out of him. Katsuki’s hands started shaking in earnest now.
“…Safe,” he admitted.
Izuku nodded like that answered everything he had once hypothesized in one of his notebooks.
“Then it isn’t weakness,” Izuku whispered. “It’s honesty.”
Katsuki shook his head, eyes burning. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“I know it isn’t,” Izuku replied. “I also know you don’t owe anyone a version of yourself that hurts you just to look strong. You’re not being an alpha wrong. There’s no such thing.”
Katsuki’s lips tremble. He presses them together hard, trying to hold the dam. “Tell that to the fucking world, Deku. Maybe then I’ll believe it.”
Izuku waited a moment, then asked quietly, “Can I ask you something personal?”
Katsuki snorted weakly. “Bit late.”
Izuku smiled faintly. “You can say no, you know.”
Katsuki hesitated. “…Fine. Just get it over with.”
Izuku’s gazed into his eyes. “Have you ever been with anyone? Romantically?”
Katsuki’s back stiffened. “Yeah,” he snapped. “Of course I have. What, you think I’m a limp-knotted alpha now too?”
Izuku raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but not accusing him of anything. “Katsuki.”
“Don’t,” Katsuki growled. His alpha rears up, defensive, desperate to be seen as competent, experienced, enough. “I’m not some—”
He stopped. The lie collapsed in his mouth and crumbled like ash. His shoulders sagged.
“…No,” he muttered. “I haven’t, okay?”
Izuku didn’t react. Didn’t smile. Didn’t pity him.
“Have you ever kissed anyone,” Izuku asked, blushing softly as he tried his best to maintain his composure with a soft, even voice.
Katsuki shook his head once, avoiding his eyes.
The shame hit and crashed over like a wave, pulling him under anyway.
“Never dated,” Katsuki scoffed bitterly. “Never wanted to deal with it. Easier to pretend I didn’t care. That I don’t have a broken alpha. It’s not a problem if I don’t have to deal with it.”
Izuku studied him for a long moment. “Do you know why your alpha is reacting this way with me?”
Katsuki shrugged. “Because it’s broken.”
Izuku shook his head. “Because it recognizes me as safe. As someone who won’t take from you. As someone you can choose.”
The words slid under Katsuki’s armor and split him open.
His breath shuddered. His chest tightened painfully. His alpha, traitorous and honest, leaned toward Izuku without permission—toward the steadiness, the warmth, the dominance that doesn’t demand, only offers.
“…You’re stronger than me,” Katsuki whispered.
“I don’t think strength works the way you think it does.”
Slowly—very slowly—Izuku reached out.
He gave Katsuki time to pull away.
Katsuki didn’t.
Izuku’s cupped Katsuki’s cheek, thumb warm against flushed skin as he thumbed some of his tears away. The touch was reverent. Careful. Like he was finally allowed to hold something precious for the first time.
Katsuki flinched and inhaled sharply.
Izuku leaned in just enough to rest their foreheads together. No pressure. No claim.
“You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” Izuku whispered. “I just want you to know—you’re allowed to want what you want. You’re allowed to want me.”
Katsuki’s eyes welled with tears again. “I always have,” he whispered. “It’s only ever been you.”
The words spilled out all at once then, like a flood surging through a broken garbage disposal.
“I’ve loved you since we were kids,” Katsuki choked. “Since you looked at me like I wasn’t a monster. Since you kept coming back. I tried to bury it because it was stupid and dangerous and—”
His voice collapsed.
“I don’t know how to be this,” he sobbed. “I don’t know how to want you without hating myself for it.”
Izuku pulled him in then.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
He gathered Katsuki into his chest, arms wrapped around him, hand cradling the back of his head. Katsuki broke, pressing his face into Izuku’s shoulder, body shaking with silent, wrecked sobs.
Izuku held him. Rocked him gently.
“It’s okay,” Izuku whispered over and over. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
When Katsuki finally looked up, eyes red and raw, Izuku pressed a kiss to his forehead.
Then another, to his temple.
Then—soft, tentative, asking permission with every inch of the movement—a gentle kiss to Katsuki’s lips.
It was brief. Sweet. Nothing more than contact and care.
Katsuki gasped into it, breath hitching, hands fisting in Izuku’s shirt like he’s afraid to fall.
Izuku rested their foreheads together again.
“Whatever happens next,” Izuku says softly, “we do it together. At your pace.”
Katsuki nodded, exhausted and undone, curling closer without thinking about it.
The storm howled.
The night deepened.
And for the first time, Katsuki didn’t feel alone in it.
It happened gradually.
So gradually that Katsuki almost convinced himself that it wasn’t happening at all.
The heat in his body no longer spiked in waves—it settled. Thick and constant, like embers banked too close beneath the skin. His breathing changed first, shallow and uneven, chest rising faster than it should. His shoulders curled inward without him noticing, posture no longer sharp but drawn, protective in a way that isn’t about fighting.
Izuku felt it before he saw it.
Not through scent alone—though that changed too, warmer, fuller—but through the way Katsuki pressed closer without realizing it. The way his hands keep finding fistfuls of Izuku’s jacket like anchoring points.
Izuku eased back just a little, enough to check Katsuki’s face.
And froze.
Katsuki’s eyes were glowing.
Not bright. Not flaring.
Just… lit from within, pupils blown wide, irises catching the firelight until they looked molten. His lashes fluttered when Izuku pulled back, brow knitting in immediate distress.
A sound slips out of Katsuki’s throat.
Soft. Broken.
A whine.
Izuku’s heart lurched.
“Katsuki,” he murmured, steady and grounding. “Hey. I’m still here.”
Katsuki made the sound again when Izuku didn't immediately close the distance. His fingers tightened in Izuku’s shirt, tugging without intent, like his body was asking a question his mouth couldn’t gain the courage to form with words.
“Don’t—” Katsuki breathes, voice cracking. “Don’t stop.”
Izuku doesn’t kiss him again yet.
Instead, he lifted one hand—slow, deliberate, visible the entire time. “Can I touch you?”
Katsuki nodded instantly. Too fast.
“Yes,” he cried out, desperate. “Please, Izuku. Please. I need you.”
Izuku’s hand settled at Katsuki’s jaw, thumb warm against overheated skin. Katsuki leaned into it immediately, eyes fluttering shut, breath hitching like he’d been holding it all night.
Izuku pressed a kiss to his temple.
Katsuki whined again.
Izuku’s chest tightened. “You want closeness,” Izuku said softly. “Not control.”
Katsuki shook his head, frustrated tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “I don’t— I just— If you’d tell me what to do—”
Izuku stilled.
Katsuki swallowed, words tumbling out faster now, raw and unfiltered. “If you’d just order me, I wouldn’t have to think. Thinking makes it worse. Makes me feel everything. Please, Izuku. It’s so hard holding myself back. I don’t want to hold back anymore. I need you so bad. Please.”
There it is.
Izuku exhaled slowly, grounding himself before he spoke.
“Katsuki,” he said gently, “I don’t want you to disappear to get through this.”
Katsuki’s eyes opened, glassy and glowing. “I don’t know how else to do it.”
Izuku cupped his face fully now, palms warm, steady. “Then I’ll show you.”
He leaned in—not to kiss yet, but to rest their foreheads together. Breath to breath. Presence before anything else.
“You don’t have to earn touch,” Izuku whispered. “You don’t have to give up control to be wanted.”
Katsuki trembled. “But I want to.”
Izuku nodded. “I know. And wanting doesn’t mean you don’t get to choose.”
Slowly, Izuku kissed him again—soft, unhurried, nothing demanding. When he pulled back, Katsuki whined, instinctively chasing the warmth.
Izuku smiled sadly. “Is it okay if we cuddle. Just hold each other for a little bit?”
Katsuki nodded again, breathless. “Yes. Please, Alpha.”
Izuku shifted first, carefully guiding Katsuki back onto the bed. Not forcing. Not placing.
Inviting.
Katsuki crawled closer on his own, curling into Izuku’s chest like gravity has finally decided where he belonged. Izuku wrapped his arms around him, firm and protective, one hand stroking slow, grounding lines down Katsuki’s back.
Katsuki sighed—a deep, relieved sound—and buried his face against Izuku’s collarbone.
Every time Izuku paused his touch, Katsuki whined again, unconsciously nudging him closer.
Izuku kept responding the same way.
With consent.
With softness.
With presence.
“Is this okay,” he asked, again and again, before brushing a thumb along Katsuki’s cheek, before kissing his hair, before shifting them both under the blankets.
Each time, Katsuki answered yes.
Each time, a little more of the tension drains out of him, leaving him soft.
His eyes kept glowing that beautiful, warm red.
His body stayed warm.
But the panic—the shame—began to loosen its grip.
Izuku held him through it.
Not as a command.
Not as a solution.
But as a choice.
Katsuki fell asleep like someone finally letting go of a ledge.
Not gracefully. Not peacefully at first. It was a slow, shuddering surrender—his body still keyed too high, muscles refusing to trust rest even while his weight sinks heavier into Izuku’s arms. His breathing kept catching, then restarting, like relearning the rhythm of intimacy.
Izuku didn’t move.
He stayed pinned in that narrow bed, back against the headboard, one arm wrapped around Katsuki’s shoulders and the other resting over his ribs, palm spread wide as if his hand alone could convince Katsuki’s body that it was allowed to stay. The fire had dwindled to a low glow. The storm still worried the cabin walls, but the worst of the wind had softened into a constant hiss, like distant surf.
Katsuki’s eyes were still glowing. They were faint now—no longer molten, just a dim, stubborn light beneath his lashes. Even asleep, his brow remained slightly furrowed. His mouth parted just enough for Izuku to hear the small sounds he makes in the back of his throat: soft, embarrassed little whines that come and go whenever Izuku shifted his hand or stopped stroking his back.
Izuku learned quickly.
Every time his fingers stilled, Katsuki’s shoulders tensed. His grip tightened in Izuku’s shirt as if he was waking into panic, as if his body was bracing for abandonment even when his mind was gone.
So Izuku kept giving.
Not frantically. Not like he was trying to fix anything. Just steady, slow passes of his hand—down Katsuki’s spine, over his shoulder, a gentle sweep through sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck. All to soothe.
Izuku’s own alpha stirred in response, a low protective thrum under his ribs, but he kept it leashed. Not because he was afraid of it—but because he knew what Katsuki asked for and what he actually needs are two different things.
Katsuki had wanted commands.
Wanted the relief of obedience.
And that—Izuku couldn’t stop thinking about that.
He stared into the dim cabin, jaw tight, eyes unfocused, trying to make sense of the shape of Katsuki’s pain and guilt. It wasn’t just internalized shame about alpha/alpha dynamics. It went deeper. It’s the way Katsuki’s body had treated surrender like a lifeline. Like thinking was the enemy.
Like choice was something he didn’t deserve.
Izuku’s fingers curled slightly in Katsuki’s shirt.
Who taught you that, he thought, not for the first time, and felt something hot and protective rise up in him.
His alpha.
Katsuki shifted against him, pressing closer, seeking warmth on instinct. His knee bumped Izuku’s thigh. He made that small sound again—soft, needy, half-asleep—and then his breathing evened out, deeper now, more consistent.
Izuku let out a slow exhale and lowered his chin to rest lightly against Katsuki’s hair.
He stayed like that for a long time. Long enough that his limbs start to ache. Long enough that the fire nearly died.
He thought about waking Katsuki to feed the stove. Thought about the cold creeping back in. Thought about calling command again, about the mission, about the camp they found and the people they’re trying to save—
Then, Katsuki’s hand twitched in Izuku’s shirt like a reflex, and Izuku abandoned the idea.
Later, he told himself. Just—later.
Katsuki murmured something into his chest. Not words. Just the shape of them, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re searching for comfort in the dark.
Izuku answered anyway.
“I’m here,” he whispered.
Katsuki’s body softened with an immediacy that hurts.
Izuku’s throat tightened.
He kissed Katsuki’s hair, just once, gentle enough that it was more warmth than pressure. Katsuki didn’t wake, but his mouth curved faintly, like something in him heard it.
Izuku closed his eyes.
The storm continued.
And then—inevitably—Katsuki’s rut rushed forward again, slow as dawn. It was the kind that built slowly over time instead of the rut that crashed in like a hurricane. Izuku felt it in subtle shifts: the way Katsuki’s temperature climbed again after an hour, the way his scent deepened, the way his breathing changed when Izuku’s hand paused. His body didn’t know how to want without fear. Without apologizing. Without trying to turn it into something simple and unquestionable.
Izuku opened his eyes to the dark and whispered into Katsuki’s hair, barely audible.
“You don’t have to disappear,” he whimpered. “I’ll stay with you while you learn how to be here.”
Katsuki’s fingers curled tighter, like a promise.
It was still dark when Katsuki woke up again.
The cabin was still, though the storm-light through the window had shifted slightly—less black, more slate. The fire has gone out entirely. Cold crept across the floorboards in thin, patient fingers.
Katsuki jolted, breath ripping through his chest, eyes flaring open with a sudden glow.
Izuku felt it immediately—the tension flooding back, the heat in Katsuki’s skin turning sharp again. Katsuki sat up too fast, blankets tangling around his legs, hands shaking as he tried to orient himself.
His gaze snapped to Izuku.
Izuku sat up now as well, slow and steady, hands visible. “Hey,” he whispered. “You’re okay.”
Katsuki’s pupils were blown wide. His throat works like he’s trying to swallow something too big.
“Alpha. This—” Katsuki started, then broke off, voice rough. He dragged a hand down his face, anger flaring like it always does when he’s scared. “It’s worse.”
Izuku nodded once. “Yeah. I know.”
The lack of surprise made Katsuki’s breath hitch.
“You knew,” Katsuki accused, but there wasn’t any heat behind it. Not really.
“I suspected,” Izuku says gently. “But I didn’t want to label it for you.”
Katsuki’s hands fisted the blanket. The fabric bunched, white knuckles stark against dark. He looked away like the sight of Izuku was too much.
“I can’t—” Katsuki rasped. “I can’t think. My rut, Alpha. Please. I need you. Please, Alpha.”
Izuku shifted closer—but stopped himself before he reached him, giving Katsuki the space to choose. “Do you want me close?”
Katsuki hesitated.
His pride fought first. His instinct second. His heart last.
Then he nodded, sharp and furious, like he was still angry at himself for needing anything. “Yes.”
Izuku moved in carefully and sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He didn’t touch him yet.
Katsuki’s breath stuttered. His glow brightened, then steadied, like his body was recalibrating around Izuku’s alpha.
Izuku spoke softly. “Can you tell me what’s happening in your body?”
Katsuki swallowed hard. His voice came out uneven. “Hot. Too hot. Like I’m—” He gripped the blanket tighter. “Like I’m not in control.”
Izuku nodded. “Okay. That makes sense.”
Katsuki whipped his head toward him. “No it doesn’t.”
“It does,” Izuku insisted, calm as stone. “Your body is reacting. Your instincts are loud. That doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong.”
Katsuki’s throat bobbed. He looked down at his hands as if he was disgusted by how much trembled.
Izuku waited a beat, then asked, “Do you want to be held again?”
Katsuki’s lips parted. Nothing came out at first—only a small, humiliating sound, like his body answered before his pride could.
Izuku’s expression softened. “That’s okay.” He lifted a hand. Paused. “Can I touch your face.”
Katsuki nodded, eyes shining with more than glow now. “I want more, Alpha.”
Izuku cupped his cheek, thumb stroking gently along the edge of Katsuki’s jaw. Katsuki leaned into it immediately, eyelids fluttering shut like his body couldn’t decide whether to melt or bolt.
“You’re here,” Izuku murmured. “Stay with me.”
Katsuki’s breath caught.
Izuku kissed him—soft, careful, a question more than an action. Katsuki answered by trembling closer, hands gripping Izuku’s sleeve like it’s the only real thing in the room.
Then, Katsuki mewled, grinding his hips against Izuku’s thigh. He choked on a whine, pride flaring as he pulled him closer. “Alpha.”
Izuku’s face flushed. He kissed Katsuki’s forehead and slowly started to trail his hand down his chest, faltering below his belly button. “Can I touch you, Kacchan?”
“Please!” Katsuki cried out, knot swelling in his boxers. “It’s starting to hurt, Alpha. Need you. Need your knot.”
Not yet, Kacchan,” Izuku kissed Katsuki’s scent gland, smiling to himself as Katsuki gasped and jolted, jerking against him.
He trembled, lifting his hips so that Izuku could tug his pants down. He whined in relief the second his cock freed himself from its confines, rubbing it against Izuku’s thigh. “Yes. Yes, Alpha. Please, Alpha. Show me who’s in charge.”
Izuku hesitated, wrapping his hand around Katsuki’s dick. “Kacchan, are you still here?”
Katsuki cried out, nodding as he bucked his hips into Izuku’s grip. “Yes, yes, Alpha! Please, need more. Please!”
Izuku’s face flushed hotter, choking as his inner alpha gleamed at the needy mess his Kacchan was becoming. “Like this, Kacchan?”
He then started to stroke Katsuki’s cock, reaching around to squeeze his knot with his other hand. Katsuki screeched and cried out, drooling as he bucked his hips.
Katsuki fluttered his eyes open, gasping and whining as he gazed at Izuku, instincts giving way to need. Panting, he huffed and pressed Izuku back against the headboard, climbing onto his waist. His thighs trembled from the effort, from the way Izuku kept stroking him and squeezing at his growing knot, but he grabbed onto his shoulders to keep himself steady.
Then, he crashed their lips together, kissing him with the ferocious tenacity of a stormchaser. He nipped at his bottom lip, lapped up his drool, and slipped his tongue into his mouth. Nothing but raw want and need, desperate for closeness. Desperate for more, more, more.
Izuku squeaked, eyes widening the second Katsuki started trembling. Before he could ask him if he was okay, Katsuki cried out, gasping and shaking, popping his knot against Izuku’s chest. His eyes rolled back as he slumped onto him, shooting ropes of cum up their shirts.
After a few minutes, Katsuki cried out and collapsed against him, knot deflating almost as fast as it had came. Whining, he whimpered and wrapped his arms around Izuku’s neck, nuzzling up against his scent gland as if he couldn’t get enough of him.
“...Izu…ku…” Katsuki croaked, panting as he burned up against his skin. “Felt good. Was good, Alpha. Really good.”
Izuku grinned at that, face flushing as he pressed a kiss against Katsuki’s forehead. “You were so good, Kacchan. So cute and perfect for me. Such a good alpha.”
Katsuki whined.
It was quieter than before, but more desperate than anything Izuku had ever heard before.
Katsuki’s face contorted with embarrassment. “Shut up,” he muttered at himself, like the sound was something he could bully into stopping.
Izuku shook his head. “Don’t be mean to yourself.”
Katsuki laughed once, sharp and broken. “That’s my thing.”
Izuku’s thumb traced Katsuki’s cheekbone. “Not tonight.”
Katsuki’s eyes burned. “You’re gonna tell me what to do?”
Izuku stilled, just for a moment, watching him.
Then he said, carefully, “I can guide you. I can help you regulate. We can mate, but I’m not going to take your choice away.”
Katsuki swallowed, throat tight. “But I want you to.”
Izuku’s eyes softened, grief flickering behind them. “I know. That’s why I won’t.”
Katsuki’s expression broke open with frustration. “Why—”
“Because you deserve to be touched in a way that doesn’t cost you yourself,” Izuku said quietly. “And because I love you too much to teach your body that you only get comfort if you stop being you.”
Katsuki froze, breath stopping like someone pulled a plug. Then it spilled out in a trembling rush.
“You—” Katsuki whispered. “You love me?”
Izuku nodded, simple. Unashamed. “Yes, Kacchan. I do. I’ve loved you since we were four. I’ve never wanted anyone else, either. Only you.”
Katsuki’s mouth worked soundlessly as he tried to process what he said, eyes too bright. Heat flooded his cheeks. His hands clutched at the blanket like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the present. To Izuku.
“I don’t know how to—” he choked. “I don’t know how to be this.”
Izuku kissed his forehead. “Then we learn together. You’re my first everything too, you know.”
Katsuki’s eyes squeezed shut. A tear slid down his cheek. Then another. His breathing broke, chest heaving once, twice—
—and he crumpled.
It was silent at first, like his body tried to keep the sobs trapped behind clenched teeth. His shoulders shook. His hands fisted into Izuku’s shirt. His face pressed into Izuku’s neck like he was trying to crawl into the safest part of the world and hide.
Izuku wrapped around him in seconds, arms firm, steady. He held Katsuki like an anchor holds a ship in a storm.
“You’re okay,” Izuku murmured. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Katsuki sobbed harder, the sound raw and ugly and real. The kind of cry that comes from years of holding too much inside.
“I’m scared,” Katsuki gasped into Izuku’s shoulder. “I’m— I’m scared of what I want.”
Izuku’s hand moved in slow circles over his back. “You don’t have to be scared alone.”
Katsuki squeezed his glowing eyes shut, tears soaking Izuku’s shirt. His voice came out cracked and wrecked.
“I want you,” Katsuki whispered. “I want you so bad it hurts. And I hate myself for it.”
Izuku pulled back just enough to look at him—only enough to meet his eyes, wet and shining.
“I’m not going to let you hate yourself while I’m here,” Izuku said quietly. “Not for loving me. Not for wanting closeness. Not for wanting something different than what people told you you’re allowed to want.”
Katsuki’s lips trembled. “My parents—”
“Your parents don’t get a vote in what makes you whole,” Izuku said, caressing his face and wiping his tears away..
Katsuki inhaled, shaking, like the words are oxygen he didn’t know existed.
Izuku kissed his cheek. Then his temple. Then the corner of his mouth—soft, slow, always pausing like he’s asking even without words.
Katsuki nodded each time, wordless permission. His whines softened into quiet, needy little breaths.
His grip loosened.
He stayed.
He kept feeling.
And Izuku stayed with him through it—hands gentle, voice steady, love loud enough to drown out the shame.
Katsuki’s breath finally slowed.
Not all at once—just enough that Izuku noticed the way the hitch in it eased, the way the tight line of his shoulders softened by degrees. The glow in his eyes, warm and low and gorgeous, but not flaring anymore. Steady. Listening.
Izuku’s arms wound around him, firm but gentle, one hand splayed between Katsuki’s shoulder blades, the other resting at his side. He didn’t rock him now. He didn’t hush him. He just stayed, breathing with him, letting the moment stretch until it stopped hurting so damn sharply.
Katsuki lifted his head.
It was a small movement, hesitant, like he was testing whether the ground would still be there if he looked up. His lashes were wet. His mouth red from biting back words he didn’t know how to say.
Izuku met his gaze immediately.
Katsuki swallowed. His hands were still fisted in Izuku’s shirt, but they loosened—fingers spreading, palms flattening like he was reminding himself that he’s allowed to touch him without grabbing on for dear life.
“I—” Katsuki starts.
The word stuck in his throat.
Izuku didn’t rush him. He waited, open and still, eyes kind in a way that didn’t demand anything back.
Katsuki took a breath. Then another.
“Can I… ask for something?” He asked softly.
Izuku’s chest tightened. “Yes,” he answered immediately. Then, gentler, “Always.”
Katsuki nodded once, as if confirming it for himself. His gaze flicked to Izuku’s mouth and back up again, heat blooming across his cheeks—not shame this time, but nerves.
“I want you close,” Katsuki mumbled. His voice rough and quiet. “Like—really close. I want to make love, Izuku.”
Izuku blushed and smiled, nodding as he cupped the side of his face. “Yeah?”
“I want—” Katsuki hesitated, then pushed through it. “Kisses. And… to hold you. I wanna wrap around you. Not—” He shook his head, frustrated with his own words. “Just—close. I wanna feel you there.”
Izuku’s expression softened into something radiant and reverent all at once. He shifted first, slow and deliberate, sliding back against the pillows and opening his arms—not pulling, not coaxing. Inviting.
Katsuki watched the movement, heart pounding. Then he crawled forward on his own, clumsy with blankets and limbs, and pressed himself into Izuku’s chest like that’s where he’s always meant to fit.
Izuku’s arms came around him immediately, one wrapping across Katsuki’s back, the other tucking under his knees as Katsuki instinctively curled up against him, drawing his legs up and around Izuku’s waist. So close—closer than before—chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.
Katsuki exhales a shaky sound that turns into a quiet sigh.
Izuku pressed his lips against Katsuki’s mouth—warm, lingering, unafraid. When he pulled back just an inch, Katsuki followed, nose brushing his, a small breathy sound leaving him like his body doesn’t want the space.
Izuku smiles against him and kisses him again.
And again.
Each one slow. Gentle. Always returning to rest, foreheads touching, breaths mingling. Izuku kept checking in without words—pausing, waiting—and Katsuki kept answering by staying, by leaning in, by tightening his arms around Izuku’s shoulders like he’s learned he’s allowed to ask for more without apologizing.
Katsuki’s hands slid up Izuku’s back, fingers spreading, exploring the solid warmth there. He pressed closer, tucking his face into Izuku’s neck for a moment, breathing him in like he’s grounding himself by scent alone.
“I like this,” Katsuki whispered, voice soft and amazed. “I like… not having to be on guard.”
Izuku’s hand moves in slow, reassuring strokes along Katsuki’s spine. “You don’t have to be,” he says. “Not with me.”
Katsuki lifted his head again, eyes shining—not frantic now, just full. He leaned in and kissed Izuku himself this time, tentative at first, then surer when Izuku met him halfway.
It isn’t about heat.
It was about closeness. About learning the shape of being held and holding back. About choosing, again and again, to stay present even when it feels vulnerable.
Katsuki wrapped himself tighter around Izuku, limbs secure, heart pounding but steady.
“Don’t go,” he says quietly—not as a fear, but a request.
Izuku kisses his temple. “I’m right here.”
Katsuki closed his eyes and let his fingers curl hard into the front of Izuku’s shirt, bunching the fabric between his fists like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored. His forehead pressed into Izuku’s collarbone, breath hitching once—twice—like his lungs had forgotten how to work properly.
Izuku felt it immediately.
“Katsuki?” he whispered and kissed the top of his head.
Katsuki shook his head, a sharp, frustrated movement, like he’s trying to dislodge the feeling before it can take root. His shoulders trembled anyway. The glow in his eyes flickered, unstable now, more pain than instinct.
“I’m—” Katsuki tried. Failed. Swallowed hard.
His grip tightened again, knuckles white.
Izuku brought one hand up to cradle the back of Katsuki’s head, fingers threading gently into his hair—not pulling, not restraining. Just there.
“You’re okay,” Izuku whispered softly. “You can say it.”
That’s all it took.
Katsuki’s breath broke with a sound that’s halfway between a sob and a laugh, ugly and raw. His face twisted, pressed into Izuku’s chest like he can’t stand to be seen while he says it.
“I wish,” Katsuki choked, voice cracking completely, “I wish I was born an omega, Izuku.”
The words spilled out fast after that, like he was afraid they’d turn on him if he hesitated.
“Everything would be easier,” he gasped. “People wouldn’t look at me like I’m wrong. You wouldn’t have to— to deal with this. I wouldn’t be fighting myself all the time. I wouldn’t—”
His voice collapsed.
“I wouldn’t want things I’m not supposed to want.”
His shoulders shook violently now. Tears soaked into Izuku’s shirt, hot and unrestrained. Katsuki clung to him like he was bracing for impact, like he expected the words to cost him everything.
“Oh, Katsuki,” Izuku choked out, blinking away tears.
He pulled Katsuki closer—not tight enough to trap him, but firm enough so that Katsuki could feel exactly where Izuku was. A constant. A choice.
Izuku tilted his head just enough to press his mouth to Katsuki’s hair, lingering there as he spoke.
“You don’t want to be an omega,” Izuku said gently, running his fingers through his hair. “You want the world to stop punishing you for being yourself.”
Katsuki sobbed harder at that, the sound shredding through his lungs.
“You don’t want easier love,” Izuku continued. “You want love that doesn’t hurt.”
Katsuki’s hands shook against Izuku’s chest. “I don’t want to be broken,” he cried. “I don’t want to be wrong.”
Izuku pulled back just enough to look at him.
Katsuki’s face was wrecked—eyes red, lashes wet, mouth trembling like he’s trying not to beg for something he doesn’t know how to ask for. The sight makes Izuku’s throat close painfully.
“I want to make love, Izuku. I don’t want you to be scared of hurting me. I want to fit you without it being a problem, Izuku. I want you. But, I’m not meant to do those things. I hate this so much, Izuku.”
“Katsuki,” Izuku said, clear and steady as he cupped his face in his hands, “you are not broken. And I’m not afraid to remind you that over and over again if I have to. I love you and I’m not going to let you tear yourself apart.”
Katsuki lets out a bitter, disbelieving laugh. “You say that like you mean it. Like you don’t care that I’ll never be able to take your knot like an omega would.”
Izuku caressed Katsuki’s cheeks, thumbs warm against his skin, holding him so gently it felt reverent. “I do mean it.”
He leaned in, forehead resting against Katsuki’s, eyes unwavering.
“I don’t want you to be an omega,” Izuku said softly. “I want you. An alpha who feels deeply. An alpha who wants closeness. An alpha who trusts me with his life. I love you because you’re you, Kacchan.”
Katsuki’s eyes widened. He trembled as tears started to stream down his face, mouth opening without sound.
“You don’t need to change who or what you are to deserve love,” Izuku continued. “You don’t need to make yourself smaller or different or easier for other people to understand. The right person learns you. They don’t ask you to disappear.”
Tears slid down Katsuki’s cheeks unchecked now. He made a broken sound, somewhere between disbelief and relief.
“You don’t… think I’m disgusting,” Katsuki whispered.
Izuku’s expression crumpled with something fierce and tender. “No,” he exclaimed. “I think you’re brave.”
Katsuki shook his head weakly. “I’m scared all the time.”
“I know,” Izuku chuckled. “And you’re still here. You still chose to feel. That’s not weakness. That’s resilience.”
He pressed a soft kiss to Katsuki’s forehead.
Then another, to the bridge of his nose.
Then one more, gentle and brief, to his lips—no urgency, no claim. Just reassurance.
Katsuki sobbed quietly into him, grief and longing and relief tangled together in a jumble of chaos. His grip loosened—not quite letting go, but no longer desperate. He sagged into Izuku’s arms like he was finally allowed to rest.
“I’m sorry,” Katsuki whispered reflexively.
Izuku shook his head and kissed his temple. “You don’t have to apologize for wanting to be loved.”
Katsuki closed his eyes, breath shuddering as Izuku held him through the last of his tears. The storm outside faded into background noise. The cabin felt warmer. Safer.
“I want to stay like this,” Katsuki choked, exhausted and honest. “Just… with you.”
Izuku tightened his arms around him, steady and sure. “We can,” he said. “As long as you want.”
Katsuki nodded, face tucked against Izuku’s chest, letting himself believe—maybe for the first time—that being who he is doesn’t make love harder.
It just made it real.
They stay tangled together, kissing slowly, Katsuki naming things as he noticed them—pressure, warmth, closeness—each word another small step toward trusting that wanting another Alpha doesn’t make him weak.
And Izuku stayed with him through all of it, listening like every word matters.
Because it does.