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It’s something you ask offhand, sluggish and warm, bathed under the soft glow of sunset.
“Can you help me take down my braids?”
Katsuki frowns up from his place on the couch, brows dipping low. His eyes are a particular kind of simmer in the sun’s rays, roses softening to wine, sweetening under golden air. It dulls his edges, paints him with broad strokes. His hair blooms warm in the hour of amber.
“Hah?” his tone is low, his gaze cuts deep, “Why the fuck can’t you do it yourself?”
You rock a little on your heels, bag of hair supplies swinging at your side. The curl of your lips holds something precious.
“I can,” you say, an easy admission, eyes sparking playful, “But I want you to help me with it.”
Katsuki flashes his teeth. There’s a bit of red crawling up his neck, revealed by the intoxicating dip of his tank top, loose against his chest- he’s a sculpture in motion. Set in stone and carved by ambitions, a fresh piece of history and you burn at the sight of him, craving caught in the hollows of his collarbones. He stays looking at you, silent but bleeding fierce.
Stubborn, you think fondly, he’s so stubborn.
You step a bit closer, peer at him from beneath your clock-spring lashes.
“Please?” you say and his scowl deepens, his nostrils flare; your bottom lip pushes out wet and you watch as his gaze brightens, and then darkens, the rumbling of a storm.
-And because you don’t play fair, you bat your lashes and plead again, “‘Suki, please?”
He bristles at the nickname like he always does, grumbling under his breath, hunching his shoulders. The tips of his ears are flushed.
“Fine,” he snaps, and the smile you give him unfurls like a gift, the curve of your cheeks warm; his eyes narrow and you want to press your thumb to the valleys in between, smooth out those tight curls of tension, “But piss me off an’ I’ll make you bald.”
You laugh at that; Katsuki huffs. He waits for you on the couch, palms flat on his thighs, watchful, ready, just expecting you to come to him and you do. You think you could follow him anywhere, with the way the sun shadows all his dips and creases, puts him in rich contrast. His face is a cacophony of yellows and oranges, his lashes near translucent in the light and something in your chest quakes, sweetness hidden in spice.
Eyes bright, you turn around and drop to the floor in front of him, shuffle backwards. He opens his legs to let you in. Your shoulders brush the insides of his thighs and it feels like comfort- of chilled fingers over flame, the fragrant curl of wet tea leaves. You take a breath and it’s thick with nostalgia.
“It’s not that hard of a process. Tedious, yes- but not hard,” you begin, ruffling through your bag; your face feels warm, “You just have to make sure to brush out my hair really really well, and get rid of the build up and extra hair or else-“
Katsuki leans forward. Your heart bubbles up. All of him is searing, pressed against your back and neck, the sides of your arms- he’s the muggy air before rainfall, the flickering embers of a bonfire. His hair brushes your temple and you shudder from head to toe, lost in the swell of his caramel scent, the tempting dip of his throat.
“I’ve seen you do this for years, Curls,” he says, and his tone is calm, matter of fact- he digs into your bag with purpose; his eyes flick to your face, the glow of magma- time stretches and pulls thin, “Don’t gotta lecture t’me.”
He pulls back and the cold air left behind feels like loss. He’s holding a pair of scissors in his heavy palm, already knowing what to do, already gathering your braids in his thick thick hands and something inside of you sizzles, froths and spits beneath your skin like the vestiges of his quirk, choking you like ash.
You feel out of body. You feel lightweight. You feel giddy because-
“Does that mean you’ve been watching me?” you whisper, butting your cheek against his knee, pressing your smile in that tender spot where thigh meets calf; Katsuki bares his teeth, jerks his leg to shake you loose.
Pulls your braids and tugs your head back, the smell of him rising, the beginnings of heat gathering at the back of your neck-
“What’d I say about pissin’ me off,” he growls and it’s an admission.
You relent with crinkled eyes, hands held up in peace. Katsuki’s ears are the swollen seeds of a pomegranate. He shoves your head forward with a huff, grumbles out a ‘don’t move’; trails fires as his fingers brush down the back of your neck, the curve of your shoulder blades. His knuckles make a home in the hollow of your spine.
“This much okay?” he mutters, holding your braids flat, letting you feel the length; you agree and he starts snipping off the excess hair.
He’s so overwhelming, you think, closing your eyes, letting your chin dip to your chest. Swallowing the room with his presence, setting your skin alight- he’s a roaring inferno. From the moment you had first saw him, bruised and scuffed from fighting kids much older than him, puffy scowl on his lips, he had demanded attention. Eyes wet but glaring fierce, hand curled in a loose fist as he wiped his nose, you still remember the way your chest had felt too full as you stared at his face. You thought he had looked heroic.
You still do, you think warmly.
You feel Katsuki shift behind you, the soft sound of something being placed on the couch. His fingers glance at your ears, the skin of your temples, before you feel the heft and pull of your hair being lifted, the balmy heat of him as he cuts his fingers across your scalp. He flips your hair onto your face and you let out a startled huff.
“That’s your half,” he mumbles, and his voice is all rumbly tones and hushed spells; they way he gathers your braids is something private, “‘M not gonna do it all for you.”
It’s foreign, this situation; it’s familiarity, how easy it is to let him do this. He makes you crave, in ways you didn’t think you could, that has you burning from the inside out. It’s a mindless thing, to imagine yourself reaching for him, threading your fingers into his golden hair, dragging him down until your taking in each other’s breaths. See up close how the sun glitters his eyes.
And you could do it. He’s so close, you could do it. All you need to do is tip back your head, stretch out your arms. Offer up your being and step from the ledge, to that terrifying drop, the fathomless depths below, dizzy with the beautiful and fearful thing that was your feelings-
But- you don’t. You don’t. Instead, you shift your hair away from your eyes, curl a tender hand over his ankle. Your smile is plump with memories.
“I really appreciate you doing this for me,” you whisper and your tone is a little too telling; his proximity is too much and not enough.
He doesn’t say anything but burnt sugar rises up, heat smolders through. His legs tuck in a little closer around you, pressing against your arms, making goosebumps pebble. Your face bleeds red.
“Then get those hands movin’,” he scolds, but his fingers on you are gentle, something just for you at the edges of his voice; you run a thumb up his calf and you can feel the way he shivers.
Fire, you think, you’re playing with fire.
But then again-
Katsuki always made you burn.