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"I'm home!"
Izuku called, tired from a whole forty-eight hours and then some of straight work, wincing at his various hurts and pains - minor bumps and scrapes from villain attacks, just the absolute profound ache in his shoulders and the soles of his feet from standing all day, the twitch he’s starting to develop under his right eye from exhaustion.
More than that, he could smell himself through his costume. Which…well, if he can smell himself even without lifting his collar to sniff, that definitely means other people can too. Sucks for the investigation team he stayed up researching an on-going case for the better part of ten hours with, but they’re all in the same rank, dank boat that comes with hero territory.
Speaking of rank and dank, Izuku should take a bath. A good, rousing scrub to get the grime and sweat off his skin and hair, then a nice long soak in the tub. If he's feeling extra fancy, he'll toss in a couple scoops of bath salts. The medicated ones that smell like chamomile and rosemary because he needs that right now.
But he couldn’t.
Izuku scrunched up his nose against the acrid smell of his aching feet as he peeled his socks off. His skin felt sticky and tacky as he peeled himself out his hero costume and form-fitting undersuit. He peeled off his various supports and compression sleeves, sighing at the warmth and smell blooming from his skin. It wasn’t even fresh sweat - it was patrols and fighting and work that had dried on him over the course of days. It was a musk cloud of himself cranked up to a humid, salty ten, and really, Izuku would’ve kept peeling more of his clothes away like a sad banana but he couldn’t - shouldn’t…
He shuffled to the living room, thighs sticking together and clad in only seamless boxers - stuck to him like the rest of his clothes had been. In between his legs, he smelled the strongest. It wasn’t as if he’d pissed himself. He drank enough water, he washed himself with bidets if the restrooms he was closest to at the time had them. But there was only so much tissues could do without a proper change of underwear, with sweat and constant movement.
And Katsuki…
Kacchan loved it. Craved it. When the slick inside Izuku has slid past his lips and stained the cloth beneath it. When the stains dried, along with the salt of his sweat and saturated into the fibers. When his smell deepened into something sharp, ripe, strong - musk with the barest hints of ammonia, all undeniably Izuku.
“Welcome back,” Kacchan said, popping his head out from the corner that led to their bathroom and laundry, looking fresh and delightfully warm, because of course Kacchan had the luxury of taking a bath with his turn tackling paperwork and having normal office hours.
“‘M home,” Izuku repeated, quieter as Katsuki all but draped himself over him, buried his face in his greasy, unwashed hair and took in a huge, shameless lungful of breath.
“Mmm, missed you,” he said, tucking his face into the space of skin between Izuku’s neck and shoulder next, inhaling there, too.
Izuku grew stiff and red as he bore his husband’s ministrations, sniffing all over him like an excited pup. He squeaked and covered his face when Katsuki tried to nose into his armpits and took such a huff his eyes fluttered and his mouth hung open.
“Kacchan, you’re embarrassing,” Izuku mumbled.
“Y’like it though,” he said, pulling away and smirking like a cat that had gotten cream. Or catnip. Definitely catnip. “‘Made curry.”
Izuku whined, knowing better than to say I really want a bath, though . He also couldn’t argue, not with his stomach choosing to growl at that moment. He hadn’t had a home cooked meal - a Kacchan meal - in so long and curry sounded heavenly.
“Did you fry some katsu with it, too?” Izuku asked, just to tease.
Kacchan fixed his with a stare that said who do you think I am before bodily hauling him to the couch and saying, “Don’t fuckin’ move.” Izuku dutifully stayed put and watched him fix a plate.
All in all, it’s a wonderful night. Kacchan put a history documentary on - something to take both their minds off of work - while Izuku hummed happily around his plate of katsu curry. He giggled while Kacchan snuffled in, trailing kisses along his collar bones, his shoulders, his scars, down his sternum, his belly and his navel, leaving his skin even tackier than it already was. They talked softly of things, of what they were watching, of weekend plans, of friends. As one documentary turned into two, Katsuki had settled between Izuku’s legs. Izuku’s hands were in his hair, petting leisurely, while Kacchan pressed his face into his (truly gross at this point) underwear, took a deep, hearty sniff, and happily moaned like the absolute degenerate he was.
“Kacchan, oh my god.”
“Lemme have my fun.”
The things I do for love , Izuku thought. As embarrassed as he’ll always be, Kacchan was right. He loved the ways his husband was gone for him, as if Izuku wasn’t cut from the same (tanktop stealing, pants sniffing) cloth. Eventually, Katsuki would fall asleep upon his crotch, succumbing to his pheromone high. Izuku would turn off the TV and lift his husband’s face from his lap, kiss his slack mouth and quietly, guiltily loving how he could smell himself all over Kacchan’s face. They’d stumble into bed before they’d regret sleeping on the couch.
And tomorrow, Izuku could finally, finally take a damn bath.
end