Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The snow came early that year.

It didn’t arrive with violence — there was no sudden storm, no biting wind howling through the mountains. No, this snow came softly, like a lullaby hummed by the gods themselves. Gentle, inevitable. It clung to rooftops like forgotten dreams, blanketed the stone paths with deceptive silence, and kissed frost onto the windowpanes that hadn’t yet remembered how to shut tight.

The entire village moved slower under its weight.

Winter in this part of the country was sacred. Superstition ran through the bones of the people like blood. Old rules, old traditions — ones no one dared to question out loud. In winter, you didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t argue with fate. And you sure as hell didn’t curse the snow.

The village, nestled in a shallow valley and surrounded by thick woods, seemed to shrink inward as the season deepened. Smoke curled upward from chimney stacks like ghost stories, and every footstep left behind a story in the snow.

But there was one place untouched by that quiet, stifling hush.

Inside a modest apothecary at the forest’s edge, tucked between frostbitten birch trees, warmth drifted in slow spirals. The air was rich with crushed herbs and the faint sweetness of dried fruit stewing in honey. Bottles lined the shelves in uneven rows. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting amber shadows that danced across the wooden walls. The whole cottage smelled like comfort.

And in the center of it all stood Izuku Midoriya — omega, herbalist, soulmate, and husband.

His green eyes shimmered like spring caught in snow. A soft hum spilled from his lips, barely louder than the wind pressing against the windows, as he worked. He moved with care, hands stained faintly with thyme and rosehip. A ceramic bowl nestled in his palms, and he ground dried chamomile and lemon balm together with practiced ease.

Everything about Izuku radiated calm — serenity threaded through each movement like it had been carved into his bones. He wore a green knit sweater, thick and worn at the sleeves. It hung off his shoulders, far too big for his frame, slipping with each lean forward as though trying to crawl down his arm and become part of him.

It wasn’t his.

It was Katsuki’s.

He wore it like armor. Like a promise. Like a tether.

Outside, wind hissed along the eaves. The snow had picked up again, soft but steady. The windows fogged at the edges, leaving halos of warmth in the center where light poured through.

A sudden gust hit the front door with a dull thud.

Izuku didn’t flinch.

He didn’t need to.

The door swung open with a bang, snow bursting in like a puff of smoke before a tall figure followed, heavy boots thudding against the hardwood floor.

“Fucking freezing out there,” Katsuki Bakugou snarled as he stepped inside, snow clinging stubbornly to the hem of his dark coat. His blond hair was damp at the edges, sticking to his forehead beneath the hood he shoved down. His eyes — sharp, vermillion, pissed — burned like wildfire behind a scowl. “That nosy old bastard on Willow Lane gave me that look again.”

Izuku didn’t look up right away. He kept working, pressing the pestle into the herbs with rhythmic focus. When he finally turned his gaze toward Katsuki, his expression was placid — warm with amusement, not surprise. “Which look?”

Katsuki stomped the snow off his boots onto the mat, kicked the door shut behind him with a practiced grunt, and shrugged out of his coat with sharp, irritated movements. “The one that says ‘you shouldn’t be married to a goddamn omega if you’re not gonna knock him up and give us ten grandpups,’ or some traditionalist horseshit like that.”

Izuku set the bowl down and walked over, not bothered in the slightest by his husband’s volcanic entrance. “I think that’s more than one look,” he murmured, brushing snow from Katsuki’s shoulders with small, efficient sweeps. “And also incredibly specific.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying. Maybe they’re looking at you because you stomp around like a blizzard with legs.”

Katsuki opened his mouth, ready to snap back. But then he paused. Let out a long breath. The tension in his shoulders eased, just barely, and the frost in his eyes melted around the edges. “They’re lucky I don’t burn this whole village to the fucking ground.”

Izuku tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “They’d freeze again before the flames even caught, Katsuki.”

Katsuki looked at him — really looked. Then scoffed and looked away. “Don’t get poetic on me.”

“Too late.”

They stood there for a moment — close, but not touching.

Katsuki’s jaw was clenched, his gaze flickering toward the fire like it might challenge him if he stared long enough. Izuku simply existed in the moment, glowing like morning sun on fresh snow — soft, stubborn, inevitable. The air between them was warm from the hearth but warmer from something deeper, older.

On their wrists, the soulmate marks pulsed in quiet rhythm.

Izuku’s mark resembled a scarlet explosion — jagged and wild — its edges curling into the delicate shape of a vine that climbed toward his pulse point. Katsuki’s was a starburst inked in deep green, like pine needles woven into fire.

They hadn’t asked for them.

One morning, they’d simply appeared — scarred onto their skin like the universe had finally gotten tired of waiting for them to figure it out on their own.

The village had gone silent for three days.

Not from scandal. Not from outrage.

But because fate had spoken.

And no one, not even the most bitter elder crouched in the square with cracked lips and older fears, would dare question fate out loud.

It wasn’t that they were both men.

It was that the world had tied them together anyway.

And that was harder to argue with than love.

Izuku’s gaze finally drifted away from Katsuki, calm and unhurried, as he turned toward the stove. He moved like he had all the time in the world, the sleeves of the too-big green sweater slipping past his knuckles again as he reached for the kettle.

Steam curled in lazy spirals, catching the firelight. The scent of chamomile and lemon balm drifted between them, warm and grounding.

Katsuki shrugged off his coat with a grunt, the weight of it sliding from his shoulders like tension being scraped off bone. He tossed it onto the nearest chair without looking and stomped the last clinging bits of snow from his boots.

“Tea better be done,” he muttered, voice still rough from the cold — and something else quieter, raw around the edges.

“It’s always done the moment you stomp in,” Izuku replied without turning, pouring the hot tea into two worn ceramic mugs. His voice was light, his smile audible even from where Katsuki stood. “It’s almost like I know you.”

Katsuki snorted, but it was softer than his words. “You know too much.”

Izuku turned, cradling both mugs in his hands as he offered one without hesitation. His eyes met Katsuki’s with something gentle, unshakable.

“You love that I do,” he said.

Katsuki took the mug, fingers brushing Izuku’s for the briefest second. He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

Katsuki didn’t respond. Instead, he stared into the rising steam like it might hold answers or maybe just some peace. After a long moment, he muttered, “Thanks,” the word rough and almost reluctant, like admitting it cost him something.

Izuku leaned against the counter beside him, tilting his own mug back for a slow sip of the fragrant tea. The warmth seeped into his fingers and heart alike. After a beat, he asked, “Do you remember the first dream?”

Katsuki’s lips pressed into a tight scowl. “No.”

Izuku’s lips twitched in a knowing smirk. “You do.”

Katsuki’s eyes darkened, a shadow passing over them that wasn’t just from the firelight. He swallowed hard, jaw clenched like he was trying to trap a memory before it could slip away.

It had come one night — years ago — when everything was different. When their hatred was fresh, raw, and utterly unmanageable. Katsuki had jolted awake, heart hammering so fiercely it threatened to break free. His fists were clenched tight, knuckles white against the sheets. The dream had left a strange heat simmering beneath his skin—too warm, too tender, and impossible to ignore.

In the dream, a hand had traced his cheek, delicate and sure. A voice, soft as winter snow, whispered his name like it was the most precious thing in the world.

Izuku’s hand.

For a long time after, both of them tried to deny it, tried to shove the dreams into the shadows where they couldn’t find them. But fate doesn’t care about denial.

They’d both failed.

“I thought I was broken,” Izuku said softly, almost too softly, like the words had to sneak out or else he’d swallow them back. His gaze was distant, lost somewhere beyond the steam of his tea, somewhere deep in the snow outside or the past inside him. “When I realized it was you. That the dreams meant something. That fate had picked us. I thought… maybe the gods made a mistake.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t empty.

It was heavy — so heavy it filled the space between them, pressing against the walls, wrapping around Katsuki’s ribs like vines.

Katsuki looked at him then. Really looked. Not just at his face, which was all soft curves and tired eyes and freckles that always made him look too young, too gentle for this world — but at the way Izuku folded into the moment like he didn’t know how to be anywhere else. The way his fingers trembled, just slightly, around the mug. The way vulnerability slipped from him not like weakness, but truth.

“You think I didn’t think the same damn thing?” Katsuki asked, voice low, rough with something too close to guilt. “That I didn’t wake up every goddamn day for weeks wondering if fate had gotten drunk off its ass and scribbled your name across mine by mistake?”

Izuku looked up, blinking slowly. His smile came without effort, as if the ache of those early days only made the present more sacred. “You told me to fuck off for three months straight.”

Katsuki made a sound in his throat — somewhere between a scoff and a groan. “You kept smiling at me.”

“It’s what I do,” Izuku said with a shrug, like that was explanation enough.

And it was.

It always had been.

Katsuki shook his head, stepping closer. His fingers reached out without thinking, catching the oversized sweater’s loose collar where it had fallen again from Izuku’s shoulder. Gently — more gently than anyone would ever believe — he tugged the fabric back into place. His fingers lingered there, tracing the seam of the knit before settling against warm skin.

“You still shouldn’t have married me,” he murmured. Not as an accusation. Not even as a warning. Just truth.

Izuku blinked up at him, head tilted. “Why?”

“Because I’m an asshole,” Katsuki said, like it was obvious. “You deserve someone who isn’t a walking fuckstorm of aggression and bad decisions.”

Izuku’s face lit up like a hearthfire. “You’re my asshole.”

“Gross,” Katsuki muttered, rolling his eyes with half-hearted disgust.

“True,” Izuku said, undeterred. His smile was sunshine breaking through overcast skies.

And Katsuki — who had once raged against the world and every soul in it — laughed. It was short, low, and a little gruff, like laughter had to climb up out of his chest just to be heard.

They laughed together. Quiet and tangled and private, like the sound belonged only to them — like it couldn’t exist anywhere else but here, between shared mugs and fading scars.

Outside, the wind howled and curled around the corners of the apothecary like it wanted in. But it was shut out. Inside, the storm had a different shape: warm hands and crooked grins and two people learning how to belong to one another again and again.

Izuku turned and padded over to the sofa, tucking his knees beneath him as he curled into one corner, mug cradled against his chest. “C’mere,” he said, voice drowsy but sure.

Katsuki sighed like he was being asked to run through a snowstorm naked. “You’re such a clingy little shit,” he grumbled — but his steps were already moving, carrying him to the couch, sinking down beside Izuku without resistance.

Izuku didn’t even bother responding. He just shifted, moving with slow, sleepy precision until his head found Katsuki’s lap. He settled there like he belonged nowhere else, breathing already slowing into something gentle. His curls spilled across Katsuki’s thigh like ivy, and Katsuki’s hand found them instinctively, sinking into green and gold and warmth.

He ran his fingers through them without thinking. Over and over.

It calmed something in him he hadn’t known was awake.

“Villagers can stare all they want,” Izuku murmured, already half-asleep. “But we’re fate-tied. They can’t fight that.”

“Damn right,” Katsuki said, his hand still stroking gently, rhythm steady as a heartbeat.

Izuku smiled into his sleeve, lashes fluttering. “I love you.”

Katsuki glanced down, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. His chest felt too full, like something inside him might crack under the weight of being seen like this.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered finally, voice low but sure. “I love you too, dumbass.”

The fire crackled beside them, casting slow-moving shadows across the floor. The wind outside danced and howled, but its fingers never reached them. Their bond pulsed beneath their skin—a living thread of color and heat, tied by dreams, weathered by fear, sealed in choice.

And still, the snow kept falling — soft and endless and quiet.

Like maybe fate had decided that even storms deserved to be held.

Chapter Text

Snow was falling again. Thick, silent flakes drifted down over the rooftops of the quiet mountain village, piling on fences and bare trees like a prayer for peace. It was the kind of morning that bit at fingers and froze the nose — but inside the Midoriya-Bakugou household, chaos was alive and well.

Something sizzled. Then popped. Then —

“OW — HOT! HOT!”

From the bedroom, Katsuki Bakugou bolted upright, already half-dressed and armed for war. “What the actual fuck — ”

He stormed into the kitchen, only to find Izuku Midoriya, wrapped in a knitted green robe, holding a smoking pan at arm’s length with a spatula like it was a live bomb. Blackened egg bits clung to it in defeat.

“Hi,” Izuku said sheepishly, face flushed and curls sticking up in every direction. “I was… trying to surprise you.”

“You woke me up with the smell of burnt protein, you nerd.”

“I was being romantic!”

“You were being a hazard to breakfast and humanity.”

Izuku stuck his tongue out. Katsuki didn’t even flinch. Instead, he marched over, took the pan from Izuku’s hands like he was disarming a weapon, and dropped it into the sink with a hiss of steam.

“I said don’t touch the eggs without supervision.”

Izuku mumbled something unintelligible.

“What was that?”

“…I thought I’d improved.”

“You boiled pasta without water last month.”

“I was distracted! You walked in shirtless!”

Katsuki pinched the bridge of his nose like he was trying not to explode. “You are not allowed to use my abs as a defense for culinary war crimes.”

Izuku grinned and leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “I’ll just sit here and look pretty, then.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Katsuki muttered, already rummaging through cabinets. Izuku watched as Katsuki moved around the kitchen like he was born there. Confident, fast, irritated — but focused. Always focused. The robe hung open a bit too low on Izuku’s collarbone, and he noticed Katsuki glance once, then a second too long, before aggressively cracking an egg into a mixing bowl. “I’m doing this so we don’t die,” he grumbled.

“You’re doing it because you love me,” Izuku said, voice soft and singsong.

“I’ll deny it in a court of law.”

“And yet here you are — cooking for me with your scary face on and your boxers half visible.”

Katsuki groaned and threw a dishtowel at him. “Get out of my kitchen, omega.”

Izuku caught it and stuck his tongue out again but didn’t move. “Technically it’s our kitchen.”

“You burned eggs and toast in less than ten minutes.”

“…Okay, it’s your kitchen.”

Katsuki muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “damn right,” and got to work — whisking, flipping, seasoning with the kind of quiet precision that made Izuku melt.

The pan sizzled. The scent of garlic and butter filled the room. A bit of steam curled around Katsuki’s jawline, catching in his sleep-mussed blonde hair, and Izuku, sitting on the counter now, watched with open affection.

“You really are amazing at this,” he said quietly.

Katsuki glanced over his shoulder. “I like feeding you. Shuts you up for five seconds.”

Izuku’s eyes sparkled. “I think you like taking care of me.”

“I think you need a leash.”

Izuku laughed, sliding off the counter to come up behind him, resting his chin on Katsuki’s shoulder. “You’d like that too much.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’m busy.”

Izuku hugged him from behind, arms loose around Katsuki’s waist. Katsuki kept cooking like it wasn’t affecting him — like the press of Izuku’s cheek to his back didn’t send a sharp warmth down his spine. “You’re warm,” Izuku mumbled.

“I’m literally standing over fire.”

“You’re warm even without it.”

Katsuki’s hands paused. Just for a second. Then resumed, a little slower.

He plated the food — soft scrambled eggs, roasted potatoes, a slice of toast that was actually golden this time—and slid it toward Izuku without fanfare. Izuku blinked at the presentation.

“Did you… garnish this?”

“It’s parsley. It’s literally the easiest herb to use, dumbass.”

“I love you.”

Katsuki’s ears went pink. “Eat your damn breakfast.”

Izuku picked up his fork and took a bite. Closed his eyes.

“Holy — You’re a god.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes. “You said that last week.”

“And I meant it last week too.” Izuku paused. “Wait. What do I do now?”

Katsuki stared at him.

“I don’t usually eat breakfast I made. I usually stall long enough for you to take over and then I distract you until you feed me. This is… new.”

Katsuki groaned and dragged a chair across from him, shoving his own plate down and sitting hard. “You’re the worst omega in the world.”

“And yet,” Izuku said, voice syrupy, “you still married me.”

Katsuki stabbed a potato. “Fucking fate.”

Izuku giggled and reached across the table, lacing their fingers together between the plates.

Outside, snow kept falling. Inside, breakfast was warm, slightly chaotic, and flavored with quiet devotion — the kind that tasted better than anything Katsuki could put on a plate.

***

The cold didn’t stop the chores.

After breakfast — and after a small wrestling match over who had to wash the dishes — they bundled up in thick wool and scarves, layering gloves and muttering about the frost. Katsuki wore his usual crimson and black, scarf wrapped high over his mouth, golden eyes squinting against the white-bright snow glare. Izuku, by contrast, looked like a forest spirit come to life: his coat deep green, speckled with flecks of hand-stitched golden thread. Tiny symbols embroidered at the cuffs — luck, warmth, unity — told stories only he and Katsuki really knew.

“I still don’t get why you’re coming with me,” Izuku said as they trudged down the narrow, snow-packed path leading toward the village center. “You hate the market.”

“Don’t trust the villagers.”

Izuku rolled his eyes, though fondly. “You mean the ones who’ve lived here for generations? Who baked us bread when we moved in? The old ladies who fawn over my ‘sweet omega curls’ every time I stop by the apothecary?”

“They also gave us two blankets at the wedding out of pity,” Katsuki muttered. “I heard one of ‘em whisper to her crone friend that the bond mark had to be fake. That it wasn’t possible for two guys to be soulmates.” His voice dropped lower, gruffer, as he kicked at a snowbank like it personally offended him. “They think just ‘cause we don’t look like the storybook version of a pair, it’s not real. I’ll show them fake when I blast their damn snowshoes into next week.”

Izuku chuckled, breath misting in the cold, and bumped his shoulder gently against Katsuki’s.

“You don’t have to defend us all the time, Kacchan.”

“They shouldn’t talk shit.”

“I know. But let them. Let them have their whispers and side-eyes. At the end of the day, we’re real. We wake up next to each other every morning. We fight and kiss and burn toast together. That’s enough. That’s more than enough.”

Katsuki grunted, jaw tight, and didn’t reply. But his stride slowed. Just a little. Enough that he ended up closer to Izuku as they walked, shoulders nearly brushing, boots crunching in tandem.

It was hard for him, Izuku knew. Katsuki had always been the type to bite back, to bark louder than the world could whisper. But the quiet disapproval here — the subtle way villagers paused mid-conversation when they passed, how certain doors stayed politely closed — it dug under his skin more than any villain ever had.

And still, he came to the market every time Izuku went. Just in case.

They crossed the narrow stone bridge that cut over the frozen creek, icicles clinging to its railings like claws. Children threw snowballs in the distance, their laughter echoing. A dog barked. The smell of baked goods wafted faintly from the village square ahead.

“You know,” Izuku said softly, “the baker’s daughter says you scare everyone too much to gossip when you’re around.”

“Good.”

“She also said you look like a demon prince in winter coats.”

Katsuki stopped walking.

“…The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Izuku grinned. “Nothing. I just think she has a point.”

“Demon prince?” Katsuki scoffed, offended. “The hell does that even — ”

“You do get this serious glint in your eye when you’re pissed. Like you’re about to smite someone over the last baguette.”

“I have smited someone over the last baguette.”

“I know. That’s why I bring my own bag now.”

Katsuki groaned and rubbed his hands down his face. “Why the fuck do I love you.”

“Because we’re soulmates, obviously.” Izuku beamed.

“Tch.”

They reached the main square just as a fresh dusting of snow began to fall. The market bustled beneath a gray sky. Bells tinkled above shop doors. Cart wheels creaked in the snow-packed street. The scent of roasted chestnuts mingled with pine smoke and drying herbs. It would’ve been beautiful, maybe even peaceful. It was alive with chatter and movement, vendors calling out specials, people wrapped in thick coats bartering over root vegetables, sacks of flour, and salted meats. The sound of a fiddle drifted from somewhere near the fountain.

Katsuki’s shoulders tensed immediately, gaze sweeping the crowd like a soldier. Izuku recognized the look — half alert, half irritated.

“Relax,” he said, nudging Katsuki’s arm. “We’re just getting lentils and onions. Maybe some dried herbs if they have them.”

“You’ll get distracted again and try to talk to everyone,” Katsuki muttered. “Then someone’ll say something sideways and I’ll get kicked out again.”

“Only once. And they started it.”

“They said you were ‘wasting your bond by being with me.’” His voice dropped dangerously low. “Said omegas like you should be with some quiet little alpha from the capital with a garden and a three-room house and zero opinions.”

Izuku's smile faded slightly.

“I remember.”

“I should’ve broken his jaw.”

“You made him cry. I think that was enough.”

Katsuki snorted. “Weakling.”

Izuku reached for his hand — quiet, gentle — and squeezed.

“They can think whatever they want,” he said. “They don’t get to rewrite our bond. I chose you. The mark chose you. My soul chose you. You think some gossip and a snide look is stronger than that?”

Katsuki didn’t answer. He just stared down at Izuku, expression unreadable under the scarf. Then, slowly, he brought their joined hands up and kissed the back of Izuku’s glove — quick, fierce, like sealing a pact.

Izuku flushed. “Kacchan — ”

“You talk too much,” Katsuki muttered. “Let’s get the damn lentils before I freeze my balls off.”

And just like that, the moment passed — but it stayed in the warmth between them as they walked together, hand in hand, through a village that didn’t always understand them. The snow kept falling. The world didn’t stop for them.

But it didn’t have to.

They had each other. And that was more than enough.

He kept half a step behind Izuku as they moved through the stalls, arms folded across his chest like a warning sign. It didn’t help that his resting face could probably curdle milk.

Izuku, in contrast, was a warm breeze in a bitter wind. He spoke easily to the vendors, asking about price changes and upcoming shipments. When they stopped at the herb stall, the baker’s daughter spotted him and waved.

“Kami, look at you!” she chirped, pulling her mittens off to show him a new ring. “You and your coat embroidery — every time I see you, it’s like a storybook!”

Izuku blushed. “That’s kind of you. I’ve been adding a new pattern each season.”

“Married life treating you well?”

Izuku smiled. “It is. He still won’t eat my soup without adding six different spices, but yes.”

They laughed. Katsuki rolled his eyes and adjusted the firewood bundle under his arm.

Then he heard it.

A voice, hushed but not low enough. Deliberate in its softness. Just loud enough to be heard.

“Such a shame. He was such a promising omega. Could’ve had a nice alpha wife — someone proper. Not… that.”

Katsuki froze.

The weight of the firewood shifted as his grip crushed tighter around it. His jaw flexed. The snow beneath his boots hissed faintly from the heat radiating off his skin. Rage poured through him, heavy and hot and instant.

He turned.

The speaker was a round-cheeked man in a weather-worn coat, flanked by two others — villagers Katsuki vaguely recognized from last year’s harvest festival. They weren’t talking anymore. Just watching. Waiting. Like they hadn’t expected him to actually react.

“Say that again,” Katsuki growled, his voice low and lethal.

The world around them muted. Even the wind seemed to pause.

The man paled, fumbling with the scarf around his neck like it could hide him. “I just meant — ”

“You meant exactly what you said,” Katsuki cut in, stepping forward. The firewood bundle creaked under his tightening hold. “You think just ‘cause I’m not some quiet, pretty little wife with an apron and a fake smile, I’m not enough for him?”

“No, I — I didn’t mean — ”

“You think our bond mark is for fun? You think I’d let anyone else touch him?”

“Sir, please — ”

“Kacchan.”

Izuku’s voice landed like snow on fire. Gentle. Absolute.

Katsuki blinked.

Izuku was suddenly between them, one hand pressed lightly to Katsuki’s chest, the other slipping around his wrist. His eyes were calm, but his mouth was a thin line. Not angry. Not scared. Just done.

“Let’s go home,” Izuku said.

“But he — !” Katsuki’s voice cracked, heat rising again.

“I know.” Izuku’s voice dropped lower. “We’re going home.”

They stared at each other for a moment, locked in a silent battle. Katsuki’s breath came hard, clouding the air between them. Izuku didn’t flinch. He never flinched — not with Katsuki. Not with them.

Katsuki’s glare flicked back to the man. The villagers were retreating now, pretending to be interested in the turnips or the candle vendor across the way.

Cowards.

Katsuki looked back at Izuku. And the tension, red-hot and trembling, bled from him like steam rising off boiling water.

“Fine,” he muttered, but it came out soft. Defeated. Still shaking.

Izuku nodded once. Gently took the firewood from his arms, as if diffusing a weapon. He didn’t let go of Katsuki’s hand until they were halfway down the main road again, boots crunching through the snow in tandem.

Only when they were out of sight of the market did Izuku speak again.

“Thank you for not setting him on fire.”

“I wanted to.”

“I know.”

Katsuki didn’t look at him. “I hate this place.”

“I know that too.”

“It’s not fair. I shouldn’t have to — we shouldn’t have to hear that shit.”

“We shouldn’t,” Izuku agreed. “But I’d still rather hear it next to you than live somewhere that loves me for being something I’m not.”

Katsuki made a noise — frustrated, rough. But when Izuku slipped his hand back into his, he didn’t pull away.

They walked home in silence, save for the steady crunch of their boots in the snow.

The village slowly disappeared behind them, swallowed by a curtain of white, and the only sound was the hush of snowfall and the soft creak of ice-laced branches overhead. Izuku didn’t speak. Neither did Katsuki. But their steps were in sync. Their hands, still half-clasped in shared heat, never let go. By the time they reached their cabin at the edge of the woods, dusk had begun to fall. Smoke still curled faintly from the chimney — warmth waiting for them. Katsuki pushed open the door with more force than necessary, his jaw clenched so tight it could’ve cracked bone. Inside, it was warm and dim. The fire still smoldered in the hearth, casting gold across the wooden floor. The familiar scent of dried lavender and pine clung to the air, grounding.

Katsuki stomped off his boots and slammed the bundle of wood down near the fire with a loud thud. “Why do you let them say shit like that?” he snapped, shedding his coat and gloves like they burned. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

Izuku sat down beside the fire with a quiet sigh, slowly unwinding his scarf from his neck. His cheeks were still pink from the cold, curls damp at the edges with melted snow. He didn’t look up. “It does,” he said softly. “Of course it does.”

Katsuki’s frown deepened.

“But,” Izuku continued, voice steadier now, “I’ve spent most of my life hiding, Kacchan. First for being an omega who didn’t act soft enough. Then for loving someone like you. Always being told I was too loud, too stubborn, too much — for someone who’s supposed to be… less. I’m tired of hiding. Of apologizing for being loved right.”

Katsuki paused, halfway through throwing another log on the fire. His shoulders dropped slightly, tension bleeding out like a slow leak. He turned to look at Izuku, frustration flickering into something softer. Something close to guilt. “I just — ” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t like when people look at you like you’re less. You’re not. You’re the best damn thing to happen to this village, and to me.”

Izuku blinked. And then — he smiled.

Bright. A little crooked. So him. “You’re really bad at feelings.”

“Shut the hell up,” Katsuki muttered, already scowling—but he moved toward him anyway, dropping to the floor beside him with a huff. “Seriously. I’m trying to be nice here, you little shit.”

“You’re doing amazing,” Izuku said with faux-seriousness, and looped his arms around Katsuki’s waist before the alpha could pull away.

Katsuki let him. Arms came around Izuku like second nature, a protective fold that settled into warmth. They sat there, nestled together on the rug near the fire. Izuku tucked against Katsuki’s chest, listening to the slow, steady thump of his heart. The flickering glow lit Katsuki’s face in soft golds and reds, the tension still visible in the tightness around his eyes.

They stayed like that for a long while — saying nothing. Letting the fire crackle and the storm sigh softly against the windows.

Then, Katsuki spoke.

“…Do you ever wonder why it had to be me?”

Izuku tilted his head, blinking up at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Katsuki said, voice low and rough, “you’re so… good. Kind. You look at people like they matter. Even when they don’t deserve it. And I’m just — ” He hesitated, jaw working. “I’m loud. Angry. Always ready to fight. Not the kind of alpha omegas dream about. Definitely not the kind of person a soulmate’s supposed to be proud of.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then Izuku’s fingers reached up, lightly tracing the bond mark that sat against Katsuki’s collarbone — faintly glowing, warm to the touch, pulsing ever so gently with his heartbeat. “You’re exactly what I dreamed about,” Izuku said.

Katsuki’s breath hitched.

Izuku smiled again, soft this time, all sincerity. “You just swear a little more.”

A huff of laughter escaped Katsuki before he could catch it — rough and half-choked, like he didn’t want it to come out.

“You’re a pain in my ass.”

“You married your pain in the ass.”

“Don’t remind me.”

But Katsuki leaned down anyway, lips brushing the crown of Izuku’s head, warm and reverent.

Outside, the snow fell. Inside, the fire crackled.

Izuku’s eyes fluttered shut. Katsuki’s arms never loosened.

And for the first time that day, it felt like everything was exactly where it belonged.

***

Later that night, the world had gone still.

Snow whispered against the windows in soft gusts, muffling the outside world. The fire in the main room had burned down to lazy embers, casting a flickering gold glow down the hallway. The house smelled of pine, spice, and something warmer — deeper.

In the bedroom, Izuku sat at the small wooden vanity Katsuki had built him during their first winter together. A little lopsided, but solid. Stubborn. Like the man himself.

He was brushing his hair, slow and methodical, tugging the comb through soft green curls. The lamplight haloed around him, catching on the embroidery of the sleep shirt he wore — one of Katsuki’s, oversized and falling off one shoulder, worn from years of washing.

And that was when it hit him.

A pulse. Low and slow. A heat blooming at the base of his spine, trickling through his veins like honey warmed by fire. It wasn’t overwhelming yet. But it was coming.

His scent shifted — sweet, sharp, sunlit — and even he could tell. Like wind stirring a forest after the first thaw.

He didn’t even need to look up to know the exact moment Katsuki stepped into the doorway behind him.

There was a pause — then the sound of a sharp inhale. Controlled. Barely.

“…Your scent.”

Izuku looked at him through the mirror, his reflection calm but eyes glittering. “Yeah?”

Katsuki’s hands flexed at his sides, knuckles white. His pupils were dilated, chest rising just a little faster than usual. He was still in his undershirt and sleep pants, but he might as well have been wrapped in tension, coiled tight from head to toe.

“You’re close to heat,” he said, voice hoarse.

“Maybe,” Izuku replied, tilting his head in mock thought, the brush pausing mid-stroke. “Wouldn’t you know, alpha?”

Katsuki swore under his breath, low and fast. His jaw clenched. “You little — ”

Izuku turned to face him, one leg tucked under the other, expression soft and knowing. “What? I’m just brushing my hair.”

“The hell you are,” Katsuki said, his voice darker now, rougher, like gravel under fire. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

Izuku didn’t deny it. He rose slowly, brushing forgotten on the vanity, and padded across the rug with bare feet. The room was warm, but not as warm as the air between them.

“And if I am?” he asked, standing close enough now that Katsuki could feel the subtle shift of his scent, like spice and sugar over smoldering coals. Izuku’s eyes flicked to Katsuki’s lips, then up again. “What if I want to tease you, Kacchan?”

Katsuki’s nostrils flared. His breathing was ragged now, jaw tight enough to creak. “Then you better stop,” he growled, voice low and shaking with restraint, “before I ruin you, dumb omega.”

Izuku’s smile curved slow and wicked. He reached out, fingers barely grazing Katsuki’s collarbone through the thin fabric of his shirt. “Maybe I want you to.”

Silence.

Tense, charged, a heartbeat stretched to its limit.

The bond between them thrummed like a pulled thread, humming under the skin. It wasn’t just chemistry. It was gravity. It was inevitability.

Katsuki’s hand twitched. His scent sharpened, thick and musky, dizzying. Izuku felt his own knees go weak for a second — but he didn’t back down.

And then, just when the air was about to snap —

Katsuki cursed again — louder this time — and stormed out.

“I’m chopping firewood,” he snarled over his shoulder, the door swinging behind him. “Before I do something we’re both gonna regret on that damn floor.”

Izuku blinked.

Then he laughed. Bright and clear, the sound ringing through the room like bells.

He sat back down at the vanity, cheeks warm, breath quick, and picked up the brush again — though his hand trembled just slightly.

He bit his lower lip, unable to stop smiling.

“I’ll leave the axe out for you,” he called sweetly down the hallway, knowing full well Katsuki could hear him.

From outside, there was a muffled, “Smartass.”

Izuku kept brushing. Slower this time. Savoring the way the air still pulsed with heat, with possibility.

It was going to be a long night.

And maybe, just maybe, he wanted that too.

Chapter Text

The fire crackled gently in the hearth, casting flickering orange light across the worn wooden floorboards. Shadows danced on the walls, long and slow, stretching like lazy cats across the cozy interior of their home. The low hiss and pop of burning wood echoed in the otherwise still room, broken only by the occasional creak of old beams shifting under the weight of snow. Outside, winter fell in slow motion. Fat, heavy flakes drifted from a slate-colored sky, settling on rooftops, trees, and frosted windowpanes. The village beyond their cottage had quieted entirely — buried in snowfall and the hush that only deep winter brought. No footsteps. No voices. Just the cold silence of a world hibernating.

Inside, it was warm.

Too warm.

And Katsuki could smell it.

Sweet. Rich. Unmistakable. That omega scent, sharp with need and thick with pheromones, curling into the air like rising steam off freshly brewed tea. It coated his tongue, made his gut twist, made something ancient and instinctive under his skin snap to attention.

His mate’s scent.

Katsuki froze in the kitchen doorway, a ceramic bowl still gripped in his flour-dusted hands. One moment he’d been chopping vegetables. The next, the scent slammed into him like a punch to the gut.

His muscles tensed. His eyes narrowed.

He turned slowly, and there — leaning heavily against the doorframe, lips parted, cheeks a high, flushed pink — was Izuku.

His Izuku.

The omega’s curls were damp with sweat, his green eyes blown wide with heat, the pupils dilated until just a thin ring of emerald glowed around them. His chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths. His lower lip trembled slightly, bitten red where he’d been worrying at it.

Katsuki’s fingers twitched. The bowl slipped from his grasp and shattered on the floor with a sharp, ceramic clatter.

He didn’t even flinch.

“Fucking hell.” His voice came out gravelly, caught between a snarl and a whisper. In three swift strides, he closed the distance between them, reaching out to steady Izuku with both hands at his waist — carefully, though every cell in his body screamed at him to do more. To claim. To take. To bond.

But he didn’t.

He never would, not unless Izuku asked.

His thumbs rubbed slow, grounding circles into the curve of Izuku’s hips, and he leaned in until their foreheads nearly touched, his breath shaky as he took in more of that sweet, molten scent. “You okay?” Katsuki asked, voice low and already wrecked.

Izuku nodded, though it looked more like a slow, shuddering sway. “J-Just… hot. Tingly. Everything feels… too much.”

Katsuki growled low in his chest, like something caged and dangerous. But his grip never tightened, never once rough. He bent lower, nudging his nose against Izuku’s temple, inhaling deeply — too deeply. It made his knees lock and his fingers curl. “Shit,” he muttered. “Fuck, that goddamn soulmate bond. Always making it worse. Of course your heat would come early. Because fate hates me.”

A breathy laugh escaped Izuku’s lips — light, even in his haze. He tilted his head up, smiling softly despite the tremor in his body, and curled his fingers into Katsuki’s shirt. His grip was weak, but his eyes burned with that same stubborn fire he always carried. “Fate doesn’t hate you,” Izuku whispered. “It gave you me, didn’t it?”

Katsuki let out a sharp exhale, half-growl, half-sigh. His jaw clenched like he was holding back a storm behind his teeth. He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling for a second, trying to steady his heart. “Exactly.” The word came out like a curse and a confession all in one. “Fucking cruel joke.”

Izuku laughed again, breathless and shaking, his forehead pressing into Katsuki’s collarbone. He was burning through his shirt, every inch of him radiating heat. His scent thickened by the second — intoxicating, maddening, meant for Katsuki and Katsuki alone.

Katsuki curled an arm under Izuku’s thighs and lifted him without asking. Izuku yelped softly, wrapping his arms around Katsuki’s shoulders as the alpha began walking toward the nest they’d made in their bedroom just that morning.

“I can walk,” Izuku mumbled, even as he melted into the embrace.

“Don’t give a shit,” Katsuki muttered. “You’re not walkin’ anywhere. You’re staying in bed until this passes. Or longer.”

He didn’t say what he was thinking.

Until I bond you so deep you forget your own name.

Until I’ve burned every doubt out of your bones.

Izuku didn’t need to hear it. He could feel it. They both could.

The bond was already singing between them — too loud, too fast, like a storm ready to break.

The nest was already made — Katsuki had started building it the moment Izuku mentioned feeling off that morning. Just in case. He hadn’t expected it to hit this hard. This fast. And all Katsuki could think was. Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

The bond snapped taut between them, humming like an electric wire, vibrating under his skin. His instincts roared like wildfire — mate, claim, bond — and he finally let himself fall. “F-Fuck — Izuku — ” Katsuki’s voice cracked, thick and strangled with restraint.

“Please,” Izuku begged, already rutting up against him in shallow, helpless motions. “Don’t make me wait. I need — need you — ”

But Katsuki couldn’t just jump in. Not yet. He couldn’t. Not when Izuku looked like he was burning alive under his skin.

So he kissed him.

Crushed their mouths together like it was the only way to keep Izuku from slipping away, kissing him with a desperate, trembling hunger that said I need you too. I’ll die if I don’t have you. I’ll still die if I take too much.

His hands slid beneath Izuku’s shirt, fingertips tracing up the soft curve of his waist, then over his stomach, his chest. Every patch of skin was hot, damp, vibrating with tension. Katsuki’s breath stuttered against his lips, trying to keep himself grounded even as his instincts tried to take the wheel. “You sure?” he rasped, voice already wrecked. “Once I start — I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop. I might — fuck, Izuku, I might lose it.”

Izuku looked up at him, wide eyes gleaming like fresh spring leaves — dilated, desperate, but so full of trust it made Katsuki’s chest physically ache. “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he whispered. “I’m yours, Katsuki. Always have been.”

The bond pulsed like lightning, crackling through his blood.

And that was all Katsuki needed.

He stripped them slowly — his own clothes first, yanking off his sweater, then his undershirt, baring a chest heaving with breath and carved with muscle. Then Izuku’s — he peeled the heat-slick shirt from him carefully, reverently, revealing flushed skin that glowed in the firelight. He took a second just to stare. Because fuck, Izuku was beautiful.

Sweat clung to him like dew, his lips pink and swollen from kissing, skin flushed a deep red down to his chest. His thighs trembled where they bracketed Katsuki’s hips, and eveekery breath he took was laced with a soft whimper.

Katsuki leaned down, lips brushing over Izuku’s cheek, then his jaw, then down to his neck — his scent gland.

The bond mark shimmered faintly there, a pale glowing patch of skin just waiting for him to finish what they’d started all those weeks ago.

But not yet.

Not until he was sure Izuku could take it. Not until he’d taken care of him first.

“Gonna take care of you,” he muttered, dragging his tongue slowly along the hollow of Izuku’s throat, feeling him shudder. “Gonna fuckin’ ruin you. But soft. Slow. Until you're crying for it.”

Izuku arched into him, breath hitching. “Yes. Yes, please.”

Katsuki slid lower, kissing his way down Izuku’s body. Every inch. Every freckle. Every scar. His hands mapped the skin like it was territory he already owned, but needed to worship anyway. He mouthed at his nipples until Izuku gasped, sucked gently until he squirmed, and then licked lower — down his stomach, over his navel, until Izuku was arching up desperately beneath him.

“K-Kacchan — ” His voice cracked, wrecked and sweet. “It’s — too much, I—”

“I know, baby,” Katsuki whispered against his skin. “But you need it, don’t you? You need to be touched. Filled. Mine.”

Izuku nodded frantically, hands gripping at Katsuki’s shoulders like lifelines.

Katsuki grabbed the bottle of slick from beside the bed — he’d kept it there just in case. Part of him always knew this would happen sooner than expected. Izuku’s body was already softening, loosening for him, the bond making it easier, preparing him.

Still, he took his time.

Two fingers, slow and deep, working him open while he kissed the side of Izuku’s neck, whispering nothing but gentle curses and words like beautiful, mine, and gonna treat you right.

Izuku writhed beneath him, whining, gasping, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from the intensity of it all. But he was safe. Grounded. Loved.

Only then — only then — did Katsuki finally line himself up and sink in.

And it was blinding.

Hot. Tight. Perfect. Home.

Izuku let out a sharp sob of relief, clinging tighter as Katsuki buried himself to the hilt, trembling from the sheer force of holding himself back. Every nerve in his body screamed to claim, to mark, to bite, to knot — but he held off. Because Izuku deserved to be loved, not just rutted into.

He moved slow at first, grinding deep, letting Izuku feel every inch of it. Letting them connect through it. He kissed every tear away. Kissed his cheeks, his eyelids, his temple. Whispers of “I got you.” “So good, baby.” “You’re doing perfect.”

It wasn’t just sex. It was bonding.

It was everything.

And when Izuku finally whispered, “Please... now. Bite me. Make it real — make me yours forever,” Katsuki didn’t hesitate.

He buried his teeth in the bond mark and bit down.

The bond snapped fully into place with a searing pulse of heat that ripped through both of them. Izuku arched up, mouth open in a silent cry, body clenching around him, and Katsuki groaned low and primal, holding him tight as they came together — not just physically, but spiritually, cosmically, completely.

The room swam in gold light, and the only thing either of them could hear was the pounding of their hearts and the endless echo of mine — mine — mine.

***

By the time it was over, they were tangled in the nest, Katsuki still buried deep inside him, still holding him like he might dissolve into thin air if he let go. Their skin was damp with sweat, the heat from their bodies clinging to the air like the scent of bond and sex and love.

Izuku was boneless, soft and trembling in that deliciously spent way, his legs still wrapped loosely around Katsuki’s waist. His cheeks glowed with the afterglow, flushed and freckled, lashes damp with the remnants of tears he hadn’t even realized had fallen.

But he was safe.

Loved.

Katsuki hadn’t stopped touching him — not once. His calloused hands had softened, smoothing down Izuku’s back, his sides, brushing through his curls. Like he needed to memorize every inch of him again, even though he already knew Izuku better than he knew himself. He pressed a kiss to the top of Izuku’s head — slow and reverent. “Gonna take care of you all night,” Katsuki murmured, voice wrecked and low. “All fuckin’ week. Forever.”

Izuku let out a soft sound, part sigh, part laugh, and buried his face in Katsuki’s chest. “I know,” he whispered, his breath a warm puff over Katsuki’s skin. “You already do.”

Katsuki held him tighter, just a little. His hand stroked along Izuku’s spine in long, slow lines, then up to cup the back of his head protectively. Izuku could feel every slow breath rumble in his mate’s chest, every word whispered into the crown of his hair. “I got you,” Katsuki breathed. “I fuckin’ got you. No one touches you. No one comes near you when you’re like this. Just me. Just us.”

Izuku melted under the words, body limp and pliant and utterly Katsuki’s. The bond between them throbbed softly now, a warm pulse like a heartbeat that lived in both of them. “I love you,” Izuku murmured, half-asleep in the thick, scent-soaked nest, eyes closed, glowing from the inside out. “Even when you swear too much.”

Katsuki snorted — quietly, but real — and tilted his head to kiss Izuku’s temple. “You love it.”

“I do,” Izuku whispered, a smile tugging at his lips. “Love all of you. Even the parts that growl. Especially the parts that growl.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes fondly, but his arms wrapped tighter around him. He reached for a blanket nearby and tugged it over Izuku’s bare shoulders, then tucked it beneath his chin, shielding him from even the ghost of a draft. “Good,” he muttered. “’Cause you’re not getting rid of me. Ever.”

“Didn’t plan to,” Izuku breathed.

Silence settled over them, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the wind sighing gently outside the windows. The snow had started again, soft and slow. Beyond the frosted glass, the world was nothing but white and quiet and still.

But inside, everything was warm.

Katsuki shifted just enough to kiss along the curve of Izuku’s neck, where the bond mark still throbbed gently. His lips lingered there, breathing him in. “You okay?” he asked again, softer this time. Not because he didn’t believe, but because he needed to hear it again. Needed to be sure.

Izuku nodded against him, slow and sleepy. “More than okay." His fingers curled into Katsuki’s chest, right over his heart. “I feel… full. Not just from the bond. From you. Safe. Loved. Like nothing can touch us here.”

Katsuki exhaled shakily and buried his face into Izuku’s curls. “Yeah,” he rasped. “That’s the fuckin’ point.”

They lay like that for a long time — wrapped in each other, their bodies still tangled, breath syncing slowly. Katsuki reached out and pulled the thickest quilt over both of them, then nudged Izuku until he was fully swaddled in warmth and blankets and scent.

Izuku barely moved, only made a quiet hum of contentment.

“Tomorrow I’ll make you that soup you like,” Katsuki mumbled into his hair. “And run a bath. And you’re not lifting a damn finger.”

“Bossy,” Izuku mumbled, smiling. “But I like it.”

“Damn right you do.” Katsuki kissed his forehead again, this time lingering, his hand still rubbing slow circles on Izuku’s back.

And there, in the quiet flicker of firelight, with the snow falling just beyond the walls and the bond still humming soft between their chests — they stayed.

No fear. No doubt.

Just Katsuki holding the love of his life, whispering fuck-soft nothings into the stillness, and promising, in his own gruff way, to never let go.

Chapter Text

The snow had started again that morning, fat flakes drifting from a gray sky as the fire crackled low in the hearth. The little cottage creaked against the winter winds, the wood groaning as if it shared Katsuki’s irritation. He stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes narrowing at the sight in front of him.

Izuku was humming.

Humming and folding laundry like he hadn’t nearly collapsed yesterday. Like his body wasn’t still pale and thin from the aftermath of heat. Like he hadn’t kept Katsuki awake half the night with the sound of his restless tossing in the sheets, fever-sweat clinging to his skin.

“Sit. The fuck. Down,” Katsuki snapped, voice sharp enough to cut through the crackle of the fire.

Izuku blinked at him, arms full of towels, green eyes wide and innocent. “Kacchan, I feel fine. It’s just folding — ”

Katsuki didn’t let him finish. He stormed across the room, snatched the towels from Izuku’s arms, and tossed them carelessly onto the couch. His glare could’ve set the damn pile ablaze. “You almost faceplanted into the soup pot last night. And you think I’m gonna let you do chores?”

Izuku’s laugh was soft, quiet, warm like spring despite the ice outside. His smile curved gentle and exasperated all at once. “I’m not porcelain, you know.”

Katsuki’s scowl deepened, a flush creeping up his neck. “Yeah? Well, you sure as hell cracked like glass last night,” he growled, one hand pressing firmly against Izuku’s shoulder, guiding him toward the chair by the fire. “You’re barely recovered from heat. Damn omega instincts always trying to please everyone, even when you can’t stand up straight.”

Izuku let himself be pushed down, though his lips quirked upward in a way that made Katsuki’s stomach twist. He tilted his head, curls brushing his forehead, eyes shining even in the dim light. “Maybe,” he murmured, voice low, “I just like making you proud.”

Katsuki froze.

For a split second, the storm in him stuttered. His heart faltered, skipped a beat, then hammered against his ribs like it wanted out. He hated when Izuku said things like that — things so simple and soft they hit deeper than any shove, sharper than any fight.

“Shut up,” Katsuki muttered finally, ears burning as he grabbed the blanket off the back of the chair. He shoved it roughly into Izuku’s lap, as if hiding the way his chest clenched tight.

Izuku only smiled, tucking the blanket around himself obediently. His scent filled the air — sweet, gentle, grounding — and it curled around Katsuki like invisible threads, tugging him closer even when he wanted to stay mad.

The fire popped in the hearth. Outside, the snow thickened, blanketing the world in silence. Inside, Izuku leaned sideways until his head rested lightly on Katsuki’s shoulder, green eyes closing with a sigh of contentment.

Katsuki didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Every muscle screamed at him to stay still, not to give away how much he needed this.

“…You’re such a pain in the ass,” he whispered.

Izuku hummed against him, already half-asleep, voice slurred with warmth. “But I’m your pain in the ass.”

Katsuki’s lips twitched — almost a smile. Almost.

He stared at the fire instead, hoping Izuku couldn’t hear the way his pulse thundered, or see the way his hands trembled as he pulled the blanket tighter around him.

Because the truth was simple.

Katsuki Bakugou was absolutely, irreversibly, terrifyingly whipped.

And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

Later that afternoon, the snow picked up — sharp, wind-laced and biting, the kind that clawed straight through layers of wool and skin alike. The sky was iron-gray, swollen with storm. Izuku pulled his scarf tighter and adjusted the basket in his arms, humming quietly to himself as they walked down the narrow road.

Katsuki stalked at his side like a guard dog, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, every step radiating displeasure.

“This is fucking stupid,” he muttered, glaring at the clouds as if he could curse them into behaving. “We could’ve waited until tomorrow. Or the day after. Or forever, damn it.”

Izuku’s breath puffed white in the cold, his cheeks already flushed from the chill. He turned that sunshine smile on Katsuki, the one that melted every sharp edge Katsuki had ever built. “The apothecary had fresh feverroot. It helps, you know that. I’ll sleep easier with it brewed.”

Katsuki scowled harder, because of course Izuku made sense. Of course Izuku always thought about others — about him — before himself. “I don’t give a shit about tea if it means you freeze to death getting it.”

“You give a shit about me,” Izuku teased gently, voice muffled by his scarf. “And I promise, I’m fine. Really.”

Katsuki’s jaw flexed, words biting at the back of his tongue. He wanted to drag him home, lock the door, and keep him wrapped in blankets until spring. But then Izuku looked at him — those wide green eyes full of trust, full of quiet strength that Katsuki had never deserved and always, always needed. The look that said “I can do this. Believe in me.”

And Katsuki, gods help him, trusted him with everything.

The snow thickened as they left the apothecary behind, the wind whipping against their faces, turning the world into a blur of white. Their boots crunched along the path, breath shallow from the cold. Katsuki walked closer now, shoulder brushing Izuku’s, ready to catch him if he slipped on the ice.

But halfway back, Izuku slowed. His humming stopped. His steps faltered.

“The hell are you doing, Deku? Keep moving — storm’s getting worse.”

Izuku swayed. The basket slipped from his numb fingers and hit the snow with a soft thud, herbs scattering across the whiteness.

Katsuki’s heart slammed into his ribs. He lunged forward, arms catching Izuku just as his knees buckled.

“Izuku?” His voice cracked on the name.

Green eyes blinked up at him, unfocused, lashes heavy with snowflakes. “S-sorry,” Izuku whispered, breath trembling. “I just… feel…”

Katsuki pressed a palm against his forehead — and froze.

Burning. Too hot.

It wasn’t the snow. It wasn’t the cold.

It was fever.

Panic licked up his spine, hot and vicious.

“Izuku!” Katsuki shook him gently, desperate to keep him awake.

But Izuku’s body sagged against him, a weak sigh leaving his lips before his eyes slid shut. Barely conscious.

The world went white around Katsuki.

Something inside him snapped.

No hesitation. No thought. Just pure, feral instinct. He hauled Izuku into his arms, clutching him tight against his chest. The storm howled, but it was nothing compared to the roar in his ears. His only thought, his only purpose: get him home. Now. If fate wanted to test him, fate could burn. He wasn’t losing Izuku. Not now. Not ever.

He hauled Izuku against his chest, one arm hooked under his knees, the other gripping his back. His mate’s head lolled against his shoulder, fever heat bleeding through winter layers. The bond between them pulsed erratically, sharp and wrong, and Katsuki felt something inside him fray.

The wind howled around them, snow stinging his skin, but Katsuki only held Izuku tighter and kept moving.

“Dumbass,” he hissed, his voice breaking against the storm. “Why do you always have to push yourself until you break? Why can’t you — why can’t you let me take care of you for once?”

His boots crunched against snow, every step heavy. He could barely see the road, only vague outlines of cottages through the white. But he knew the way home. He would always know the way home, as long as Izuku was in his arms.

People peeked from their windows as he passed — wide-eyed, whispering — but Katsuki ignored them all. He only had room for the weight he carried, the way Izuku’s shallow breaths ghosted against his collar.

“Stay with me, damn it,” he begged, voice low, raw. “Don’t you dare leave me. Not after everything. Not when you’re mine.”

Finally, their cottage appeared through the blizzard. Relief nearly knocked Katsuki off his feet, but he forced himself forward, clutching Izuku tighter, as though he could keep him from slipping away by sheer strength alone.

Katsuki kicked open their front door with his shoulder, snow trailing behind him like a ghost that refused to leave. His boots slammed against the wooden floor, wet and heavy, but he didn’t care — he couldn’t care.

Izuku’s weight in his arms felt terrifyingly light. Too light.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Katsuki muttered under his breath, voice cracking as he laid him down on their bed. Izuku’s head lolled against the pillow, curls damp with melting snow. His skin burned hot beneath Katsuki’s fingertips, even through the chill of winter. Like fire trapped inside glass.

Katsuki’s hands shook as he tucked the blankets around him, every movement too frantic, too rough. He cursed under his breath, slamming the water bucket onto the table hard enough to splash, grabbing cloth after cloth and plunging them into the icy liquid.

He pressed the first one to Izuku’s forehead, his jaw tight, chest heaving.

“Stay with me, nerd. You hear me? You don’t get to just — ” His voice broke, and he bit down hard on the words before they could spill out.

The cottage was suffocatingly quiet except for the storm raging outside. The wind howled against the windows like it wanted in. Katsuki lit every candle in the house, his hands moving too fast, too sharp, until the small space glowed with frantic light. Shadows flickered on the walls, chasing each other like restless spirits.

At the workbench, he ground herbs with so much force the pestle nearly cracked the bowl. Feverroot, willow bark, peppermint leaves — he didn’t even think about it, just moved, just did, because if he stopped, if he thought too long, he’d fall apart. His knuckles turned white, teeth grit so tight his jaw ached.

Behind him, Izuku shifted in the sheets. A small, broken sound escaped his lips, a whimper that cut deeper than any knife could. His face twisted, like he was trapped in some fever dream he couldn’t escape.

Katsuki froze. The pestle clattered from his hands to the table.

He turned, staring at Izuku as if his heart might tear itself out of his chest.

“Fucking idiot,” Katsuki hissed under his breath, stalking back to the bedside. He dragged a chair close, sitting but unable to keep still, his knee bouncing, fingers twitching. He dipped another cloth in water, wrung it out with jerky movements, pressed it gently — too gently — against Izuku’s temple.

“You stupid, reckless, selfless omega,” he whispered, his voice hoarse now. His thumb brushed against Izuku’s cheek, trembling. “You always push too far, always…”

The words faltered. Katsuki leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, his face buried in his hands. He tugged hard at his hair, fingers clawing through blond strands until his scalp burned.

“I should’ve known,” he ground out, voice muffled by his palms. “Should’ve said no. Should’ve kept you in bed. You don’t fucking listen, and I — ”

He broke off. His throat closed, air too tight, chest too small for the storm inside it.

“I’m your alpha,” he whispered, softer now, raw. His hands slipped down to cover his mouth, trembling. “I’m supposed to protect you. I’m supposed to — ”

The words wouldn’t come. They twisted sharp in his chest, too jagged, too cruel.

He lifted his head, eyes burning.

And for the first time in years, Katsuki Bakugou looked terrified.

Because he couldn’t — he wouldn’t — imagine what it would feel like if Izuku didn’t wake up.

Not when every part of him, every cell, every breath, was tied to that one person lying pale and fevered beneath their blankets.

The storm outside roared louder, rattling the windows, but inside, it was quiet enough that Katsuki could hear every uneven breath Izuku took.

He sat there, fists clenched on his knees, and waited.

Waited like his life depended on it.

Hours passed.

The snowstorm roared outside, rattling the shutters, howling like some beast prowling in the dark. The wind clawed at the roof, determined to tear the cottage down piece by piece. Inside, the fire popped weakly in the hearth, its glow flickering but never dying.

And Katsuki sat beside Izuku’s bed, hands trembling, eyes burning.

His leg bounced, foot tapping against the wooden floor with restless energy, as though he could chase the fever away if he only moved enough. Every so often, his hand would hover over Izuku’s, wanting to hold on but afraid of being too rough. He clenched his fists instead.

“You’re my fucking soulmate,” Katsuki whispered hoarsely, the words cracking in his throat. “You’re not supposed to get hurt. Not you.”

The silence in the room was crushing. Every labored breath Izuku took pressed against Katsuki’s ears like thunder, echoing in the hollow of his chest. He wanted to scream, to break something, to rage at the unfairness of it — yet he couldn’t move from his spot by the bed. If he left for even a second, something in him knew Izuku would slip away.

So he stayed.

His eyes burned. His chest ached. His pride kept the tears from spilling.

Until —

“Kacchan…?”

Katsuki’s head snapped up so fast his neck popped.

Izuku blinked slowly, lashes heavy against fevered cheeks, his skin pale but his eyes — green, clear, alive. He reached out with one trembling hand, fingers brushing against Katsuki’s knee like the touch of a ghost.

“You’re crying,” Izuku whispered, voice weak but soft. A shadow of a smile tugged at his lips.

Katsuki scrubbed at his face violently with his sleeve, turning away. “No, I’m not.”

“You only lie when you’re scared I’ll leave.”

The words hit like a blade. Katsuki flinched.

He sat rigid, fists tight in his lap, trying not to shake. The storm outside raged, but the storm inside him raged harder. He was an alpha — he wasn’t supposed to feel small, or fragile, or afraid. Yet here he was, sitting on the edge of a bed, scared out of his mind because the one person who carried his soul was burning up before his eyes.

Izuku’s voice barely carried across the space between them. “You’re not too much. You’re never too much.”

Katsuki dragged a hand through his hair, tugging until his scalp hurt. His throat burned when he finally forced words out, raw and broken.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, the confession falling heavy between them. His voice was gravel, scraped down to its bare edges. “Not of you. Not of this. Just… of messing it up. Of losing you. Because I always mess things up, Izuku. I’ve always been a shitty friend, a shitty person — too loud, too rough, too angry. And now you’re mine. My omega. My soulmate. And I don’t know how to do this without hurting you.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

Izuku’s eyes filled, shining with unshed tears, though his smile stayed — gentle, unbearably soft, like sunlight breaking through snow-laden clouds.

“You already know how,” he whispered. His fingers curled weakly toward Katsuki’s, not quite able to grip. “You just did. You stayed.”

Katsuki’s breath hitched.

Something in him cracked, splintered like ice beneath too much weight. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Izuku’s hand, breathing in the faint sweetness of his scent, grounding himself in it. He hated how fragile Izuku felt beneath his touch — but he loved him so fiercely it burned.

Without another word, Katsuki climbed into bed, sliding beneath the blankets and pulling Izuku into his arms as though daring the storm itself to try and take him away. He tucked Izuku’s head beneath his chin, holding him so close their heartbeats pressed together.

Izuku curled into him instantly, melting against his chest. His breath warmed Katsuki’s collarbone, shaky at first but steadying with every passing moment.

Katsuki buried his face in Izuku’s hair, eyes closing, finally letting one silent tear fall. His arms tightened around the smaller man. He didn’t care if it broke him — he wasn’t letting go.

They stayed that way for a long time, hearts beating slow and even, their bond humming soft and warm like a lullaby.

Outside, the storm began to break.

Chapter Text

coming soon!